Hard to believe it’s been a year since we had the pomegranate-fueled monster baby boom. Very glad to have sorted that out. Of course, I’m still buried in snow in March, but I hiked down to the pomegranate tree yesterday to make sure the shield over it is holding. Fecund bugger is glowing like it’s inhabited by the Virgin fucking Mary herself and drooping with fruit. In March! Not a speck of snow around it. The shield is still holding though, so that’s good. I gave it a little boost. On my way back to the cabin I found a patch of Crocus vernis peaking out from under the snow. They are wonderful for divination. They have a particular talent for identifying thieves. Not something I need often, but you never know when a client will. So I harvested a few. I only took one bulb, though, that way the patch will still grow and thrive. Would be lovely to find some Crocus sativus in the autumn, but that might be hoping for too much, but it’s hard to get saffron these days what with The Holy War and all.

I was only around for the very late crusades, against the Ottoman Empire, but I can tell you they’re pointless and expensive. For some reason meatheads with swords really seem to love them. Back then the meatheads couldn’t actually end the world like they can today though, so that’s fun.

Crocuses.

Crocuses are nice.

Never been more happy to have Hell as my eternal destination. Lately I can’t help but wish He’d finally come and take me home. But I know if I’m here there must be a reason for it. Lucifer sees much more than I do, He has a plan, gnarled and twisted though it might seem. Every cog I destroy, weakens the machine. Our work must go on, we must continue to fight.

When I got back to the cabin a man was sitting in my Adirondack on the porch. Another cog, no doubt. The boys barked him right out of it. I’ll have to sanitize it later. Don’t need any gross spiritual energy clinging to my relaxing chair. He was a small, nervous type, with a faux-expensive look. Too young to be as bald as he was.

“Finally,” he whined, huddled against the porch railing, where the dogs had pinned him. He checked the enormous watch on his wrist. “I’ve been waiting for an hour.” Imagine being backed against a wall by two huge wolves and still being a prick.

“Should have made an appointment,” I said as I shrugged out of my coat.

“They said you don’t take appointments.”

“I don’t.” I kicked off my boots and looked at the dogs, “Keep him here for a bit.” I walked inside to the sound of him protesting and the dogs growling. I took my time with tea and had myself a little snack.

Then I let him in.

“You know you should breed those dogs, bet you’d make some serious money. I can see them in every mansion. I could do a little leg work for you if you’re interested in doing business together.”

“They’re wolves.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying, they’re like, tame though.” Geri and Frekki took mortal offense and started snarling at him. He tried to pet Geri and almost lost a hand. I raised an eyebrow. This man was not great at comprehending what was literally in front of him. It’s some form of psychosis, I swear, ignoring reality so you can still say whatever dumb thing is in your head. I sent the boys outside to cool off and sat him down.

“What can I help you with?”

“I have bad luck.”

“How do you know that?”

“I never win anything. I gamble all the time, play the lotto, never win.”

“Gambling is not about luck. And winning the lottery generally destroys people’s lives, not sure why you’d want to win it. Additionally, how much money do you spend on all this gambling?”

“Gambling is not about luck? Like you know anything.”

“Where do you gamble? Casinos? Because those places are rigged against you, has nothing to do with luck.”

“Online. There’s this place where you can bet on stuff besides games, like who’ll win an election, or whether two celebs’ll get married, if wars will start, how the world will end, if aliens will land before someone goes to prison, whether or not someone will get prison-“

“Ok, I get it. You are bad at being evil and would like some help.”

“What? No. That’s not what I said.”

“Yes it is.”

“I just have bad luck.”

“All of those things you just mentioned, you have to research to be able to win. But who bets on how the world will end? That’s… you know I was going to say sick, but actually it’s just pointless. In order to win, you’d have to be dead along with all the rest of us.”

“It’s just for fun, for people who don’t like sports. That’s all. I’m bad at cards, too.”

“So, how do you think the world will end?”

“What?”

“If you were going to bet, what would you bet on?”

“You have to give me options…”

“Swallowed by the sun, climate change triggers intense warming, or an ice age, nukes, pandemic, space clowns, space virus, what?”

“Space clowns.”

“See, you don’t have bad luck, you’re just an idiot.”

“Wow.”

“Well sometimes people need to hear it.”

“Can I revise my answer?”

“Already lost your money, you going to bet again?”

“Of course.”

“Idiot.”

“Space virus. Why would there be clowns who go to space and then come back to Earth? I didn’t think about that at first. Would be so cool though with their laser squirt guns. Pew pew pew.”

“I’m going to get you something that chases away bad spirits just to get rid of you, because I really don’t like you.”

“When you say chases away bad spirits…”

“Yeah it doesn’t bring you good luck, because that’s not a thing. Good luck is just preparedness, intuition, and timing. Bad luck, isn’t a thing either, it’s just bad decisions, never being prepared for anything, and having zero intuition…. and sometimes shit just happens. Then, sometimes, bad spirits are out to make your life suck. I don’t think that’s your problem, I think you’re an idiot, but maybe this will make you feel better for a while.”

He nodded along, not hearing anything I said. I went to my cabinet and got some Pittosporum tobira, a cute shrub that demons… and mosquitoes, hate. I put it in a little green amulet bag for him.

“Anyway, it has a scent bad spirits don’t like.”

“So what, I just hold it when I place bets?”

“Yeah, sure.” I was rummaging through the fridge, still feeling a little hungry.

“Do I need to like, blow on it or say anything?”

“Oh yeah, definitely, just say whatever comes to mind.”

He snatched the bag from my hand and held it up to the sunlight streaming through the window. “Hello my beautiful good luck charm!” He kissed it.

I bit my tongue and nodded, slamming the fridge door. “Ok, bye now.” I all but shoved him out of the cabin. The dogs chased him screaming down the hill. We all had cookies because we deserved it.

It didn’t take long. As soon as he got to his car and had cell reception back he thumbed open the betting app on his phone. I watched him through the obsidian ball. He kissed the amulet bag, for a long time, then rubbed it all over his face and all over his phone.

He started his car and pulled off the side of the road, setting his phone in its dash mount. He scrolled while he made his way down the winding mountain road, periodically rubbing the phone and his face with the amulet bag that was not for good luck, but instead to drive away bad spirits he didn’t have. Unfortunately, there’s just no magic or medicine for people who refuse to look anywhere but inward, at their own desires and experience. Say, at the road they’re driving on, for example. It isn’t bad luck if you’re on your phone, trying to bet on who will get raptured after The Holy War, and you miss a curve and your car barrels through a guard rail, sailing over a ridge and into a canyon. You might scream curses at the witch who gave you the good luck charm (not a good luck charm) you’re clutching, but the Universe knows the tally. The Universe knows you charge through life expecting everything, but never putting in the work. The Universe will put you in the bottom of a canyon in the belly of a hot, twisted metal beast. One lung exploded, your legs crushed, blood pouring from the gash in your head. One wrist shattered. Your phone screen a dark spiderweb. Cooling engine going tick tick tick. And that amulet bag, it’s sitting on the windshield as you hang upside down, it’s doing its job. Because there are bad spirits all over this mountain, they’re circling your steaming pile of metal and plastic, they smell your body shutting down, hear the choked gasps coming from your shattered mouth. But they can’t come anywhere near you.

Not that it matters.

You’re just about dead. Because you refused to really look at the world around you.

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Lost half my day doom scrolling. I’ve lived through plenty of authoritarian regimes, all over the world. It’s my first one with internet, though. Makes it decidedly worse. We used to meet in cafes, in the street, at parks, to discuss and plan. Bounce ideas off each other, get varied perspectives. There’s a comfort in camaraderie. Revolution needs company, proximity. Without human connection, one might end up scrolling and reading about the tanks rolling down their street, instead of standing in front of them. That cold little box in their hand offering the false sanctuary of a digital world where nothing seems real. Only it’s not a barrier, it’s a trap.

I got trapped. Dear sweet demons what a waste of time. I needed to be out in the chicken coop getting it ready for spring. Once the chickens unthaw they’ll be ravenous. Hanging the meat now, means it and the chickens will unthaw at roughly the same time. I do love watching them shake off their winter ice, stretch their bony little legs and leap at the hanging haunches dripping bloody ice into the dirt. They’ll cling like finches at a nyjer seed tube and dig in. It’s very heartwarming to see them wake up with hearty appetites.

But now I’m behind in my work. Have to do double tomorrow…

Perhaps I should chuck my phone into a snow drift.

I was standing on the front porch contemplating this when I spotted a client huffing their way up the hill. I set worries about doomscrolling right through the revolution aside and breathed in the essence wafting up the hill. More revolution anxiety. It’s not hard to come by these days.

I went inside to start the tea. While one witch can assassinate a political leader with ease, replacing a regime is a little tougher. There are a lot of contingencies that must be accounted for, many moving parts, as they say. Of course, there is always the kill them all and sort it out later approach. My personal favorite. Very energy intensive, and takes up to a year or more to plan and prep for, but not impossible. Still, I hoped this client wasn’t about to ask for a Night of a Thousand Poisons, I’d done it once and it took years to fully recover.

I watched their approach in my obsidian ball and had a better idea of what they wanted by the time they knocked. I answered the door to an unkempt older woman wearing what can only be described as fortune teller chic. How I loath patchouli. Just go roll in a graveyard, you’ll get the same stink without the boutique prices. I did hold myself back from asking if she’d seen Lon Chaney recently.

“I’m Cosmina,” she said as she shrugged out of her floor-length wool cloak and hung it on one of the hooks by the door.

“You are definitely not.”

She looked up at me sharply. “That’s the name I chose to go by. It’s my spiritual name.” She made a show of fluffing her skirts and jangling her many bangles as she sat down at the table.

“I see.”

“I’m not sure I’m in the right place. I’m looking for a witch. You’re wearing… joggers and a hoodie.”

“It’s winter.”

She looked down at herself. Her peasant skirt and blouse, the layers upon layers of scarves, all the silver jewelry.

“Well, I guess we’ll see what you can do.” Her eyes roamed the cabin. The large cupboard, the many rocks and crystals, plants everywhere. My altar to Lucifer. The cats, the wolves… If only she were here to see the chickens’ first meal of the year.

“What can I help you with?”

“Help, that’s exactly why I’m here. I want to be able to help my neighbors with magic, and I got all the books, I have an athame, a cauldron, I have all the stones, the herbs, the candles, a goblet, I’ve memorized all the special full moons, I just don’t understand why I can’t do magic.”

“Did you sell your soul to a demon?”

She furrowed her brow. Took a sip of tea. “No. That’s not real witchcraft, all the books said you have to worship the horned god.”

I slid my upturned arm across the table and showed her the goat brand on my forearm.

“He is a horned god. But that deer you all worship, it has antlers, not horns. Sanitized witchcraft will never get you anywhere. You need the power of a demon, you need to be comfortable with blood and flesh and getting dirty. You need to renounce god and heaven and become a vessel for the wrath of Hell. That is the only way to become a witch.”

“But Astarte and Beltane…”

“Wicca is a multibillion dollar industry. All you need is a demon.”

“I can’t have a demon inside me. My soul is too pure.”

“It’s not like the movies. No one’s soul is pure.”

“But I can’t,” she whispered, her face pale. “That’s black magic.”

“All magic belongs to The Devil.”

“No.”

“Then I can’t help you.” I sat back and sipped my own tea. She sat there, trying not to cry. “Drink your tea, it’ll make you feel better.”

“How do I help my neighbors, then? I just want to be useful and revered and maybe a little feared.”

“You don’t need magic to help your neighbors. You can bake for them, care for them when they’re sick, watch their kids, help with projects, listen, give charity when it’s needed, be kind, keep an eye out for bad guys… there are a lot of ways to be helpful that don’t involve magic.”

“But I want to do spells for them.”

“Do they ask for spells?”

“No.”

