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𝙑𝙊𝙇𝙐𝙈𝙀 𝑰.  ──────────  RUIN!

❛ curse of the      willamette wraith. . . ❜
─── chapter one! ❫

001.  ╱    ❝ i looked around in a 𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉-
𝖘𝖔𝖆𝖐𝖊𝖉 𝖌𝖔𝖜𝖓, and i saw something
they can't 𝖙𝖆𝖐𝖊 𝖆𝖜𝖆𝖞. . . ❞

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TW  /   please read below :
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implied religious abuse      child abuse
implied torture                 descriptions +
depictions of blood + gore         murder
and death      implied graphic violence
religious trauma   heavy references to
religion and christianity               horror.

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﹙ 𝕿UESDAY ━ 𝕺CTOBER 30TH, 1984 ﹚

     THE SUN DIPPED BELOW THE HORIZON, PAINTING THE SKY IN HUES OF BLOOD-ORANGE AND BRUISE-PURPLE AS DARKNESS CREPT OVER WEST LINN, OREGON. A cool breeze whispered through the Douglas firs and Western red cedars that bordered the Crest family's property, carrying the earthy scent of damp soil and pine needles. In the fading light, two small figures huddled together on the family porch's weathered wooden planks. The wood creaked beneath them, an unsettling sound like brittle bones snapping. Their voices were hushed but urgent.

     "We shouldn't do it, Carson," Malcolm Crest whispered, his eyes darting nervously to the treeline that bordered their property. The lengthening shadows seemed to reach out toward them like grasping fingers, hungry and eager. "What if it's real?"

     Carson rolled her eyes at her twin brother. "Don't be such a baby, Malcolm. The Willamette Wraith isn't real. It's just a stupid story."

     She absentmindedly rubbed her left palm against the rough fabric of her jeans, trying to ignore the stinging pain from the fresh cut there. The porch lights flickered, casting a wan-yellow glow and deepening the shadows of the forest beyond.

     "But what if it is?" Malcolm insisted, his voice trembling slightly. "What if we call it, and it comes, and—"

     A sudden gust of wind cut him off, howling through the trees with an almost human-like wail. Both children jumped, their hearts racing.

     "And what?" Carson challenged, turning to face him. Their identical earthy-brown eyes met, a mirror of worry and excitement. "It's just a game. All the kids at school have done it."

     The legend of the Willamette Wraith had been a part of West Linn folklore for generations. It was as deeply rooted as the ancient trees that lined the riverbank. The history of its origins was long forgotten and now misconstrued. Every year, new elements were added, grossly exaggerating what was once a campfire story.

     Nowadays, it was said that deep in the woods, where the Willamette and Tualatin rivers met, a shadowy entity with a smeared white and grey face and black never-ending eyes and agape mouth lurked, waiting to be summoned. Those brave enough to perform the ritual would be visited in the night, the wraith slipping silently through their window like a river mist. No one had ever proven its existence or been visited, but the story persisted, passed down from child to child like a secret rite of passage.

     Malcolm shook his head vigorously, a mop of brown hair falling into his face. "I don't want to risk it. Mother would kill us if she found out."

     At the mention of their mother, Carson's gaze dropped to her left palm. The laceration there, carved in the shape of a cross, was still fresh and painful. The edges were red and slightly swollen. She glanced at Malcolm's hand, knowing he bore an identical mark. The memory of their punishment was still raw, the sound of their mother's stern voice quoting scripture mixing with the sharp pain of the knife.

     "How's your hand?" she asked, desperate to change the subject.

     Malcolm flexed his fingers, wincing slightly. In the dim light, Carson could see a small dark stain on the edge of the bandage wrapped around his palm. "It's fine. Yours?"

     "Fine," she lied, ignoring the sting that shot through her palm when she mimicked his movement. The pain felt deeper now as if it was burrowing into her very bones. But as long her brother was okay, she was, too.

     A heavy silence fell between them, filled with unspoken words and shared despair. One of Mary Crest's many creations of discipline was etched into their flesh—a constant reminder of the twins' perceived failings in the eyes of God. The gentle creaking of the porch swing in the breeze seemed to emphasize the weight of their secret.

