The ruin, p.1
The Ruin, page 1
Copyright © 2023 Samantha Moran
www.samanthamoran.net
Published by Obsidian Inkwell Publishing, LLC
www.obsidianinkwell.com
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by United States copyright law. To gain permission for use, please send an email to inquiries@obsidianinkwell.com. All rights reserved.
Titles: The Ruin / Samantha Moran
Description: Ebook First Edition
Publication Date: May 16, 2023
Cover Design: Samantha Moran (Canva)
Formatting: Samantha Moran (Vellum)
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-959751-11-3
Also available in paperback and hardcover editions.
This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents included are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Author’s Note
Centennial Bank of Baltimore
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Epilogue
Thank You For Reading
Questions for the Author
Resources for Addiction and Mental Health
Bonus Content: Dealings in the Dark
Chapter One
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Samantha Moran
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my husband, John. Thank you for always encouraging me to pursue my dreams, even when I didn’t believe in myself. If it weren’t for you and our amazing date in South Haven, Michigan way back in 2017, this story wouldn’t exist. I’m thankful for every chapter you’ve read, re-read, and re-read again, as well as your incredibly valuable input. You are my hero and my guide.
This book is also dedicated to my friend, Marissa. I’m so glad I found you through that strange twist of fate in 2019. I believe the universe brought us together for a reason. Finding our friendship made all of the challenges that followed worth while. Thank you for being my number one hype-girl, for your unwavering support, for our late night text messages, and for your unfailing belief in me. Know that I have the same for you.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Ruin is a work of urban fantasy that discusses difficult real-world issues such as cancer, poverty, drug addiction, childhood abandonment, self-harm, disease, and death.
Concepts related to Norse mythology presented in this text are based on extensive research but have been adapted for a fictional reimagining. Please be advised that not all details will remain true to historical evidence or actual practice.
We called to Her, and so She came.
On Solstice night, She heard our pain.
We asked for help, and She was kind.
We took Her gift. Our fates were twined.
Blood was spilled on sacred altar,
Yet with Her magick, we did falter.
Our contract broken left Her enraged.
The gift was spoiled and blood curse engaged.
What was rebirth turned fast to death,
Our people shunned, and so we wept.
She waits for us to redeem our clan
Or bring destruction upon the land.
ANCESTRAL PROPHECY
CENTENNIAL BANK OF BALTIMORE
Established 1883
Ms. Kara Edwards:
Centennial Bank of Baltimore thanks you for your personal debt consolidation loan application. After reviewing the provided materials and your credit report, we regret to inform you that the Centennial Bank of Baltimore cannot offer you a debt consolidation loan. Several credit-related factors impacted this decision; these factors are listed below. Although we cannot assist you at this time, we hope you will continue to use Centennial Bank of Baltimore for all of your future banking needs.
Negative Factors Impacting Decision
IV: Balance to Credit Ratio Too High
VIII: Average Length of Established Credit Too Low
XII: Late Payments Reported
XVI: Insufficient Monthly Income
XX: Medical Bills in Collections
XXIV: Employment Status
How To Improve Your Credit
Pay down existing credit debt beginning with the cards with the lowest balance. The desirable ratio of debt to credit is 30%. Your current debt-to-credit ratio is 100% on all credit accounts.
Do not apply for more credit, including credit cards or personal loans, at this time. We recommend waiting five years from the time your last account was opened before applying for further credit.
Make payments of at least the minimum required amount on or before the scheduled due date for each credit account.
Pay off all outstanding medical bills as quickly as possible. Contact the party responsible for handling these outstanding medical bills to make arrangements.
Regards,
Elizabeth Aaron
Elizabeth Aaron
Senior Loan Officer
eaaron@centennialbaltimore.com
4582 East Lombard Street, Suite G
Baltimore, Maryland 21202
The thin white envelope shakes as I slide my finger beneath the seal. With each small tear, a foolish surge of hope washes over me. I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly, trying to steady my hands.
This time will be different, I tell myself. Centennial Bank will help me. They have to.
The response is a neatly folded letter, a single page. Before I even unfold it, I know this answer will be exactly like the rest. The reply is too short.