I felt for her. Helping my neighbors with spells was exactly how I got started. Of course, that was the mid 1300s… Still, magic is a rush. But no demon, no magic. My phone pinged. Another news alert, some new atrocity. If only there were a way we could both help…

“I have an idea.” I went to my cabinet and got some thuja tincture. The tree of life, a tree said by Native Americans to have first grown from the body of a very helpful man. I suppose I lied to “Cosmina,” their gods have magic, very powerful magic. But it’s theirs, and not for us to use. Witches respect this.

Thuja, though, grows on my mountain, so the tree and I have an agreement. What I had in mind for it was diabolical, but would be helpful to society as a whole. I gave her the vial. “Find a nice sunny place. Open, like a field, meadow, or park… absolutely not near a playground, and drink this.”

“What will it do?”

“You’ll find out.”

She looked at me in bewilderment but rose slowly and grabbed her things.

“You won’t tell me?”

“Nope. It’ll be fine.” I ushered her out the door.

I kept track of her in my obsidian ball for the next two days. When she finally ended up in an abandoned lot between a large brick law firm and a Starbucks I was pleased with this choice. She stood in the center of the lot and downed the vial. The transformation started almost immediately. Her feet burst out of her shoes, her toes growing into thick roots that buried themselves into the dirt. She screamed and writhed, tugging at her legs to try and free herself, but these roots run deep. She was never moving again, her legs fused together, her skin hardening into deeply grooved bark. She was crying, but that wouldn’t last long. Branches sprouted from her head, splitting open her skull, letting the sun touch brain matter. Her torso hardened into bark like her legs and stretched skyward, the wood cracking and popping as it shot upward. Her arms became tree limbs. Her left arm, about fifteen feet up, grew straight out from her body. A long, thick, and sturdy limb.

With this tree, I’ll change the future.

Cosmina had a voice now, her leaves, her bark, her spirit called to the people. It was a warm summer morning when a man propped a ladder against her long, straight branch and wound the noose around it. Ants marched along the bark, up and over the stiff new rope, as the man descended and walked out of the lot, whistling to music in his earbuds.

In the obsidian ball I saw the first figure arrive at the tree, pushed along by a group of women. The first traitor to hang. The first of many. The oligarchs, the pedophiles, the fascists, the racists, I saw them all hang.

It’s only a matter of time.

My tree of life will save us all.

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Tip your crazy writer.

The day this particular, peculiar client wandered up my mountain I was drawing hexes in the sunlit, glittering snow. More for fun and dopamine than for any real reason. Draw a hex with a stick, say a name, spit on the hex, get a jolt of satisfaction. It’s a fun way to while away the hours on a dull winter afternoon. The world is certainly never short of targets. Hex drawing is personal, more about channeling your energy than memorizing any specific symbols. A lot of magic is like that, a performance to help you harness your own power. Draw whatever feels right: the bad runes, a bleeding crescent moon, skulls, black suns, bullets, bombs, fire, coffins, an angry face, swirls of wind, a cat’s paw… inverted things are particularly potent, like an inverted heart, rainbow, or four-leaf clover. Put some intent behind it, a little saliva, and you’re on the fast road to revenge… or to fucking with somebody you don’t like.

All’s fair in witchcraft.

I’d hexed a good hundred people when I felt a prickling at the back of my neck. A very fearful energy was making its way up the mountain. Fear has varied effects on people, some get compliant, some rage, fight, run, some retreat into their heads for planning or into deep paranoia. This one just felt, a little weird. Calm but terrified… it was one of the strangest energies I’d ever felt. Very pleasant despite its own discomfort. I made my way back up to the cabin and put the tea kettle on. This timorous creature would be cold, I’d need some warming tea. I called off the dogs and sat in the cabin waiting, listening to the fire crackle. Hexing all afternoon had been exhausting, I ate a snickerdoodle and I thought about the honesty of fear. Fear will always show you who a person is at their core. You might think it’s love that’s the most forthright, but ‘love’ is only the name we’ve given to your brain’s tendency to chase a comfortable high. Fear is about survival. Survival is truth.

He finally knocked.

Tall guy, broad shouldered. Very nice smile. Like, a genuine flash of true joy kind of smile. I felt my heart go a little wobbly at it. Seemed confident enough. I really couldn’t account for the palpable fear sloughing off him like old skin. It was heady, the stink of it. The dogs sat up from their spot by the fire and regarded him.

“Oh, wow, what beautiful dogs.”

“Wolves.”

He smiled again. Didn’t miss a beat, just strode right over to them.

They wagged their tails, my killer wolves did. He scratched them under their chins. No one ever touches Geri and Freki. Ever. People are terrified of these two huge black predators taking up half my cabin. But he was down there rubbing their bellies. They must have understood something I didn’t, because I was confused as fuck. He stood. Smiled at me again. Outwardly, he was very at ease, but that fear roiled inside, thrashing like caught prey. It was an impressive feat of self control to appear as mellow as he did. That must have accounted for the deep weariness haunting his eyes.

“So, big guy, what brings you up to my cabin?” I put tea on the table for him.

“I need protection.”

“From?”

“Everything. I don’t want anything to happen to me.”

“As in car accidents, lightning strikes, snake bites? Wolves don’t seem to worry you…” I motioned to the boys, lazing by the fire again.

“They’re good, I can tell.”

“Huh… so, protection from what, then?”

“Everything.”

I know I furrowed my brow because what in the sweet crypt was happening here?

“I need a little more than that. Are you afraid of car accidents or emotional accidents?”

“Both. All of it.”

“Ok, let me try another question. Why are you afraid of… everything?”

“It makes me uncomfortable.”

“By ’it’ you mean imagining the consequences of ‘scary’ things happening makes you uncomfortable?”

“Yeah. Consequences. I think it’s consequences I don’t like thinking about.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. You have trauma, I assume?”

He sipped his tea, and made a face. “I’m not really a tea drinker. Yes to the trauma.”

“And you like very specific sensory input. You need protection from anything outside of that as well.”

“Something like that.”

“You’re single?”

“Yep.”

“That’s a shame. You’re a good looking guy. Has anyone ever told you that your smile is, kind of intoxicating?”

“No…” His turn to furrow his brow.

“Huh? If I were you, I’d leave now and rethink all of those fears. Let whatever trauma you’re holding onto go and start stepping out into life, maybe a little at a time. Get used to taking small risks, build your tolerance to failure slowly and with inconsequential failures. Build a life one small experience at a time.”

“No. I don’t want any of that.”

I’d put a lot of magical oomph behind that statement… and got nothing in return. Was I facing severe lassitude? Obstinacy? Likely a combination, built on a depressive foundation. He wasn’t cursed or hexed or anything.

“I mean I don’t make plate armor.”

“Can I tell you something?”

“I would actually love that.” Not to invoke the enemy, but Jesus Christ finally.

“I like it up here. These woods are really peaceful. Maybe I’ll just live out there.” He gestured behind him out the window. I took a deep breath.

“So here’s the thing. That mountain is crawling with monsters, that’s why I have these two wolves over here. They help keep the monsters in check so they don’t escape and eat a lot of people. I doubt you’d like it out there. Very dangerous.”

“No that sounds good actually. Being a peaceful monster on your mountain. Maybe vibing it out. I could help, do something good.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Me neither, but I think it’s why I came up here. Why your dogs like me.”

I looked at the boys, tails wagging like common domesticated lap dogs. I walked to my obsidian ball. I was having trouble with this scenario. How does a guy come up here asking to be protected from everything and then end up wanting to live among the worst monsters monsterdom has to offer? In the wilderness like an animal no less. I can confidently say that I’ve never met a human this confusing, before or since. The ball showed me his inner aura, very muddy, but with a softly glowing core.

“Fine. At least I’ll be able to keep an eye on you. You’re an interesting specimen.” I went to my cupboard and picked out a vial of rosemary and Pilosocereus tincture. “Drink this. You’re not going to like it.”

He made a face, but tipped the vial back. Then made another face. A long, wiry, white hair popped out from his cheek.

“You might want to get naked.”

“Woah, no.” Crimson flushed his cheeks.

I shrugged. He was all dressed up in pants and a heavy coat. That hair was going to start coming out of every pore.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow.” He started dancing and stripping off clothes, despite the long hairs popping out all over his skin, and the blood, it was not an altogether unpleasant spectacle. “Fuuuuck! Why didn’t you tell me this would hurt so much?”

“Didn’t want to scare you. You’re going to need to blend in.”

He dropped to his knees, rocking in pain, hair sprouting thick and fast now, covering his tender nakedness…. Sadly. He roared as each pore in his flesh ripped open to accommodate this thick pelt of, what was essentially plant fiber. Yes, plant fiber. There is a method to this madness. The fiber will break down over time, and it won’t grow back. He’ll either need to keep coming to me for more tincture, which means we can keep digging into his fear, or he’ll need to get a grip and rejoin humanity. In the meantime, it is very good as a protective covering. It’s not plate armor, but it will certainly be better than mere clothing.

He was whimpering now, curled in the fetal position in a pool of blood, but by now the hair was done sprouting. The cats gathered around to lap up the mess. I knelt next to him and carefully touched his shoulder, the hair was thick, coarse, and pale.

“You gonna be ok?”

“Yeah, I think so. I think I needed that pain.” His voice was strained and he breathed in ragged gasps, but I believed him.

“You survived it.”

“I did. And I’m ok. I mean I look like a yeti, but it’s ok.” He pushed himself up to sitting. His right side was soaked in blood. “Sorry about the mess.”

“Totally ok. Definitely not the first time the floor’s been covered in blood. When you get outside just roll around in the snow for a bit and you’ll be good.”

“Shit, yeah. I live outside now.” He smiled again, seemingly very pleased.

“Stop by for cookies any time.”

“I think I will.”

He stood and helped me to my feet, such a handsome, fury gentleman. Not gonna lie I was still into him a little bit. I might have checked out his ass as he walked out the door and into the forest.

Here’s to hoping I see him again.

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Sweetly envenomed by winter, drowsy and stiff-limbed in our wooden tomb, we relish our sedation. We are cold, shut in, blanketed, booked, the oven is perpetually emanating the scents of fresh breads, muffins, cookies, scones, plus baked curses, clay poppets, drying herbs, drying insects, which smell much better than you’d imagine.

I was knitting some winter sweaters for the cats. Complete ninnies really, but they must have their sweaters. Unfortunately a few of them have gotten quite fat. I’ll shall have to turn them out more often next summer. As I knitted, the beast host lying in front of the fire, their many tails and paws twitching in faint simulacrum of the murderous fantasies playing out in their dreams, I heard something unfamiliar. The sound carried up the mountain on the wind was raspy, pitched, desperate. The dogs perked up, the cats pretended not to notice. I went to the window and could barely pick out a small figure in the distance. The wind howled around the traveler and occasionally deposited an eerie wheeze at the cabin porch.

“Sounds nasty.” I picked up my feather staff and stepped out onto the porch. It’s made of lignum vitae, pointed at the bottom end and has crisp, white, albatross feathers secured to the top. By the time I became a witch, the ancient völva sorceresses had been exterminated, but some of their staff magic was carried forward through the centuries by their ancestors. Christianized maidens telling the tales their mothers had told them, aware that there was something important in the stories, even if they had forgotten what.

I stepped out onto the porch and held my staff up high, shaking the feathers at the sky, “Vindr, flýja frá þessu stað!” The wind rushed up the hill and over the cabin in an angry roar, gnashing at my hair and skin with icy teeth. And then it was still. I lowered the staff, my eye on the figure below. The wind had carried bits and pieces of their story with it in its retreat and I shivered with the implications.

They were struggling, though, wheezing and coughing, pausing often to catch their breath. I grabbed the sled, shoved my feet in my boots and strapped on snowshoes. The dogs stayed close to me as we walked down the hill. I did not want to spook this client. As we got closer I waved.

