The Ending Ritual

That night, the Reeds returned to their village with more silence than usual. The celebration ended abruptly, without the usual songs or late-night storytelling. No one spoke of the boy's strange vision. They wrapped it in silence, in hopes that forgetting it would make it disappear.

But Roxanne couldn’t sleep.

She lay in her room in the main house, the book hidden beneath her mattress, pressing against her like a stone. Her window overlooked the fields stretching toward the dark outline of the forest.

Somewhere beyond it, the river murmured softly—never louder than a whisper now, never fully asleep.

She rose around midnight, her feet bare on the cold tile floor. The air in the room was too still, like a held breath. She lit a small oil lamp and opened the Book, flipping to the final pages Lillian had mentioned.

There it was.

“The Ending Ritual.”

The script was thinner here, rushed. The handwriting had changed. Roxanne noticed notes in the margins—scratches, corrections, as if someone had attempted it before and failed.

It was a binding spell.

A way to close the door.

But it demanded blood—not spilled, but given. The practitioner had to offer something of themselves: memory, breath, or life. And the words at the end chilled her to the bone.

“The door opens with desire. But it closes with a loss.”

She was still staring at the page when Lillian appeared behind her, wrapped in a shawl, her face pale in the lamplight.

“You found it,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“I don’t know what to do,” Roxanne whispered. “It says I have to give something. Something I can’t take back.”

Lillian nodded. “It’s a price most won’t pay. That’s why we’ve lived with this thing instead of ending it. Fear is cheaper than sacrifice.”

Roxanne closed the book. “What if it’s already too late?”

Lillian stepped closer, placing a warm hand on her shoulder. “Then we still try. Because if we don’t, it won’t just be Rowan. It will be all of us.”

The next morning, Roxanne went from house to house, speaking quietly to her cousins and siblings. Most listened with confusion or disbelief. A few laughed nervously. But others—like Ashlyn—believed her. They had seen the boy’s blank stare. They had heard the whispers too.

By midday, she had gathered a small group of the younger Reeds in the central courtyard. Ashlyn, Rafael, Diana, and her own brother Kayden—all of them curious, afraid, but loyal.

Roxanne stood before them, the book in her arms. “I started something. But I’m going to end it. I just need your help.”

Rafael shifted uncomfortably. “You mean you’re going to do the sealing ritual?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re going to bleed?” he asked.

Roxanne nodded.

Diana looked away, tears forming. Kayden muttered something under his breath. But no one left.

Lillian appeared behind them all, carrying a brass place with red thread, turmeric, and ash. “You won’t do it alone,” she said. “This is not your burden to carry alone. The river belongs to all of us.”

That night, as the moon rose full and pale behind a veil of clouds, they returned to the river.

The air was colder than it should have been. Fog rolled in from the trees, thick and low. The water glimmered faintly, and the oak roots stretched like black fingers across the ground.

Roxanne stood at the center of the ritual circle, drawn in ash and salt. The book lay open before her, and the others formed a ring around her, holding oil lamps and bowls of turmeric water.

The chant began—low, rhythmic, spoken in unison.

Roxanne cut her palm with a ritual blade, letting a single drop of blood fall onto the page. The wind shivered.

Then, from the river, a sound emerged.

Not a splash. Not a ripple.

A voice.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It echoed in their minds.

“You called me with longing. You will not banish me with guilt.”

The water at the river’s edge began to churn. A shape rose slowly, impossibly tall and cloaked in river weed and shadows. Its face was a blur, constantly shifting—sometimes human, sometimes skeletal, sometimes a mirror.

The children screamed.

Roxanne stayed still, her body shaking but her voice steady. “You are not welcome. You were never welcome.”

“But you opened the gate. And through it, I came.”

Lillian stepped into the circle, holding a burning coal in her bare hand, her eyes fierce.

“We close it now. With our blood. With our truth. With our loss.”

She pressed the coal into Roxanne’s wound.

Roxanne cried out—but did not falter.

The fire rose, not around them—but inside them.

The ground shook.

The creature screamed.

And the river surged—then fell silent.

When they awoke, it was morning. The circle had burned into the earth. The book was gone—ashes in the wind. The river flowed as it once had, smooth and quiet.

But something in Roxanne had changed. She felt lighter, yes—but emptier, too. As if a part of her had been carved away.

She looked at her grandmother. Lillian smiled weakly, her hands trembling. “It’s over.”

But Roxanne wasn’t sure.

Because deep in the silence, beneath the river, something still waited.

And it remembered her name.

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