My tired eyes scan the simple response before I lean back in my creaky desk chair, letting my hands fall into my lap. It’s yet another rejection. My misguided hope immediately abandons me, replaced by emptiness and despair.
Dejected, I sigh and crumple up the letter, dropping it into the small garbage can with the seven other rejections I’ve already received from banks and lending agencies throughout Baltimore. Their heartless responses contain an undeniable truth – I desperately need help, the kind of help only banks can give, and I’m not going to get it anytime soon.
It’s absurd to think they would care about anything other than their bottom line. I know this. All that matters to these big banks is that I have nothing to offer them in return. So, why does every rejection letter cut so deep?
To these banks, I’m just another college dropout. On paper, they’re right. I have a dead-end job, a boatload of bills I can’t afford to pay, and no collateral to speak of. They have no reason to help me, no sense of humanity. And yet, what else can I do but try?
On my desk, the candle’s tiny flame pulses vigorously, letting the late-night shadows creep closer. The wick slowly drowns in the puddle of wax, sputtering and fighting to stay alive.
This is my last one, and without electricity, it’s my only source of light. It will burn out soon, I know, leaving me to stumble through my studio apartment in the dark as I have done so many nights before.
I can’t help but resonate with the irony of the flame’s struggle. I’m burning out, too.
The weight of the day’s exhaustion sets in, blurring my vision. With a sigh, I rub my tired eyes. Finding them dry beneath my fingers, a hollow laugh escapes me. Was it the second or third letter that depleted my tears? Honestly, I’m not sure anymore.
It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.
I tear my eyes away from the reminders of my failure, reluctantly accepting there’s nothing more to do about my finances tonight.
It takes a monumental effort to force myself to stand. My aching muscles rebel and throb with my movements, but I ignore them and carry the flickering candle over to the tiny bathroom, allowing my mind to wander through the events of the day.
I’ve spent entirely too much time on my feet between this morning’s long shift and my trip to the hospital to visit Mom. The hours that passed sitting by her side were anything but peaceful. I argued with three different doctors about how to treat her cancer, walking in and out of the surgical recovery room so many times I now know precisely how many steps it takes to get from
Of course, each one of them, despite barely knowing her, had been absolutely certain their chosen course of treatment, or lack-there-of, was the only correct option. Their cool confidence was annoying, but I listened to them ramble on anyway, one after another, nodding my head at the appropriate times and telling them I would take their suggestions into consideration.
I know the truth. Ultimately, none of them care what happens to her. Valerie Edwards is a name on a chart, a means to collect their ridiculously expensive fees before moving on to the next patient.
As Mom slept deeply in the hospital bed, blissfully ignorant and sedated, I spent more than an hour of frustration on the phone with the gas and electric company trying to work out a payment plan. Despite my protests that the winter temperatures have been far too low to cut off someone’s heat, they refused to accept anything less than a fifty-percent payment of the past-due balance. Their willingness to meet me halfway aside, I won’t have the money until my next paycheck clears, and even that’s questionable.
There simply isn’t enough money to go around. The pantry in our tiny kitchen is almost bare. The apartment is a mess, and I have no time or energy to clean it. The laundry is dirty, and I ran out of quarters last week. My entire existence is a hopeless black void.
I drag my thin sweater over my head, tug off my jeans, toss them into the hamper, and slip into a pair of ragged sweatpants and a t-shirt before the chilly air can raise goosebumps along my arms. My pajamas are old and not much to look at, but they’re warm and comfortable, and tonight, that’s what I need.
When I finish changing, I pop a rubber plug into the sink and pour a splash of water from a nearly empty gallon jug into the basin.
How long have I been without water now? Two weeks? Three?
I dip my toothbrush into the bowl and dab a small pearl of toothpaste onto it. As I brush my teeth, I watch myself in the mirror.
My face has changed significantly over the last year. Tired green eyes stare back at me, sunken into dark black circles and streaked with thin red lines. My skin is pale, much paler than it should be, and the angles of my cheekbones are sharp. I’ve lost quite a bit of weight. My shoulder-length brown hair is in desperate need of a trim and a good brushing. In essence, I reflect every bit of the stressed and depressed young woman I’ve become.