“Can we give you a lift up the hill?” I could see now that it was a woman, middle aged, soaking and shivering. She could only nod. I harnessed the dogs to the toboggan and helped the woman on, covering her with a bearskin I kept strapped to it. The bear, by the way, died of natural causes… I have a bit of a soft spot for bears, but that’s another story for another day. The sled is designed just for this purpose, it has handles for the rider to hold on to, straps if they can’t, and a push bar for me. I walk behind and push while the dogs pull from in front. We got her up to the top of the hill and I helped her up the steps. She wheezed, the sound of it rattling wetly in her chest. Inside I shooed the cats away from the fire and set her in the rocking chair there. I gave her warming tea and let her sip and settle. She rocked with her eyes closed, steam rising from her drying clothes as the fire crackled and spit.

She finished the tea and I took the cup.

“I’m sorry,” she rasped, “I really thought I could make it.”

“No need for apologies. You aren’t the first, you won’t be the last to need a bit of help up the hill.”

“There’s something in my lungs. Doctors don’t know what it is.”

“I guessed that much. Fungal, viral, no clue?”

“Elements of both, they said. Like some kind of hybrid,” her voice was breathy and strained.”

“Interesting. I’m surprised they don’t have you in some quarantine at CDC headquarters.”

She tried to laugh, but ended up in a wheezing, coughing fit, blood trickling down her chin and dripping on the floor as she was bent over double. “Sorry,” her voice was constricted and harsh. “Local docs wanted that, but the CDC barely exists anymore so, here I am, looking for the old medicine.”

“Fair enough.”

“You aren’t worried about contagion?”

“I am, for all intents and purposes, deathless and eternal. I don’t get sick. That said, there is something not quite right about this. How did you get it?”

“A mushroom, I think. Well, a circle of mushrooms.”

“Tell me more.”

“I was in the yard, we don’t have snow yet where I live, but a storm was coming and I wanted to clean up some leaves. I stepped on a mushroom that was buried in the leaf liter. I thought I heard a squeak and was worried I’d stepped on a mouse, but when I moved all the leaves there was just this little red mushroom.” She reached into her parka pocket and pulled out a baggie with pale shivering fingers. I took it with great interest. She continued, “I picked it because I didn’t want it to spread. Plus I thought I could identify it.” She stopped and struggled to take a breath. I did it for her, slow and deep, her breath moved in rhythm with mine, I could feel the jaggedness in her lungs.

“What about the circle?”

She nodded “The next morning there was a large ring of them, a big red circle in the yard. I couldn’t believe it. I got a trowel to dig them up, but… as soon as I dug the spade in next to the first one, the entire ring erupted in red smoke. I choked and started coughing and that was it. I’ve been wheezing and coughing up blood for a week and a half now.”

“Mushrooms are brutal. People always think it’s fairies that’ll get you inside a mushroom ring, but no, that’s just fungus propaganda. Fungi are sprawling, intelligent, ruthless underground nervous systems that will absolutely erect a defensive fort over night to murder you before you try and root them out of the soil with spades and fungicides. Most of what people attribute to fairies is just fungus sending people on bad trips with their poison clouds. They can glow, use mind control, and I guess nurture a virus, which is horrifying.” I opened up the baggie and reached inside, pulling the dead little mushroom out by the head, its body was soft and limp as I held it in my hand. “Ok, what do you have to tell me?”Little fellow had nothing good to say. This species was especially bellicose. The little fruiting body, dead though it was, carried the electrical memories of its lineage within its flesh. I saw many, many deaths, mainly of animals. It seems this species had only recently crept out of the forest and colonized the urban area of my client’s back yard. They had done so by traveling untold miles underground, their spiderwebbed network inching forward into unknown territory at a surprising pace. The mycelium colony had nearly died many times, but they had persisted. Along the way, a short time ago, they had come across a body in a field, most likely an unhoused person. That person had what the mushroom remembered as an intruder in their body. The fungus slurped it up, this little invader, and began to incorporate it into themselves, weaponizing it. The result was a fungal spore with a chewy virus center. Quite the payload.

I went to my cabinet and got out a vial and gave it to her.

“This is jinyinhua, honeysuckle extract. It’s good for respiratory stuff, but also good luck and protective. You must get it from Tongwei in China. They have the best. Try asian markets in your area.” I handed her the vial, “Drink.”

She did and I motioned her to come to my cabinet. I pulled down a jar of powdered pomegranate rind. I am still swimming in pomegranates. I showed her how to measure out into the mortar and mix it with honey and gin, then put it in a shot glass and had her drink it.

“Why are you showing me all of this?”

“People around you will die if you don’t know this information. Those mushrooms are springing up all over your neighborhood as we speak. And as you said, doctors are a bit useless right now, not to mention unaffordable. So you’ll need to be ready to save your community. Think of yourself as an unofficial witch. Buy all the pomegranates you can, dry out the rinds and powder them. A food processor works just fine. You can dry the rinds in the oven, it’s faster. As for dealing with the fungus in the soil? Try your local university, they may have an expert on staff. Make sure to tell them about the spore cloud.” I patted her shoulder. “You’re about to fight a war.”

“Sorry, what?”

“The fungus. It wants to kill you all, so you’ll need to be prepared. Spread the word. Make sure people in your neighborhood know what to do.”

“I don’t-“

“Just trust me. This will be bad if you don’t sound the alarm and spread the word. When there are no leaders to be found, then the leader is you.”

“I can’t-“

“No, you don’t understand. You have to.”

“Are we talking pandemic? Again?”

“Yes, probably, only there’s no infrastructure to deal with it anymore.”

“I can put the info online I guess, tell everyone I know, too.”

“That’s a start, good.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Absolutely. This fungus could kill millions”

“Shit, yeah. I mean I already feel a ton better. I wasn’t expecting it to work so quickly. I can help out my neighbors. Spread the word.”

I sent her packing with as much jinyinhua as I could spare and a big jar of pomegranate rind powder. I put some feelers out to my contacts to see if anyone knows of a good mycologist in her area.

Sent a message to the demon world as well… fingers crossed someone can stop this menace.

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Help a broke witch out?

Pomegranates. Motherflowering pomegranates. That’s what caused the monster baby boom on the mountain this spring. Geri and Freki found the tree during one of their long wandering runs and each brought a pomegranate back to me. I don’t move as quickly as they do, so it took two days for them to lead me back to the spot. I’m happy to say the tree is now bound and won’t be causing another ruckus next spring. She was fecund though, so many deep red, ripe fruits hung from her branches. I hauled as many as I could carry back with me. I’ll plant a few here, too. Most parts of the tree are useful in some kind of magic or other.

As happens with these chance plant encounters, I came across it just in time to help a client. I was prepping fruit for jam when I heard probably the most horrifying sound this planet has ever produced.

Children. A lot of children. Curse their piercing screams of excitement and squealing laughter, like demented bipedal piglets. No volume control, whatsoever. No self-awareness, just noise and chaos. The stories are true, by the way, witches do eat children and use their squishy little bodies in spells. And the noise is precisely why. So. Much. Noise. Being a plant witch, they’re not on my ingredients list, but as I heard them cavorting up my mountain like a cavalcade of clowns on helium I was very tempted set the dogs on them and make baby jam along with the pomegranate.

The cats talked me out of it, though, citing my own oft used excuse for seeing off-putting clients: professional curiosity. What could bring all these sour smelling bindweeds to my door? What indeed. They were, surprisingly, accompanied by adults. The dogs and I went out to meet them on the porch. The noise stopped abruptly, for approximately three seconds. And then one small child screamed something like doggy and started clambering up the steps toward us. The others, a dozen or so of varying ages, started screaming and scrambling toward us. I quite possibly felt actual fear.

“Why the fuck?” Was honestly the best I could do in that moment. The two adults bringing up the rear of their tot army pushed through to the front.

“Hi,” the father spoke, his wife clung to him. “Sorry to barge in like this, but we couldn’t find a contact number or any way to schedule an appointment.”

“What about a babysitter? Or a zoo keeper…”

The wife brought her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes, she wore a pastel flowery dress thing. The man, wearing slacks, spoke up again. “The children are the reason we’re here. So we needed to bring them.”

I thought about it for a second. If I left them outside there were a million and one things that would kill them. If I let them come inside they would probably just wreck my stuff. One of the cats twined around my legs. I looked down.

“Could be interesting,” she purred.

Ugh.

“Fine. You can come inside, but there will be absolutely NO noise. My dogs will eat you.” Geri walked inside and Freki and I stood on either side of the door as the children filed in. There were fourteen, the oldest was probably sixteen. He looked smug, like he knew something the others didn’t. I was starting to get an idea of what was going on here. I sat the children on the floor and put the dogs on either side of their little group. They ranged in age from baby to the oldest teenager. I dropped my glamour as I leaned over the group and my face changed to the withered old hag I actually am, papery pale skin with veins pulsing visibly beneath the surface, stringy patches of hair falling across my face. Not too many teeth left.

“Don’t make a sound,” I hissed. The brood froze in silence. How long it would last, well, I didn’t have high hopes. I put the glamour back on and motioned the parents to sit.

“Names?”

“Oh, I’m John and this is my wife Sarah.”

“And these are our children, Joshua, Diane-“

“No. No, I don’t need all of their names. No. Why are you here?”

“Well, we have a bit of a financial problem,” John started, Sarah nodded along, trying to keep from crying. “You see food, well actually everything, is getting so expensive, we can’t afford to feed or care for all of our children anymore.”

“Why did you have so many?” I knew the answer, but I think it’s important for people to speak their absurdities out loud.

“Go forth and multiply. The Lord commands it,” John’s voice broke as he said it.

“And now you’ve realized that the Lord is full of shit and you’ve come to Satan for help?”

Sarah sobbed into her hand.

“Not exactly.”

“Then what exactly?”

John stuttered, “I mean we prayed, but things just got worse.”

“Mmhm,” I nodded. Everyone reads Job and thinks that could never be me.

“So what are we supposed to do? We tried to get a TV show, but apparently traditional families don’t get ratings anymore.”

“The TV people said viewers see having so many children as irresponsible,” Sarah sobbed, loudly. One of the dogs growled and I looked over, two children in diapers were attempting to crawl away from the group.

“Keep your children together,” I said to John.

“Elijah, get your sisters.”

The boy who was presumably Elijah pointed to Geri and shook his head violently. John nudged Sarah. She got up and set the two children back into the group with the others.

“Mom I’m bored!” Another child wailed.

“I’m hungry!”

The group immediately devolved into whining and squabbling. The dogs looked up at me. I looked to John.

“Did you have a specific resolution in mind?”

“We love all of our children-“

Two broke away and ran for the door. Sarah scrambled after them.

“-but we just can’t afford them-“

One climbed up onto the chair next to me and started screaming “Dinner! Dinner! Dinner!” Oh holy Hecate, the urge to set the chair alight so help me…

“-as you can see, they’re hungry-“

Geri whined and I looked over to see a child on his back.

“-could we get them all combined into one child?”

My obsidian ball screamed as a sticky finger streaked its surface. The owner of that finger started to cry.

“I’m sorry, like physically, you want an amalgam?”

“Well, no, we want it more like multiple personalities in one body. So we still have all of our children, but we only have to feed one.”

“That is just- fucked up. How do you expect that child to ever be functional?”

“We don’t mind taking care of one child forever, if that’s necessary. It’s just, there are so many right now. We can’t-”

“And combining all of their souls into one body is how you get out of being murderers?”

“Well...”

“What will you tell people? Not that I care, I’m just curious.”

“We’re planning on moving away from our neighborhood and disappearing from social media.”

“Interesting….” This would definitely backfire. An interesting challenge though. I looked at the pomegranates sitting on the kitchen counter. Could I make an anti-fertility spell. “Which kid do you want to house all the others?” One of the cats snickered from under my reading chair, then hissed as a child crept toward them.

“The oldest, Joshua.”

The smug one. I wondered how they sold him on this. He held one of his younger siblings on his hip and looked over at us.

“You agreed to this?”

“Of course, I want to help out my family.”