     After a moment, Malcolm spoke again, his question barely audible above the rustling leaves. "Do you think... do you think the Willamette Wraith could protect us?"

     Carson's head snapped up at lightning speed, her eyes wide with surprise. "What?" she choked out.

     "I mean," he continued, gaining confidence in his idea, "if it's real, maybe it could help. Maybe it could make Mother and Father stop... Our prayers haven't been working. God cares enough to keep us alive, but doesn't love us enough to make them stop."

     Carson felt a chill run down her spine. The idea was tempting and he was telling the truth, but she was hesitant. For the first time since she brought up the ritual, she was growing doubts. "But what if it's evil? What if we make things worse?"

     Malcolm shrugged, a desperate look in his eyes. "Can it be any worse than this?"

     Both of them knew the answer to that.

     So Carson looked at her brother—really looked at him. She saw the fear, the hope, and the agony mirrored in his face. It matched her own.

     At that moment, she made a decision. "Okay," she whispered, glancing over her shoulder to check if Mother was inside. Behind the screen door, it was empty. No one was there. "Let's do it."

     A breath of relief left Malcolm, and he nodded. A tiny wave of apprehension washed over his features.

     Together, the twins stood and went down the wooden steps. Quickly, they ran to the edge of the woods where their small forms were swallowed by the growing darkness. The trees loomed overhead.

     Once they found a tiny clearing with minimal branches and rocks, Carson and Malcolm came to a stop. Carson pulled out a folded piece of paper where the chant was written. Tommy Jean, a classmate, had written it down at school. The twins held hands and jointly held the paper in front of them to read.

"Willamette Wraith, shadow of the river,
In misty woods, where dark secrets quiver,
Rise from depths where two waters meet,
Heed our call, make our summons complete."

     As the twins began the ritual chant, Carson couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched. The woods pressed in around them, the shadows deepening with each word they chanted.

"By oak and fir, by rush and reed,
We speak your name, our voices feed
The ancient power that sleeps below,
Wraith of the valley, it's time to show."

     With each syllable, the air grew colder.

"From Canemah's cliffs to West Linn's shore,
We offer our fear, we open the door.
Willamette Wraith, we bid you come,
Through window and shadow, our will be done."

     She tried to convince herself it was just her imagination, but while they uttered the final lines of the summoning, a cool breeze danced through the leaves. It carried with it the faint scent of river water and decay.

"Whisper of the woods, spirit of the night,
Wraith of the river, now take flight.
By this chant, we set you free,
Willamette Wraith, appear to me."

     For a moment, everything was still. Then, from deep within the forest, came a sound that made their blood run cold—a low, guttural growl that no earthly creature could have produced. Logic told them it might've been the wind, or a distant animal call, or maybe... something else entirely. A soft, sibilant whisper caressed their ears and sent shivers down their spines.

     Carson and Malcolm looked at each other, eyes wide with fright and anticipation. What had they done? And what would come creeping through their window tonight? Would anything come creeping through their window tonight?

     The twins took off. Leaves crunched underfoot, echoing the nervousness they felt. Behind them, the woods seemed to sigh, awakening from a long slumber.

     The Willamette Wraith had been called, and now... it was coming.

     The porch lights flickered as they reached the back door, casting strange, dancing shadows across the weathered wood. For a brief moment, Carson thought she saw a dark figure standing at the edge of the trees. But when she blinked, it was gone.

     With trembling hands, she opened the door and ushered Malcolm inside. When she took one last glance at the forest after closing the door, she couldn't shake the feeling that something out there was staring back. Perhaps it was her sinful reflection in the glass door or something worse.

     Either way, she didn't want to find out.

── 𐀔 ──

     THAT NIGHT, IT WASN'T THE NIGHTMARE OF HER MOTHER CARVING THE WORDS OF GOD INTO HER FOREHEAD THAT JOLTED CARSON AWAKE. No. It was the frigid autumn breeze whispering through the open window between her and Malcolm's beds. It crept under the floorboards and blankets, licking at her exposed ankles.