I used to care so much more about my appearance. I don’t anymore. Time has brought different priorities, and vanity has been set aside.
Looking away from the ghost of myself, I spit my toothpaste into the toilet, dip a paper cup into the sink and rinse my mouth, then wash my hands with an old bar of unscented soap. Finished, I pull the plug and stare as the rest of the water drains away.
Tomorrow, I’ll have to try to stop over and visit Connor so I can take a shower at his place. I feel gross for going so long without one and terrible for using my best friend, but I’m also thankful he’s kind enough to help me while I struggle with all of these bills. He’s the only one who does these days. Connor and his younger sister Ally don’t have much either, but their apartment is warm and their water is running. Compared to my run-down studio, their place is a luxury hotel.
For a moment, I imagine Connor sitting in his salvaged lawn chair and playing Call of Duty while Ally sprawls out on the thick window sill and scrolls through TikTok. I wish I could be there with them now. My apartment is too quiet with Mom in the hospital. It leaves far too much time to think about all of the stressful things dragging me down, and that’s the last thing I want to do.
I walk back into the living room and blow out the candle. Only a sliver of wick remains. It won’t relight again after tonight, so I toss the stub into the garbage. Careful not to trip, I pad over to my lumpy futon and lay down, tucking myself snugly under the old quilt. It’s full of holes after all these years, and it’s not very warm anymore, but at least the quilt still smells faintly of Mom’s perfume.
A brief smile flits across my face as I remember the days she spent stitching the patchwork together in her recliner. That fall, she gathered up my old school t-shirts and a set of used curtains from the thrift store, cut them into squares, and sewed the pieces together. We still had our little row house on Fleet Street back then. Mom spent hours working on the quilt every night, and I, about thirteen at the time, regaled her with tales of whatever I deemed important that day.
One time, I prattled on and on about the bucket drummer I’d seen playing for tips in the Inner Harbor on my class trip to the National Aquarium. I remember telling her that someday, I wanted to be a musician, too. We both knew I was extremely tone-deaf and I couldn’t hold a rhythm if my life depended on it, though. Mom laughed without saying a word, and I joined in with her, then she pulled me into a tight hug and told me to always remember to follow my dreams.
I rarely allow myself to dream anymore.
The row house was one of the first things to disappear when she was diagnosed with cancer. After her treatments, Mom couldn’t climb the stairs to her bedroom anymore, and the rent was too expensive with all of the added medical bills, anyway. So, we gave up the lease and moved into this tiny studio together. This hole-in-the-wall is all the way up on the seventh floor, but the rent is cheap and there’s an elevator, so the two of us have managed to make do.
Still, there isn’t a day I don’t miss the way things were before.
I pull the quilt tightly up to my chin as the wind whistles through the crack in the window frame above my head. It’s going to be another cold night. The forecast calls for a low of 35 degrees, and the heat has been out for almost a week.
The night is still a deep shade of purple when the shrill ring of my phone rips me from the grip of a horrendous nightmare. With a start, I bolt upright and clutch the quilt tightly to my chest. Reality settles in slowly, separating the terrifying images from the cool, dark room around me. As the fog of sleep fades away, I focus on my ragged breathing to calm my racing heart and bring sensation back to my frozen limbs.
It takes a few moments to regain my composure. Flashes of the dream continue to seep through: staggering blindly through inky darkness over abandoned wheelchairs, IV poles, and hospital beds; the biting scent of bleach and disinfectant, grotesque creatures with transparent skin and vibrant blue veins cornering me up against an immovable steel door.
But, that hadn’t been the worst of it. The worst had been finding Mom’s putrefied corpse in the center of the crisp, white room, unbreathing, with tubes dangling from her sides. I tried desperately to rush to her aid, only to wind up bound by restraints that bit into my wrists and ankles, holding me back.
The creatures finally caught up to me, thrusting my body against the glass of the window pane on the far wall until it shattered and gave way. My broken and bruised body crashed to the pavement. The blood that poured out of my lacerated flesh ran across the hard surface beneath me, forming a sharply-angled symbol. It called to me, commanding me to keep my eyes on the shining maroon wetness. I resisted the pull, knowing I had to put myself together, to get up off the ground and back to Mom’s room.