“Did you consider a part time job?”

“This is what my parents think is best.”

“You’re going to be a nutcase. You’ll have no life of your own. Never go to college, never date, no family of your own.”

“I’m ok with it.”

He didn’t understand his own fragility, teenagers rarely do. I looked at the toddler on his hip. It was an interesting dilemma. The teen would have fewer years of suffering, but would they be harder on him? The baby’s brain might be elastic enough to adapt. But if it didn’t, what would that look like? To be honest I felt a little better about turning the whole family out and having the forest devour them.

“Did you tell the other children your plans?”

John and Sarah looked anywhere but me. “No,” Sarah said. “Most of them are too young-“ she broke off, crying again.

“So, will you do it?” John said, snapping his fingers at one of the babies licking the wood floor.

“Yes and no.”

“Is that some kind of riddle?” John shifted in his seat.

“Do you want it to be?”

He took a deep breath.

“We just don’t understand,” Sarah rested her hand on John’s shoulder as she stood, bouncing a toddler on her hip.

“I’ll put the children back inside you two. Split them up however you like, but they are all going back inside you, mom and pop. You made them, you take them back.”

“What? That’s absurd!” John was shaking, but remained seated. Sarah stood still behind him, her hand over her mouth as she looked at her unruly brood.

“It’s that or you leave.”

“I’ll take them all,” Sarah turned suddenly. I knew she would, she was accustomed to her body being used like an implement.

“No dice. You each take half or you leave and march this lot back down the mountain.”

“That’s stupid, she’s willing!” John lurched up and leaned over the table at me. I knew he would, he was used to being in charge. I didn’t move. I let the fire of Lucifer shine through my eyes as I spoke.

“I really want you to suffer the consequences of your actions.”

He tried to speak but couldn’t, then sat back down.

They were silent, so I continued, “You’re free to leave. In fact I’d encourage it.”

They wouldn’t look at each other.

“You have exactly thirty seconds before I open the door and let the spawn run free.”

“Fine. Fine. How bad can it really be?” John muttered. Sarah just nodded.

“I have no idea what it’ll be like,” I smiled. “I’ve never done this before.” I rose from the table and walked to the kitchen counter where I had set all the pomegranates and picked the reddest one.

“Keep them all still,” I said, raising the heavy fruit over my head. John and Sarah, came to stand by their children. I slammed the fruit to the floor. It landed with a thud and split open, fourteen seeds broke loose from their paper-skinned prisons. I pointed at the oldest child.

“Pick up a seed, feed it to the parent who asks you to.”

“What’s going to happen to me?”

“I have no idea. But you can probably take care of yourself, leave if you want.” I pointed to the door.

He stood near me, looking down at the ruby fleshed seeds and the juice staining my hardwoods. Then he picked one up. He turned and stood in front of his parents.

“Come here, son,” John said. And Joshua fed him the pomegranate seed, gingerly popping it in his mouth. John swallowed. Even the small children went still. The cabin’s corners darkened and we sat within a halo glow of soft green light. A perfumed breeze wound its way around us.

Joshua screamed. His body collapsed in on itself, bones cracked and there was a squeezing squishing sound before his body collapsed in again, this time into particles. A ribbon of mist shot into John’s nostrils, he screamed and it filled his mouth. In seconds Joshua was gone.

I looked at Sarah, she had fallen to her knees and knelt with her mouth open and tears running down her cheeks.

“Here, mommy, you can have one, too,” one of the little girls popped a pomegranate seed in her mouth. She reflexively swallowed.

“What? No!” She clutched at the little girl as her body imploded. “My baby!”

John stood watching, his hands on his hips. As the little girl dissipated, he turned to the next oldest boy.

“Your turn. Pick up a seed.”

The boy was eleven or twelve. He bolted for the door and was gone before John could stop him.

“No!” Sarah screamed.

“He belongs to the mountain now,” I stretched, looking at the remaining eleven children. “How about we move this along? Two at time maybe?”

John nodded. He pointed at two of the children, “Bring me seeds.” They were crying as they did. Before the half hour was out, only the baby was left. John held the pomegranate seed between its fingers and helped it feed the seed to his wife. She could barely stay upright.

To be honest, I figured they’d give up after the first one or two. But now it was done. I threw open the front door to let in some fresh air and gave them both a cup of my revitalization tea. They were exhausted and quiet. When they were done with their tea, I showed them the door. They left in silence.

They were picked up by police within a week. Family called in the children’s disappearances. The story they told was bonkers, that, along with their bizarre behavior earned them long term psychiatric care. It’s difficult for the law to prove murder without bodies.

There are some things you can’t take back.

I’ve had the dogs searching for the runaway, but so far, he remains elusive…

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Drop a dime in the hat?

There have been a few times in my life that I’ve been afraid, most of them when I was a child. Sitting at my table, surrounded by cats and reading this letter was… not one of them. I am not reproducing it because to copy down such utter drivel would be physically uncomfortable. Nor will I include a picture because this is bad energy that must be destroyed, not trapped in a photo. The gist of it is this, witchcraft is illegal again and I am to cease my wickedness and accept god. I have been ordered to report to a re-education camp. If I do not report I will be taken by force. Good fucking luck.

I cut up the letter, mashed it together with Phallus impudicus and buried it under a pile of dog shit. This will leave a bad taste in the mouth of whomever is responsible for it. No amount of toothpaste, mouthwash, or trips to the dental hygienist will cure it. No one will be able to stand near them. Food and drink will taste like said stinkhorn and dog shit. And being surrounded by power hungry narcissists who lack empathy, their putrescent pie hole will absolutely get the guilty party fired.

Small consolation, though. Pulling one card will not make this sham house fall. But I’m certainly not the only witch who is sending curses, or who will continue to do so. Witches have a long history as political dissidents. We’re well practiced in this art. The key is to keep up the pressure until the foundations pop with fissures, drive wedges into the cracks, and then hammer them home.

Imagine witchcraft as energetic links. The letter I received held the energy of the person who wrote it, I used that energy as a conduit to send a curse back to them… It’ll also hit anyone who typed, printed, or mailed it, because “just doing your job” is no excuse for enabling evil.

Those who use magic know how to shut down our own conduits so we don’t get any rebound. Whispers black tourmaline into your ear.

“Oh but wait!” I hear you say, “What about the law of three?”

Yes, the “law” that anything you do comes back to you three fold, thus you should clutch your moonstones and cluck your tongue at doing anything harmful. Gatekeeping. An idea planted by our enemies that is meant to keep witches from reaching their full potential. Learn to protect yourself, and you can do all the big bad magic you want.

Where was I?

Right, the trick to destroying a regime is finding the right energies to utilize as conduits for curse delivery. Some regimes are more guarded, and more educated in the ways of magic, so they’re harder to get to. I don’t think this one is educated in much of anything…

So, how does one get an energetic link to someone? There are a few ways, paper being one of them, as we’ve seen. Some you’ve no doubt heard of, like nail clippings and hair, really anything biological is top of the list. A simple touch will do if you’re powerful enough. Possessions are excellent as well, like clothing or jewelry… or people, think children, wives, mistresses, and minions. Words spoken in public are also excellent, just be aware you’ll need to do stealth magic in that instance. You can’t exactly spread your travel altar out in front of the podium. Well not in these times anyway…. Sometime I’ll tell you about my days with Teddy.

However, contrary to what popular cinema might have you believe, words delivered electronically are subject to too much interference to still contain a viable energy link to a specific person. It’s a little more like cursed scattershot, with none of the shot maintaining the whole dose of malefic energy you’re sending. Not terribly helpful for our purposes, but if you only want to sew general mischief, fire away.

Feeling an energy conduit is something you learn through practice. If I pick up a stick in a park I can immediately feel any person who has touched it… or any dog, squirrel, ant, slug... you get the idea. This takes practice, but it’s a kind of dissociation. You touch a thing and let your own energy go. Step back from yourself. It can help to close your eyes and envision each stream of energy as a different color. You’ll then need to determine which is the one you want. This should be easy, just examine each stream until you find the one that feels right. You’ll know. Well you’d better know anyway, The Mother Earth will not take kindly to you cursing a dog, squirrel, ant, slug, etc.

Eventually this process happens naturally, you’ll see energy flowing from everything like rainbow heat waves.

Plants can help channel curses, too, of course. I’ll tell you the story of bloodleaf and a nun named Sister Leocrita. It was 1492, the Papal States were in the grip of an aging Pope Innocent VIII. You might, from the vantage point of this current century, imagine that popes were always celibate, but you’d be wrong (you’d be wrong about the modern day, as well, but who am I to cast stones…). Pope Innocent VIII had many illegitimate children. And, as was common during those times, buggered any pretty nun he came across as though it were some kind of divine imperative… it might have been, who knows? Copulation by proxy is not unheard of… I’ll cite the possessions of Loudun which were decidedly not demonic.

Anyway… some of the nuns were more than happy to have the diversion. Back then daughters who couldn’t be married off were frequently sent into convents, whether they wanted to be or not. Others, like sweet Sister Leocrita, truly wanted to be where they were, serving god. Living her quiet devoted life. Until the sixty year-old Pope raped her.

I wasn’t up here on this mountain back then, no, I lived in Rome. Hot, dirty Rome. And I’d been trying to get an energy connection to this pope for a while. He had issued the papal bull Summis desiderantes affectibus in 1484. Meaning “Desiring with extreme ardor,” the bull gave permission to the Inquisition to seek out and punish witches as they saw fit (that’s ‘with extreme prejudice’ in modern parlance). It was a death knell for many, many innocent women, and a few of us, too. The Inquisition was never too good at telling a witch from a woman. Lost in the fervor of misogyny, as it were, any woman looks like an enemy. Though very few actually were.

It was late afternoon, the young novice knocked gently at my door. I almost didn’t hear her. I lived in the middle of the city and it was a crushing wall of chaotic sound at nearly all hours. I loathed it. When I opened the door she stood there in her habit, a simple tunic and a veil, lifted from her face so I could see her eyes were swollen from crying. She trembled as I led her across the threshold and gave her some tea…. which wasn’t really a thing in Italy at the time, and took some convincing for her to drink. But as she did and told me how the Pope had seen her at a special mass and that the Mother Superior had arranged a room for them afterwards.

Clutching her rosary tightly in both hands she looked at me with a flame in her eyes I recognized at once, “She betrayed me. She betrayed god. Didn’t she? How could they be so holy and so wicked at the same time? I’m so angry. I want to kill him. Help me kill him.” The rosary snapped in her hands, beads fell softly to the dirt floor.

“Where will you go afterwards? Back to the convent?”

“I’ll never go back there, I’ll go back to my family. My father wanted me to marry, perhaps I still can.”

I went to my cupboard and took out a new herb I’d gotten from a witch adept in portals. She’d gotten the plant from what is now Brazil. I hate portals, personally, they give me motion sickness, but some witches love to travel.

“I’m going to give you something that will suck the life out of Pope Innocent VIII, but it will also kill the child he’s put in you.”

“I’ll be dead, too, if I have a child out of wedlock. My family will never accept me back. No one can know about this.”

She could have gone back to the convent, Pope Innocent would have had the child raised as yet another bastard. But outside of that, yes, her choices were death or poverty, aka death.

The light from the setting sun was fading and I stoked the fire. In a silver dish I lit a small fire with straw, then I threw a handful of dried bloodleaf into the flames.

“Breathe in the smoke, you’ll feel strange, don’t panic, let the smoke take you.”

She did as instructed and we both found ourselves in a state of euphoria, floating high above my wretched, dirt-floored hovel. Leocrita whimpered and I took her hands.

“Let it take you. You’ll be fine.”

“I see something, a black figure, like a shadow, but with long, gleaming fangs.”

“This is good. This is what you should see.”

“It’s coming for me!”

I stroked her soft hands, “Think of the Pope.”