     Blinking several times, she waited for her eyes to adjust. The small bedroom was pitch black, save for the faint glow of moonlight. The space smelled of decaying leaves and something she didn't recognize, overpowering the house's natural lavender smell.

     Shivering, Carson pulled her blanket around her shoulders tighter.

     The crucifixes above the twin's bed cast long, ominous palls across the walls, seeming to twist and writhe in the dim light. The cherubic faces of angels in the pictures nailed to the walls now appeared distorted, their once-comforting smiles transformed into grotesque leers.

     Sometimes she forgot how scary their bedroom became at night.

     "Malcolm?" Carson whispered shakily.

     Nothing.

     She flipped to the other side to look at her brother's bed. Squinting through the darkness, her brows furrowed when she saw it was empty. Mr. Flopsy, the stuffed rabbit Malcolm had slept with since they were three, was gone. So was the glass of water from his bedside table.

     Carson rubbed her eyes, trying to shake off the tendrils of sleep still clinging to her mind. After a few seconds, she reluctantly slipped out of bed. Her feet easily found her pink slippers on the cold wooden floor, and she padded to the ajar bedroom door. She was still too groggy to notice how it'd been closed when she and Malcolm fell asleep earlier.

     The hallway outside their room was darker still. Carson's arm was outstretched and her fingers traced the wall to her right as she moved. The tips of her fingers brushed against the painted, raised letters of Psalm 23:4: "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me." The words, usually a comfort, now felt like a taunt.

     The floorboards creaked beneath her, each sound unnaturally loud in the suffocating quiet. The staircase that led directly downstairs came into view and she sighed. With each step taken, the temperature gradually dropped. By the time she reached the first floor, her breath almost misted in front of her face.

     Since the stairs led directly into the living room, that was the first place she searched for her brother. Slowly, still sleepy, she moved around. The family Bible lay open on the black mahogany coffee table, its pages ruffling in a breeze she didn't register. The leather cover seemed to gleam wetly with freshly spilled blood, but she failed to notice. The couch behind it was empty.

     "Malcom?"

     Silence.

     The den was next, usually a warm and inviting space for friends and members of the Church. That's the only time the Crest family could be found in there.

     It was decorated with bookshelves that loomed ominously, the spines of religious texts and family photo albums blurring together in the dark. If she'd been paying attention and searching for anyone other than Malcolm, Carson might've noticed the movement in the empty corner of the room. Along with the decorations, the cross-stitched Bible verse above the black couch seemed to blur. It shifted as she passed, forming words she didn't want to read. All it delivered were promises of damnation rather than salvation.

     Wandering down the hall, Carson yawned. 

     Finally, she reached the kitchen. The hardwood floor was ice-cold against her feet, even through her slippers, and seemed to stick slightly with each step, reluctant to let her go. Her attention was drawn to a glint on the floor—Malcolm's glass of water. It was shattered into a thousand pieces. The shards sparkled in the moonlight like teeth.

     And like a light had been switched, she was fully awake.

     A small pool of water spread out from the broken glass, reflecting the dim light streaming from the curtain in front of the sink window. It reflected in a way that made it look deeper than it should be as if it might swallow her whole if she got too close.

     And again, her brother was nowhere to be seen.

     "Malcolm?" she called again, her voice cracking like thin ice this time. "Where are you? This isn't funny!"

     Only the hollow echo of her own voice answered. It bounced off the walls and returned to her, distorted and mocking.

     A sliver of fear slithered down her spine and she swallowed harshly. The air thickened and she backpedaled out of the kitchen. She turned to the left and entered the dining room.

     At the dining table, her mother and father's assigned chairs were pushed back at odd angles, as if her parents had left in a hurry. Half-drank chalices of wine still sat on the table, a testament to her parents' nightly drinking routine.

     Out of habit, she glanced at the prayer closet, which was connected to the other end of the dining room. Perhaps Malcolm was in there. Whenever either of them had a nightmare, they went to the prayer room. It's where they were conditioned to go.

     Carson trod across the dining area and toward the prayer room. For no reason, something deep within her screamed not to open the navy blue double doors, but she didn't have to.

     It was already cracked open.

     All she had to do was tug on the gold, hand-carved handles. It swung open with a low, mournful creak.

     At the movement, a thick substance Carson recognized all too well crawled toward her. Her eyes followed the pool to its source and her heart stopped. The air leaving her lips became ragged and harsh, and she struggled to process the scene before her.

     There, sitting motionless on the floor, were Cyrus and Mary Crest's corpses. Their bodies were positioned opposite each other, leaning against the once pristine white walls. Now, the four walls were covered in streaks of red. Long lines were drawn on their arms, leaking blood everywhere. In their chests, there were multiple stab wounds.

     Then, in each of their hands, they held a bible. However, Mary held a bibile and a knife. It was the same one she used to carve crosses into Carson and Malcolm's hands. Carson recognized it immediately.

     Her watering eyes trailed up and found that her parent's faces were frozen in an emotion she didn't believe they were capable of having—terror. Between them, Mr. Flopsy sat in a pool of their mixed blood, his once-soft fur matted and dripping. The rabbit's button eyes seemed to stare directly at Carson, accusing and sorrowful.

     "No, no, no," Carson whimpered through tears, backing away. Her slippers left bloody footprints on the hardwood floor. "MALCOLM!"

     As fast as she could, she sprinted to the front of the house with her heart threatening to burst from her chest. The shadows seemed to chase her, nipping at her heels while she fled. Panic spread throughout her body. If mother and father were dead... was Malcolm?

     When she rounded the corner into the foyer, Carson skidded to a stop. Her slippers skated into something warm and wet, and she nearly fell over. Quickly, she regained balance and blinked.

     A gasp shattered the atmosphere.

     Malcolm lay sprawled in the middle of the foyer, his limbs bent at impossible angles. His eyes, wide and glassy, stared unseeing at the ceiling. Blood—so much blood—redder and darker than any blood Mother of Father ever drew from the twins, their deceased pets, or woodland animals—pooled around him, soaking into the ornate rug Grandmother Abigail Crest had given the family last Christmas.

     Carson's legs gave out, and she collapsed to her knees. A wordless wail of grief and horror tore from her throat, shredding her vocal cords. The sound echoed through the house, rising to a fever pitch before dying away, leaving behind a silence so profound it rang in her ears. Suddenly, she became aware of a cold breeze on the back of her neck, carrying with it that familiar scent of river water and decay.

     Slowly, trembling, she crawled around to face the window near the front door.

     There, standing mere feet away from the opened window in the front yard, was a face—if it could even be called a face. It was a smeared, writhing mass of shadows and mist, with eyes and a mouth that glowed like dying stars. The Willamette Wraith had come just as the twins summoned it to, but not to protect them.

     As Carson stared, paralyzed with terror, she saw her own reflection superimposed over the creature's form. In that moment, she realized the truth: the Wraith hadn't brought death to her home.

     She had.

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╱ 𝕬UTHOR'S 𝕹OTE. . .

⁰¹ 𝕽𝖀𝕴𝕹. . . RUIN !
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written by CARDIIAC © 2024.
破滅 . ݃♱ .

     and so the mystery begins... welcome to west linn, everyone. settle in for the next three chapters and hold on. it's one hell of a ride.

     this book never slows down, it is always one thing after the other, and i cannot wait for you to see what happens. my proudest work to date.

     i hope you enjoyed chapter one! and i hope you have an amazing weekend!

     thank you for reading <3

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˒⠀𝑹𝑬𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑫𝑬𝑹. . . ▬⠀⤸

Thank you all for taking the time out of your day to comment on this story. It means a lot and helps the story be spread to a broader audience &&& allows me to grow as an author. All I ask is that people vote on each chapter, please. As a creator, it takes time to write and develop stories. So please, vote on every chapter. It means a lot more than I could ever express.

Don't forget to vote & comment!

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˒⠀𝑪𝑶𝑷𝒀𝑹𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻. . . ▬⠀⤸

❝ All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be
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photocopying, recording, or other
electronic or mechanical methods,
without prior permission of the author,
except in the case of brief quotations
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other noncommercial uses permitted
by copyright law. ❞

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