She did and the scene shifted as though it were a stage, with sets on some kind of axel. Someone off stage had turned a wheel and a new set slotted into place.

click

We were at the Apostolic Palace. In the dining hall. Pope innocent sat at the head of the table, surrounded by plates of food on silver and gold platers. He reached for a goblet of wine and seemed to be telling a story. One of the cardinals with him appeared to laugh, but we heard no sound. Leocrita’s hands trembled in mine.

“Show the spirit where to go.”

Pulling her cold hand from mine, she pointed at the Pope. The spirit grinned, a long pink tongue slithering from its mouth. It floated down to the Pope, who didn’t notice it at all and continued regaling his guests with whatever tale it was he told. I tried not to be distracted by the opulence of the room. Such a disgusting display while so much of the city rotted in poverty. Leocrita gasped and I looked down, the spirit’s tongue had slipped around the Pope’s neck and it had inserted its long, hypodermic fangs into his nape on either side of his spine. It wrapped its arms around his shoulders and legs around his waist, like a child getting a piggy back ride, and held on. The Pope set down his goblet and rose, slowly, as if confused. Without a word he stumbled from the room.

The wheel turned.

click

We were back in my home. Leocrita pulled her hands from mine.

“That’s it? He’ll die now?”

“In a few days time.”

I let her stay with me, calling her by her given name, Gemma. We watched in my obsidian ball as the Pope withered away, becoming very thin. At his death he was described as “an inert mass of flesh, incapable of assimilating any nourishment but a few drops of milk from a young woman’s breast.”

When he died, Gemma hugged me. Which I hated, even back then. I gave her enough money to get back to her family. I don’t know what became of her, but I hope she had a peaceful life.

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Fueled by coffee

Bloody hell, it’s finally getting cool up on the mountain. The harvest has finally begun. It starts early up here, but I love every minute of it. Gathering in the fruits of my labor, canning, storing, making, anticipating the treats and treasures I’ll enjoy in the long winter months. There are things besides food we harvest, too, Many of the monsters shed their light summer coats, or skins, or feathers, to grow thicker, warmer coverings for the winter. This particular day I was on the hunt for werewolf fur, they shed it in great big smelly clumps that I wash and spin into yarn. It’s incredibly warm, a little itchy so an undershirt is recommended, but it also increases confidence and sex appeal; heightened animal magnetism is a popular request among clients.

We had gathered quite a lot, plus some mystery fur I was interested in divining the owner of and were headed back when a voice began talking to us from the trees. The dogs were immediately on edge, hackles raised, and growling. We made our way up to the cabin, listening to the woods around us speak in garbled, grumbly tones. Something about making something and mis-something being nigh. Which sounded familiar, something from a long ago memory. One thing about being a witch is that all those painful long ago memories end up being useful. So there’s no hiding from the past. Instead we dissect it. Lay it bare and open up its guts. We must remember every wound, how we got it, how we cured it, and how we got revenge.

That voice kept growling at us, coming from everywhere all at once. I guess it wasn’t so much a growl as it was a belch. Words being pushed out with the air. It said various things, most incomprehensible. I did catch, “die without knowing you’re dead.” Curious. I wasn’t sure what to expect when we reached the cabin steps, but it wasn’t a cotton-haired octogenarian in hot pink that much I’ll tell you.

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I have made a grave error. I’ve assumed myself infallible, untouchable, unknowable. But I am none of those things. I am… I am in deep shit is what I am. As I write this a man is headed up my mountain with, an abomination. Something so impossible, I have no idea how… Then again, he’s not really a man. Perhaps this was where I made my error…

I should go back. A while back I had a client up on the mountain, a scientist named Robert, he had a day job but also loved to tinker and invent things. He was obsessed with his inventions which left him drained and struggling at his day job. He wanted a double to help with his inventing while he went about his daily life. So I birthed a clone, out of my mouth. It’s described in Robert’s story, I won’t go over it again. Needless to say, Original Robert didn’t follow my strict instructions and ended up being killed and eaten by Clone Robert. Clone Robert then sent me a letter, called me MOM (my flesh crawleth about my bones), and threatened to come and find me.

I brushed it off. How could I not? Humans have no power against me. The lifeblood of Hell flows through my veins. I am no mere mortal, I am The Witch. But I forgot one important thing, Clone Robert is not human. He’s made from me. From me and the dark matter I manipulated to craft his form inside my chest. Living without his mold (AKA Original Robert), the clone has had no human influence to suck the magic out of him. He’s possibly grown more powerful.

So here I sit, watching his progress up the mountain in my obsidian ball, ancient books strewn about my table, wisdom tea settling in my belly, and an image of that thing he is carrying burned into my psyche. I’ve only seen one once before and it was a horrific sight. Glowing an unearthly blue and red it seemed to suck the energy out of everyone in the coven. I’m loath to even write down its name… I’ll say only this, ferns do not flower, except for when they do. And now that monster that I made is marching up my mountain with the unthinkable abomination. An impossible aberration of nature the likes of which… I feel faint.

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Summer. Living on the edges of the day. We circle the sun, keeping to the shadows. Bow to its life-giving energy, but curse its heat when it turns its back. That which nourishes can also kill. It isn’t a tough switch to flip.

This particular morning I was in the garden, working and watching the golden lining to the gloaming spread from a thin thread to a wide tear. A gash dripping molten time. The garden, waking to drink in the photons, was growing well. I had collected a jar of slugs as I had dreamt of watching an absurdly large snail lift its… monopod thing and pee like a dog. Admittedly weird, so I assumed they’d be important at some point in the near future. Generally I’d leave them out for the raccoons, specifically Bob, he loves a juicy slug, he’s kind of a gross little guy… anyway, when dreams speak, we listen.

I never use slugs. I find land mollusks off-putting. Well all mollusks really. What business does any creature have being so mucilaginous? I held the glistening, jarred black mass up to the light. Their slime bubbled as they writhed. Gross. I pitied whoever they were meant for. There was once a cure for kidney stones using slugs… or snails? Perhaps that’s what the slug urine was about? Then again, kidney stones were not exactly my purview.

The mystery of the sentient snot. Lovely.

As I walked back to the cabin a piercing shriek filled the air. Birds in the forest took flight en mass and the dogs came bounding in from the tree line to stand near me. Another scream brought an answering howl from deep in the woods. Whoever was screaming would either need to stop or get up to the cabin quickly, that howl belong to an eight-foot tall daywolf. I told the dogs to go find the screamer and chase them up to me.

Inside I poured myself some coffee and, perhaps cruelly, put the slug jar in a sunny spot on the table. In the obsidian ball I saw the dogs harrying a man up the mountain. He clutched his side and sobbed as he scrambled along ahead of them. I was absolutely going to torture him unnecessarily if he had come all this way for a kidney stone. Common medical ailments are so dull. Before long he stood at my door, sweaty and pale, shaking with pain.

I ushered him inside. He sat, then stood, then sat again, all while grimacing and grunting.

“Everything ok?”

“No. No everything is not ok. I have something growing inside me and I can’t-” He leaned over the table and looked around, “I can’t piss. Not much anyway.”

I sighed loudly, “Did you see a doctor?”

“No. This isn’t a stone, it’s not a tumor. It’s alive.”

I wondered briefly if tumors were considered alive, but a spasm of pain sent his head into the table with a thud and brought me back to the moment.

“How do you know it’s alive?”

“It speaks to me,” his voice was muffled. He tried to sit up straight, but couldn’t.

“Finally, something interesting. What does it sound like?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean does it sound like one of your parents, an old friend or mentor, do you get the impression that it’s a god or a demon?”

“It sounds like, like, I don’t know.” He crawl/fell to the floor, doubled over in pain. I went to my cabinet and took a selenite crystal from its bowl.

“Which side hurts?”

He grimaced and pointed to the right. I lifted his shirt, a bruised mass trembled under his skin. I held the selenite against it and felt vibrations shiver up through my hand and into my arm. My teeth hurt as they passed through my jaw and found their way into my skull.

I am he who examines the kidneys and the heart.

I pulled the selenite away.

“It says it’s God.”

“No it doesn’t, it says it inspects my kidneys and heart.”

“Yeah, that’s one way God is defined in ancient texts.”

He groaned.

“My thoughts exactly. When did this start?” I went to the kitchen and got vial of my best pain reliever. No sense in torturing him, even though I kind of wanted to.

“About a month ago, just a little twinge at first. I don’t know, I thought I pulled a muscle.”

“Drink this.”

He didn’t even give me the suspicious look clients usually give me, he just tipped it into his mouth.

“What was happening around that time?”

“I switched teams.”

“Sorry?”

“I’m a scientist. All of my professional career I’ve studied the ecology of ants. And then I just, lost interest. I read a paper on slugs and I couldn’t get it out of my head. They’re so different. With ants it’s all about the good of the colony, nothing is done for the individual. But slugs are all about themselves. They’ll even eat their own kind. It’s- it’s- well it’s more like me. I’d eat my own kind if I had to. I’ve definitely thrown colleagues under the bus to get ahead. I just, I want to study slugs.” He was sitting up now, the pain having subsided. And I had the slugs explained at least. I looked at their jar, they had separated and were moving around, stuck to the sides, shimmery snot trails crisscrossed the condensation frosted glass. He had followed my gaze.

“You like them too?”

“Oh-ho. No. Those are for you.”

He jumped from the floor and went for the jar. Then screamed and fell back to the floor.

“But you gave me- I felt so good.”

“Just as I thought. You pissed it off.”

“Pissed off the thing in my kidney?”

“Yes. Your kidney spirit doesn’t like slugs. Or, it doesn’t like your attitude in relations to them. Did you know your kidneys filter waste from the body, but they also filter your desires? Little known fact. What many people don’t realize is that they have a little kidney spirit in one of their kidneys that tries to guide them away from passing whims and into passions they think will be beneficial. Now, a kidney can only filter the blood you give it, right? If you’ve never had a gimlet, your kidneys can’t filter out the gin. Kidney spirits work similarly, they can only filter what they’re exposed to. Most people don’t do much, they just kind of exist, so their kidneys only have physical filtering to do, nothing metaphysical or spiritual. Nothing of epistemic weight passes through the kidney spirit, so it atrophies.”

“I’m sorry, you’re saying everyone has a spirit living in their kidneys?”

“Yep. In ancient times kidneys were often preferred for sacrifice over the other organs for this reason. We’re talking about animals, of course, but symbolically they were human kidneys. Kidneys hold the vital animating force of all humans. Most just don’t bother finding out what really makes their kidney spirit happy. In that case the little guy will just go dormant. But you made yours happy with the ants, so it grew and was healthy, but then you went and ‘switched teams’. That’s where the trouble lies. You have a healthy, active spirit. It’s mad and fucking up your kidneys.”

He was curled up on the ground again. Shaking.

“Can I have another vial?”

“No. We’re going to have to get rid of your kidney spirit if you want to study, slugs.”

“But then what happens to me?”

“You might lose your desire for everything. You might still want to study slugs, but then you might not be good at it. It’s tough to say.”

“But I have two kidneys?”

“Only one spirit though, to keep things from getting complicated.”

“So we kill it?”

“Or go back to studying ants. It doesn’t have to be a whole thing.”

“No. I want to study slugs. I don’t know where that passion is coming from, but it’s a passion.”

“If it doesn’t come from your kidneys, it’s a whim not a passion. I never asked your name, by the way.”

He frowned, “Stanley.”

“Ok, Stanley, it’s decision time. Do I rip that sucker out of you, or do you go back to your passion?”

A fresh wave of pain hit him and he screamed again. Both the dogs groaned, but I was getting excited. I hadn’t excised a kidney spirit in at least two hundred years. My kidney spirit was exactly where it wanted to be right now, waiting for a creepy little guy to crawl out of a big annoying guy.

Stanley screamed, the little mass on his back pressed against his flesh.

“Get it out!”

I’m embarrassed to admit I did a little hop of glee before I went back to my cabinet. I needed maidenhair fern, it could chase anything from the kidneys. I mixed a bit up in a vial with bull urine, for a little kick.

“My man, Stanley, drink this.” I handed him the vial, barely able to contain my anticipation. He took it and drank, I heard him sputtering and gagging as I searched for my long tongs. From the jar, I pulled out the biggest, fattest slug. Watching it squirm, I pinched it between the metal skewers and held it up to Stanley’s face.

“I’m not eating that.”

“You don’t have to.”

He furrowed his brow, confused. And then his eyes opened wide. His mouth opened in a silent scream as he reached his hands behind him, scratching at his back. He began to shake his head, a sound like “uh-uh uh-uh uh-uh” croaked from between his lips. I instructed my cats to catch and hold, but not harm the spirit. That little bugger was coming up and I was dangling the object of its current rage right at the end of the tunnel.

Tears streamed from Stanley’s eyes as they bulged with the pain and fear. There are two ways to get from the kidneys to the mouth. Going backwards, roughly, the little guy could to travel out of the kidney, up the renal artery to the heart and into the lungs in order to get to the trachea and out the mouth. Or, there’s always a straight line. I was ambivalent really. I would end up with a kidney spirit whether Stanley died or not.

I guess I’m also a little slug-like.

Stanley started to cry.

“You wanted this,” I reminded him. Kneeling on the floor now he rocked back and forth, moaning a deep guttural wail, drool streaming from his mouth. I wiggled the little slug in front of his gaping maw. Veins popped out on his red face. And then I heard it. A voice not his own coming from inside his throat.

I hold the reins! I hold the reins! I hold the reins!

“Reins is an old word for kidneys, it’s related to Latin renes, in case you were wondering.”

Stanley clawed at his throat. He really looked like he might suffocate. I’d have to throw his body out in the woods… after I harvested a few things. Corpses are hard to come by these days. I patted his head.

“Try to breathe through your nose.”

He just made dry heaving sounds, which at lest meant there was some airflow.

A little hooked claw appeared at the back of his throat.

“Oh! It’s almost here. I know it sucks for you, but I’m very excited about this. Besides I’ve given birth through my mouth many times. It’s a quick recovery.”

I am HE. I am HE. The little spirit called from inside Stanley. Such a cute little voice.

I wiggled the slug closer to Stanley’s mouth. A creature appeared, a little bigger than a golf ball and covered in spikes, like a Sweetgum pod, but less sharp. It was tan in color and had a little mouth, but no other facial features. It shrieked as it heaved itself onto Stanley’s tongue. Then it launched itself at the slug, the object of its anti-passion. Slug and spirit went rolling to the ground, the cats pounced immediately and held it still while I used the tongs to pick it up and dump it in the slug jar. The little guy went mad ripping the slugs apart. Poor thing. So upset.

I turned back to Stanley. He lay in a heap on the floor, blood dripping from his mouth.

“Get up.”

“Uh?”

“Come on, my work here is done. Time for you to go.” I nudged him with my foot.

“Lady I just- I just-“ He panted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You just took up most of my morning. Off you go, now.” The dogs began to snarl and he scrambled to his feet. He was out the door in seconds. I didn’t ask for payment, because I now had a little kidney spirit to experiment with. Honestly that’s priceless.

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Astronomically speaking, it’s still vernal times. We are a few weeks from the solstice, but the temperature is rising, the crisp sprightliness of spring is already loosening into the slow languidness of summer. The forest has begun to settle into its hour of abundance, what has contracted will expand and hollows will fill with coveted hoards, golden honey will drip from the trees, the forest will creak with growth. We’ll walk through the woods half drunk on the heated scents of sap and nectar…

But first, the fever.

This particular day the dogs and I were making our way through the forest to one of the many lakes that dotted its green expanse, baleful blights on fine emerald flesh, if you ask me. Critters stalked us through the dense conifers, curious, or relieved. We could hear murmuring and chittering, rustling and creaks, wings flapping and talons grinding into wood. All hushed, all expectant. The dogs padded along behind me, ears twitching at each disturbance. There were monsters lurking, too, but they knew better than to make their presence known. Besides, they were probably also relieved to see us.

When the frog has a fever, no one in this part of the forest is comfortable. This happens every seventeen years, usually. This time it’s only been eleven. Why the seventeen year cycle? I don’t really know. Which of course means I also don’t know why the cycle was broken. Regardless, I am always prepared, but the rest of the forest, especially after the spring we’ve been having, was decidedly not.

As we walked, my fists full of a burning febrifuge incense of honeysuckle and ming aralia, I chanted.

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As spring is still in full gear and I’m still cataloguing the unprecedented offspring spawned by the monsters trapped on the mountain, I have notes on a few of these horrific new arrivals:

1- A grolerbear- This must have happened through some kind of wormhole. A grizzly and a polar bear mated, which admittedly is not horrific (nor are grizzlies and polar bears monsters), it’s just in the upper stratosphere of weird. The result has too much skin, she’s shar pei level wrinkly. I guess it’s cute? I don’t know, but I’m still observing her. Fortunately her mother is the grizzly and they’re still together.

2- Bellotar- Did not see this one coming. Years ago I captured the serial killer Belle Gunness and turned her into a human sized, but completely harmless, teddy bear. I did not give this teddy bear a reproductive system, yet somehow she mated with the minotaur (not the OG Minotaur, but a distant relative… it’s a long story) and now there is a hoofed teddy bear with bull horns toddling around the mountain. Not with Bell, thankfully, but with its father, which increases its chances of survival from 0% to approximately 15%.

3- Not sure what to call this one and its parentage is unknown, but it is something like a land lamprey with five-fingered hands on its forelimbs and no hind limbs. It speaks as well. Although I’m not certain how as its suction-cup mouth is permanently open, showing off its many concentric and imbricated rows of teeth. The sound seems to come from deep within its stomach, maybe it has a parasite? It’s smallish now, only about three feet in length, but who knows where its maximum growth will top out. Or what lives in its belly.

There are more, so many more. I won’t list them all. Needless to say the boys and I are exhausted. Which is why on this particular day, I almost sent the cats out to scare the client climbing up the hill back down again. But as the afternoon sun cast her shadow against the hill I noticed she was covered in some kind of spiky growths. The scent wafting off of her body and up the hill was divine, I couldn’t place it, but it was definitely floral.

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Dear sweet Hellspawn this spring is the most wretched and anguished bed of misery I have ever lain in. The monsters are mating. The monsters I keep trapped on my mountain so they don’t wreak their destruction on the populace (unless Satan wills it) are engaging in intercourse and there are now strange… children? on my mountain. Determining how this has never happened before and what cursed misalignment of the stars is allowing it to happen now has me buried in dusty old books and star charts written by long dead heretics.

Then again, it could be an invasive plant… something new in the area. The dogs and I will be very busy this spring investigating. And of course reports will have to be made on the nature of the hybrid monster spawn. It’s doubtful Lucifer will want them culled, his monsters are useful to him.

Thus I was engaged in planning a reccy on the spring forest’s flora and fauna when loud sobbing reached my ears. The dogs whined. I probably did, too. Melodrama has a deleterious effect on my cool. We got up, opening the door and peering down the steps. A woman in one of those t-shirts that had a grainy family photo screen printed on the front was walking slowly, step by weary step up the hill with a wad of tissue clutched in her hand. Cradled in her other arm she held a three ring binder. Expensive bag over her shoulder. Trendy boots. I couldn’t see that far, but I knew there was a golden chain around her neck with each of her children’s first initials done in diamond pendants.

She scream sobbed again and the dogs unleashed a klaxon of howls in response. She looked up. I waved.

“Mind the noise, will you? We have sensitive ears.”

Her shoulders slumped. But she did make it the rest of the way without further theatrics. At the door I motioned her in and sat her down.

“Please help me,” she croaked.

“A death in the family?” I teased.

“It may as well be.”

“I’ll need more than that… Susan?”

Her eyes widened. I snort-laughed, her name was etched into her watch band.

“It’s my twins. They’re starting college in the fall. And my youngest will go next year.”

“And? You’re against higher education? Or wait, is it elites? Not elites as in filthy rich, just.. educated people? Had a few of those lately- people against education, not elites, whatever that means. Having lived through very uneducated times- as in leechcraft, wandering uteruses, and drinking piss to cure literally anything that ails you- I can say with certainty that an educated populace benefits everyone.”

One of the cats chuckled from under my reading chair.

“Well, no. None… of that. I just don’t want them to leave. I need them around. What am I going to do without them? I’ll be lost.”

“Have you considered a hobby?” I turned to the dogs, “I feel like I suggest that a lot.” They barked in agreement.

“They are my hobbies.” She plopped a three inch three ring binder down on the table. The cover was plastered with family photos and a banner with the current year. I opened it hesitantly, surely there was some kind of horrid saccharine magic inside. It was very… cute. Many, many pictures of three nearly grown children doing literally everything from brushing their teeth to doing homework. Everything presented as a big, incredible event. She must follow them around all day with her camera. I took a deep breath. I closed the book.

“No. They’re your children. Children are an obligation, a hobby is a choice. Big difference. And it is healthy to have your own interests.”

“Well who has time…”

“You make time. You could stop doing, whatever that is, for example. Because that is way too much.” I indicated the binder.

“Please, don’t be ridiculous. There’s no time. You cook, you clean, you drive them where they need to go, you keep their sports and band uniforms fresh, you keep their homework calendar for them, help perfect their assignments, plan outfits, arrange social schedules-“

“Hang on, your children are teenagers? I’m confused.”

“Yes, they’re teenagers.”

“And you plan their outfits and keep their homework and social schedules?”

“Yes, why are you making that face?”

“Lady, those children are going to be useless out in the real world.”

“Which is fine. I don’t want them out there anyway. I want them with me.”

“You need a therapist.” Another constant refrain.

She huffed, “I need therapy because I love my children?”

“You have let them subsume your identity. You don’t exist apart from them. It’s a codependence. They don’t know how to function without you, you have no personhood outside of them. Not healthy. I don’t know what you want from me anyway. You’ve ensured they’ll fail at college, they’ll be back after a semester.”

Fresh tears sprang to her eyes and she shook her head. “Last month the twins read an article about helicopter parenting. They showed it to their little sister, all three of them are taking back their schedules, cooking their own meals, they dress themselves and I hate what they choose. My twins did their own taxes this year! Their dad is ‘so proud’! They’ve demanded driver’s licenses!” She collapsed in sobs onto the table.

“You want to die?” My spring murder mood lasts at least until June, it’s got to be pollen related. Or I suppose it could be fungal, I don’t know.

Susan sat up, aghast. “Of course not. I want them to be dependent on me again.”

“They outnumber you, it won’t work.”

“It has to. I can’t live like this. I don’t know what to do. What do I do when they cook their own dinner? Sit and stare in to space? It’s so stupid what they’re doing.”

“Did I already mention a hobby?”

“I can’t even imagine what I would do. There’s nothing I enjoy outside of taking care of my kids.”

In a way I felt sorry for her. They were young and still had very plastic brains, their frontal lobes were still developing. It’s easy to learn a new way of life then. Susan on the other hand, well she could of course learn to live happily as an empty-nester, but it was going to be harder on her. It’s hard to step out of a cage you’ve built for yourself. You built it for a reason after all. That and my plan would kill her and free the children. It seemed like the right thing to do.

“I don’t think you’re going to survive this. Do you still want to proceed?”

“I won’t die, my children love me.”

They probably did, but they were still definitely going to kill her. I stood and went to my freezer. I keep spider plant rhizomes for just this kind of situation. Think of rhizomes as plant umbilical chords, connecting a mother plant to its babies and you’ll see why. I pulled one out of the bunch and turned back to her.

“This is Chlorophytum comosum, if you eat it, it’ll cause an umbilical chord to grow from you to each of your children, maybe also your husband if you treat him the same way you do them. Pets seems to be exempt, fortunately. Still want to do this?”

“You mean a metaphorical umbilical cord?”

“Oh no, I mean a real fleshy thing. They aren’t going to be able to leave the house unless you do, even then it’s going to be tricky. People will definitely stare. You’re all going to have to wear button up shirts all the time… But, they’ll also be permanently, physically tethered to you, which is why I said they’re going to kill you.”

“I want it. I want it right now.” She grabbed for the frozen bundle in my hand. I pulled it back.

“Three-hundred dollars.”

“Oh right, of course.” She pulled out the cash and we exchanged goods. She couldn’t get out the door fast enough, bless her.

Over the next few days we watched things play out in the obsidian ball. Susan gobbled the rhizome on her way down the mountain. By the time she got home there were four little umbilical nubs poking out of her belly. I was right, I guess, that she treats her husband the same way as her kids. She managed to keep the growing umbilical chords hidden under baggy clothes by wrapping them around her and taping them down. At least for a few days. But they needed to attach, it’s their entire purpose. And hers too. It happened on Saturday morning, the family was all sitting around the breakfast table eating and discussing the day’s intended activities. Susan had her arm wrapped tightly around her stomach as she ate.

“Mom, are you ok?” Her daughter asked, sipping her coffee. Which Susan definitely hated.

Susan grinned and began to laugh. “I have a surprise for you all. I think you’re going to love it.” She lifted her shirt up.

“Mom!” Her twin boys shouted in unison. Four slithery wet flesh snakes lept out from her belly toward their intended victims. The twins were fast and dodged. Her husband was less lucky, still sitting in his chair in horror as the umbilical chord meant for him ripped through his shirt and into his skin with a single sharp tooth at its tip. Latching was instant. His eyes were wide.

“Susan, what is this?”

“So none of you can leave me.”

The umbilicals had already located and latched onto the kids by this point. Her family stood around her in the kitchen like little plant babies tethered to their mum.

“Now let’s all sit down and finish breakfast. This doesn’t have to be such a big deal.”

“We can’t leave the house!” Her sons yelled.

“How am I supposed to shower? I have a date tonight!”

“Oh kids, don’t you see? You’ll be so much happier without school and dates, when it’s just us and no stress or drama from the outside world.”

“Susan, I have to work…”

Susan looked over at her husband. There may have been some logistics she overlooked, but they would find ways to overcome any challenges, they had love. But looking around at her family now, it wasn’t love she saw in their eyes, it was horror.

“Please, just sit and eat breakfast,” she begged. “I promise this will be a good thing for us.” The wet, pink umbilicals, wormy and twitchy, stretched out across the kitchen. The family stood, eyes moving silently from one to another. Susan’s daughter acted first. With one swift movement she grabbed the meat cleaver from the the knife rack and chopped her umbilical, freeing herself. She slid the knife over to her brothers who were free in a matter of seconds. Susan screamed. Wailing as the vermiculate tethers writhed on the tiled floor, clear jelly oozing out everywhere. She dropped to her knees and caught the knife as the boys slid it to her husband. She stood and slashed at him in rage, he dodged, but came up hard against the refrigerator, threatening to topple the precarious stack of baking pans atop it. She swung again, her daughter rushed forward, thrusting her dad’s umbilical in the path of the knife while her bothers pulled him to safety. Susan stood with the cleaver in her hands, her daughter held the severed flesh leash.

“You killed me,” she whispered hoarsely and dropped to her knees. The umbilicals shriveled and shrank back into her body, leaving only a small scar on her belly.

An autopsy determined her cause of death was an aneurysm. And the kids are alright, by the way.

There is no more grating time of year than spring. All the things happy to be alive and feeling randy about it. The profane exuberance of it is just galling. Does nothing on this planet know how to be inwardly joyful? Too bright, too loud, the air is thick with pollen and spores… I hate it. And still, I feel the vernal pull, dragging me out into the world, into the soil, with its sun-kissed grappling hook.

Such ballocks.

In other words, I’ve been planting: seeds, eggs, bones, severed hands, beetles, a man’s head, jars of ill intentions, all the various things that must be planted this time of year. Some I’ve watered with the blood of living, some with the blood of the Earth, some with tears. I was, in fact, watering the new poison ivy vine I’d planted for a garden trellis when I felt a dim presence wandering up the hill. I walked to the steps and looked down. A figure seemed to flicker below, growing more solid whenever a cloud covered the sun, then vanishing again in the spotlight.

Almost no energy wafted up to me, but there was enough to catch some hints as to his troubles. Namely something about Christopher Marlowe, the old English playwright. I hadn’t thought about Kit in years. I knew him, back when Elizabeth I was queen and things were- well let’s just say she ran an excellent surveillance state.

Odd though, this shifting figure making his way up to me should be so consumed with an old Elizabethan writer that he had lost his very substance to him. Or to someone else obsessed, perhaps. I was beginning to piece together a theory. By the time the poor specter of a man had finally made his way to me, I knew exactly what had happened, but as usual, I’d need to hear it from him. Difficult as that was going to be.

“Come in, please. You’ll be more substantial inside,” I said to the middle-aged man, so diminished in energy that I could see the forest through him, like looking through cheesecloth full of entrails. His voice was a mere whisper, he hung his head as he shuffled past. Once inside, he gained a little solidity and I could actually hear what he said, although just barely. I sat him down with a cup of strengthening tea for the story I required of him.

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Winter is fierce this year. Storms are relentless and brutal. Traffic on the mountain is sparse, I haven’t seen a client in a month. Not that I mind, it’s been a welcome respite. I’ve processed all the fall trimmings from the poison garden and have put several batches of toxic cookies in the freezer. This morning, I was spinning Draceana trifasciata fibers into thread when a sweet, heady smell like chocolate and cinnamon crept into my senses. The scent slithered through my body, flicking and licking inside until I couldn’t sit still anymore. I knew what it was, but sitting with the anticipation, trying to ignore it for the pure pleasure of delay was a sweet sensation all of its own.

The Hoya’s were blooming, quite out of season. Finally I stood and stretched and walked to their window. Domed balls of wax-like flowers hung from the plants, having grown and bloomed, I presume, over night. Sweet, fragrant sap dripped to the floorboards. I put down bowls to catch it, but I still haven’t tasted it. Not yet.

First, a story.

There was, once, a man of God in my life. Centuries ago, when I was but a whelp, as they said back then. He was our parish priest. At the time, still the Middle Ages, celibacy was encouraged by The Church, but not enforced and many priests kept a female servant, or hearth woman, who was also a sexual partner. My mother was employed by our parish priest, if you can call it employment. She kept his parish house clean, did his laundry and cooking, let him use her, he paid her a pittance for the abuse and allowed us both to live with him. My mother also did laundry for neighbors and I spun wool for the priest. He had a modest flock that he didn’t trust me to look after, so a young servant boy lived with us, too. He was a mean and miserly man, we were always hungry for his temperament frequently caused tithes to miraculously spoil on the way to church. Many were the clumsy parishioners who stumbled on the road and dropped sheathes of barley intended for the priest right into the mud, stomping on them a time or two for good measure, before picking them up, shaking them off, and continuing on.

Even now, so many centuries later, I can see his face, gaunt and always with spittle frothing at the corners of his mouth. I can see the icy eyes that stared out from a soul kept behind bars, a soul frightened of the monster that had imprisoned it. Not a demon, mind you, worse, a pious heart. A heart blackened by the holy fire of his god. His boiling, virtuous blood whispered to him as it rushed through his veins, “those I love, I rebuke and discipline” “they must repent or perish” “spare the rod, spoil the demon in her” “I did not come to bring peace on Earth, but a sword.” These things he said also unto me, frequently.

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While I’m not a huge fan of using poppets in magic, I do spend the cold winters sewing and stuffing a few to have on hand. Why don’t I like them? They’re dull. Tired. Too easy. Stuff some hair or nail clippings into the doll, say a little spell and poof, anything I do to it happens to its live counterpart. Where’s the challenge? Some customers, namely the really sadistic and unimaginative ones, like them, so I do make them, but I only use them when a customer insists on having one and won’t be dissuaded. And of course, they always ignore the “think before you torture” warning. Hot tip, you can still get arrested when the person closest to you dies suspiciously and you collect a huge life insurance pay out, even if the cops aren’t sure exactly how you did it.

Cursed plants, on the other hand, are more my style. No one suspects them because normies have no imagination, and they look more and more beautiful the worse the target’s life gets. It’s much more nuanced magic. It’s not just a broken leg or mysterious bruises showing up out of nowhere, it’s losing your keys, the refrigerator breaking down, the bank somehow not processing your mortgage payment, a persistent stomach ache, the sound of a dog barking incessantly somewhere but you can’t figure out where. It’s a maddening cacophony of little things that pile on and drive a person insane. And all the while, they don’t know it’s the plant quietly growing and flourishing in a corner. The one thing going right, is the one thing causing all the suffering. Some people will keep the plant for decades! They even will these curses to family members when they die. Show me a poppet with that kind of staying power. You can’t. And different plants will have different curse flavors, like brining only financial woes, or perhaps you’ll consistently forget the names of people around you, maybe you’ll have trouble with your feet all your life, could be kidney trouble, or you might develop an unhealthy obsession with balloon animals that ruins your life. It’s really a much more intricate and delicate method of torture. Nothing like the crude cudgel of a poppet.

As coincidence would have it, I was begrudgingly sewing poppets by the fire the day this client appeared with a particularly cursed and apropos request. She came trudging up the steps around midday, casting so benign a merry spinster aura that the dogs didn’t even stir from their naps. She wore season appropriate clothing, which is usually a good sign, but not always, and carried a backpack on her back. I could sense no intention drifting up the hill, instead, there was a subtle chorus of whispers that could have been wind through leaves were it not the dead of winter. I listened and could discern three distinct voices.

A troubling colloquy. But it did remind me to get the defrost tea brewing. I set her cup on the table just as she knocked. I opened the door to a cheery, cherry-cheeked smile and perfectly followed instructions for divesting of outerwear.1 It should have been a refreshing change of pace but horrors lurk in the hearts of the outwardly merry, believe me.

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Routines are a curious thing. Some people can only survive with schedules humming and surprises, even good ones, kept to a chilly nil. To others, routine is curse, a Sisyphean drudge-stone of panic inducing obligations. But routines, rituals, cycles, these are the lifeblood of the forest witch. Living mostly off the land as I do, I must bow to the cycles of nature in order to survive. My seasonal schedules are sacrosanct, my rituals keep me in touch with my dark lord and keep my power flowing. And all of this routine living ensures I am ready for whatever surprises come hiking up my hill. Do I like the surprises? Not usually.

It’s December on the mountain. Not yet the solstice but that long, dark night is creeping closer. The snow is deep, we’re confined to the cabin and outbuildings. Many lives are wrapped in seasonal slumber. Early winter is a time of processing for me. Gathering what I’ve dried and preserved during the summer and mixing potions, and poisons. This particular day on this particular December I was bottling and labeling dried insects harvested during the summer. It isn’t common knowledge I’d imagine, eye of newt and tongue of frog being as well known as ingredients as they are, but arthropods are quite important in the potion business. Take moths, for example, these are used in necromancy spells, as they symbolize death and transformation. On the lighter side, butterflies are good for contacting ancestors and loved ones. Bees are useful for divining and prophecy. Beetles, depending on the species, have many functions in magic and, well I could go on, but I have a story to tell.

As I said, bottling bugs. The dogs were out on patrol, monsters rarely hibernate, but one of the cats was up in the window watching big fat plumules of snow slow fall and settle. She started chittering, I looked up to see her with a paw against the pane.

“What is it, Agnes, a squirrel in an overcoat?”

She looked sharply at me, Agnes is not one for jokes. I stood and stretched, bug sorting can be a little on the tedious side, especially if the ant species get mixed. I put a kettle on and went to the window. Some poor dear in a fur-lined parka was trudging up the steps. I opened up my senses and tried to feel their intentions. Intentions travel slower in cold air, though, and they hadn’t made it far enough up the steps yet. So I waited, standing in the window behind Agnes while the fire crackled.

The defrost tea was steaming on the table when a knock thumped through the cabin. I answered to find a middle aged woman in middle aged woman garb, faux-fur lined parka in light gray, cashmere sweater in dark pink, and brand name jeans. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that her Uggs were not coming back from this trek unscathed. The costs of magic are steep. I tapped the sign by the door, the one that says to take off all your winter shit before you step inside. She huffed.

“I don’t want it to get stolen.”

“By whom, my dear? Did you see a lot of other people milling about on your way up here?”

“You never know.”

“I know. Take it off outside.” I slammed the door in her face. Possibly I was stiff and a little grouchy from separating the ant species, fortunately my own tea was done steeping. A nice simple mint green tea I always drink for a mood refresher. A few minutes later she knocked again and I ushered her inside to her seat. She looked at the tea.

“It’s ok, it’s just to warm you up. I’m not going to drug you and steal your outerwear. Pinkie swear.”

“You make me sound like a nut.”

I closed my eyes and took a sip of my own tea, inhaling the mint into my very soul. Thinking less irritable thoughts. Wondering why introspection wasn’t taught in schools.

“It’s good,” I heard her say through my happy thoughts of little children solemnly analyzing their behavior on the play ground. I guess I took the ball because I wanted to play but I was afraid to ask if I could, Ms. Wilson. Imagine the well adjusted adult that child would grow up to be….

“Are you going to talk to me?” She sounded hesitant. I opened my eyes.

“Of course. Angela, is it? Tell me your problem.”

“You know my name, don’t you already know my problem.” Her eyes were wide.

“I do, but you telling it to me will provide much needed nuance.” I really should just put that on a sign outside, too.

She sighed. Poor dear, I was shattering illusions left and right.

“I’m bored. I’m sick of my routines. Sick of doing the same things every day. Sick of being me.”

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Gods how I hate having to go into town. It’s difficult to express how much I hate the concentrated scent of humans in close quarters. I’m fairly self-sufficient in terms of food, but I have to pick up my mail at the post office rather than have it delivered as masses of dead postal workers littering my mountain is not a problem I want to deal with. So every two weeks I hike down to my truck and bump my ass two hours down the mountain to town, when the road is clear anyway.

This particular run would be my last until spring. Rain tugged at the sky and the roads were slippery and sloppy, but I had a few essentials to stock up on, and several packages, so the trip had to be made. I could tell by the way the rain slid in snaking rivulets along the road and down the windshield that something was going to happen in town. I would have preferred an uneventful trip, but when you live in these parts, uneventful doesn’t really exist.

I should mention that I use the term “town” loosely. This is more of an accretion on the Earth’s surface. Structures so old they very well may have been laid down by some ancient, giant microbes excreting what could be called wood and concrete, if you’re being generous. There are five buildings: a post office, a mechanic, a general store, a coffee shop (in the loosest sense, they do serve something approximating coffee and legend holds that one day many years ago they served croissants), and a Forest Service station. These serve the approximately sixty residents spread all throughout the nine million acre forest here, not to mention the occasional adventurer. It is beautiful land. Can’t blame folks for wandering this way. That’s not to say I wouldn’t get rid of them all if I could, because I definitely would.

I stopped by the general store first, loaded everything in the truck and then drove down the street two blocks to the post office, a small, squat building painted a weathered blue, it definitely looked like it had been there since the Archean. There were two other pickups parked out front, rotten luck. It was drizzling rain by that time and a fog had settled in, the kind of weather that makes life feel muffled and entombed. My favorite kind of weather, truth be told. Like Mother Earth has wrapped you in a protective shroud.

The Post Master was a guy called Mac, ancient, small, wiry, I’ve always assumed he’d bite if provoked. He stood at the counter, helping a man they called Crisco. Why he was called Crisco I neither knew nor wanted to know. There was one other person in line already, someone I hadn’t met before. He was tall, bearded, and had a heavy, grim brow. I took my place behind him. Mac nodded to me, I nodded back. Best to be polite to the chihuahua guarding your mail. The man in front of me turned.

“You new here?”

“Nope.”

“Never seen ya before.”

I shrugged. I don’t explain myself. “Never seen you before either.”

“Where abouts do you live in the range?”

“West.” The Range, is what we all collectively referred to our little mountain range as. It does have a name, most of us never use it.

“Kinda broad, care to narrow it down?”

“Nope.”

“Huh.” He scratched at his bristly neck as I watched Crisco vacate the counter.

“Next!” Mac barked.

“Huh,” grim brow grunted again. I watched him stalk up to the counter and nod curtly at Mac. I had gleaned a bit about him from his aura as we spoke; he lived in the north part of the range, had definitely written a manifesto, and was hiding from someone. Which explained his curiosity. Must be a little dash of paranoia mixed in with the dandruff on his coat. I stepped forward to the worn duct tape line on the dingy linoleum and glanced at the clock. The fluorescents hummed. I definitely wanted to get back to my cabin before dark. Or before the dread pall of this place seized my heart.

My ears perked up.

“It was supposed to be delivered today,” the bearded man shouted.

“I don’t control the weather!” Mac barked back.

“Not rain or sleet or whatthefuckever. Isn’t that what you say?” The big man leaned over the counter, towering over Mac. The Post Master poked a hand up into his chest.

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Had a funeral on the mountain this morning. Haven’t had to do that in a long while. It’s nice though, a little ritual, a little solemnity. A very little, this corpse’s animating spirit will not be missed. She’ll be welcome in Hell, though, a new lackey for the upper demons. And a fitting afterlife for her, indeed. Chrissy was a client a few years back. She’d antagonized a fellow witch (actually she’d thrown garbage at the ninety-year-old woman for being late on her HOA payment), a weaker one, who’d cursed her husband in return. The pair ended up here, where I cured her husband, and turned Chrissy into a rabbit. The dogs chased the unpleasant woman/rabbit into the woods.

I thought being forced to live as a small, quiet, herbivore would mellow her out, but no, it made her worse. Quite an aggressive little creature, continually harassing the other monsters on the mountain, ankle biting, squealing incomprehensibly at all hours of the night and day. As I understand it, she came upon a dogman (I have a few on my mountain) eating a deer and tried to fight him for it. He threw her into a tree. She didn’t survive. He then tried to eat her, but apparently her meat was too bitter. And then her little bunny corpse started shouting in her old human voice about all the indignities done to her in the forest. She was a real pain, I guess. So much so that the dogman and a cadre of other monsters dumped her at the dogs’ feet and insisted they bring her to me. And I absolutely agreed that she needed a proper burial. Sweet devils what a noisy sack of meat. Now, by proper burial I don’t mean a typical burial. I mean a ritual burial.

When the boys dumped her on the porch I brought her inside and cleansed her body with rosemary oil and salt. This would remove any negativity from the other monsters from of her, and I thought might calm her down. It did not. She complained the entire time. Rehashing wrongs done to her from the time she could walk straight up until the present. I can’t say that I’ve ever come across another person who had such a fixation with perceived personal injustice. In reality, her life was very privileged, even more so because she was such a bully.

But I digress.

I washed the body in rosemary oil and salt (which you can also do if you’re alive and want a nice negative energy cleanse). From here the body gets treated a little like the vampires of old. Not the vampires with the fetish nightclubs, the bloated ambulatory corpses who drain life energy or feed on meat instead of blood. Old school vampires. I made a comfy little box out of pillows and pinewood. Which, by the way, she hated. ”There’s no silk lining! This is not a casket! I require a proper casket! Where are all the mourners? There should be HUNDREDS!” And so on and so on and so on… Once she was laid in the box I opened up a bag of rice and dumped it in a silver bowl. Then I added bleach, and spoke the following:

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The heatwave had finally abated and I had focused my energy on getting ready for winter the day I met this most unpleasant client. Fall is always busy, with harvesting, freezing, and canning to do, of course. Winterizing the chicken coop and goat barn as well. So much to do, but I love all of it. Fall and winter on the mountain are my favorite. The colors, the cool air, the slow death of it all. It’s beautiful.

I had gone out to the garden to pick tomatoes and had come across a strange visitor. Some kind of caterpillar, but not like any I’ve seen before. Well not exactly. In form it was basically like an inchworm, with legs at both ends, but none in the middle. And it held on to a tomato stem with its hind legs, holding its body out like a twig, just like an inchworm does, although, its camouflage was lacking as the bug was sort of midnight blue.

Generally, I feed pests to the chickens, but here is where things went… awry. When I went to grab the thing, it bit me. Inchworms don’t bite. The bite was bad, too. Took a chunk out of my finger. I went inside and drank a Cure All just in case. Never can be too sure and this potion covers the basics, plus some outlier poisons and toxins I’ve come across more frequently than I’d like. I headed back outside better prepared, with gloves, a bug net, and a collection jar. Once the little monster was secure, I took it inside for closer inspection.

It was very angry.

It was hanging onto the twig I’d put in the jar and waving its body wildly at me. I needed a magnifying glass to get a good look at its mouth, it frothed pink as it worked its jaws, drooling blood. Very unpleasant little thing with very big teeth. I plopped a bit of raw chicken into its new home, it instantly forgot its fury and lunged at the meat, devouring it quickly. I gave the dogs a look as the now bloated thing seemed to curl up on the bottom of the jar for a nap. Leaving the jar, I’d just gone to my little library to look for a book on insect monsters when the dogs started barking and scratching at the door to get out.

I looked out the window, a very nondescript, middle aged fellow was making his way up the steps. A little pudgy, a lot of hair sort of sticking straight up off his head. Something was definitely not right about him. The caterpillar would have to wait. I settled the dogs down, they didn’t need to chase him off, just escort him and be on guard, and opened the door.

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August is always the hottest month on the mountain. The pine needle carpet gets so red and crispy it feels like a sharp word could ignite it. The air hums with dry static. We, the dogs and I, weather it with frequent trips to the creek, it’s glacier fed and always a welcome treat. Most of the time we only encounter other mountain creatures, each of us minding our own business. Witches and animals tend to have an understanding. But this summer has been exceptionally hot and that brings less typical mountain residents out of hiding. Namely, the many monsters I’ve trapped there. Keeping the monsters in check is what the dogs are trained for, but even they can be caught by surprise when one of their wards wanders out of its usual haunt looking to cool off.

As happened on the day this particular client was also making her way up the mountain. I had made a little dam in the creek so it would be deep enough to swim in and was up to my neck in my shiver-inducing pool. My limbs were just starting to go numb, it was lovely. The dogs were closer to the shore, rolling and wrestling in the icy shallows when they both straightened up and leapt out of the water. They stood there dripping and watching the opposite bank intently as I made my way over to them and stuck my feet in flip flops. The creek at this point is rather wide for a creek, maybe forty feet across, but is generally not too deep. I was thinking about this, and how easily it could be crossed as I followed the dogs’ gaze across the water, shading my eyes with my hand. I smiled.

“Oh, hello!” I waved. The creature had been standing up to its ankles in the cold water but shrank back to the bank as I spoke. Which was fair, I suppose, it had once been a woman, but I was responsible for taking that form away from it. The woman in question had been a serial killer, she’d come up my mountain seeking a place to shelter until police had given up the hunt for her. But then she met me. I turned her into something slightly less threatening, not harmless of course, nothing is harmless, but certainly incapable of answering a singles ad in the paper. She got the ignominious end she deserved, as I saw it, seeing as she’d murdered several of her own children. I turned her into a teddy bear. Human sized, but devoid of any teeth or claws. I left her her drive to kill, but gave her no easy means of accomplishing the task. She was still her greedy, narcissistic, murderous self, just, in a fluffy prison. To the dogs she was just another monster. To me she was… kind of hilarious.

“How are things, Belle?”

Her mouth was little more than a line of stitching, she couldn’t speak. Her fur was matted and dirty and her black button eyes looked blankly in my direction. I could see her nubby fluff stump hands ball up with tension.

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