Spring comes late in the mountains. In March we’re still covered in snow. Which is fine, with no gardening and little foraging, I get a lot of reading done. I have time to test out new spells, doom scroll, and then come up with more new spells. It’s never slow on the business end up here, though. People come plodding up my mountain even when the snow is waist deep and frostbite is a real possibility. I have a good tea for the frostbite, but there are days I could do without the assholes.
This is one of those stories. I was knitting, actually, and listening to a podcast about medieval leechcraft when the dogs perked up. They scrabbled to their feet and stretched and went to look out the window, fogging up the glass with their dog breath. I went to stand by them, it was early still and the light was good, but I couldn’t see what they sensed at first. Eventually a small red dot came into view. I went back to my chair, it was going to be a while before whoever that was made it all the way up the hill. The dogs had the same thought and were soon back on their pillows by the fire.
After a few more rows of knitting I started hearing a voice. I’d only seen one person coming up the hill so I stood and went to the window again. A person talking to themselves isn’t always a red flag, but it sure can be. Possessions, dissociations, persistent parasitic twins, I’ve seen all of those in my day. Dissociation is a lot more common now days than possession. There are reasons for that. The point of possession from a demon’s perspective is to get at an exorcist, once the Vatican figured that out, they started allowing fewer exorcisms. Yeah, it led to some people dying, but no god ever turns down a sacrifice, so no big deal. Possession is a war of attrition. A really stupid war of attrition because demons can’t die. Exorcists can, though. So even if an exorcist wins, they don’t win. They just close one door and have to guess which of the eight billion other doors on the planet the demon will open next. It’s a losing game from the Vatican’s POV. So they stopped playing, except for a few extreme circumstance. Now days demons have to find other ways to get at holy men… That is entertaining fare, but out of the scope of this story.
Dissociation though, that’s all in a person’s head. Life gets too rough for the core personality, and it splits, forming alternate personalities to protect the core personality. We’re not always talking full on Sybil or anything, not usually. Just a sort of ephemeral other that sits in your brain and mirrors you throughout the day, sometimes wielding enough influence to change your direction. Sometimes, when things get too tough you slip into that other skin. You’re still you, it’s not a full split, but you’re in your invisible furry suit now and you can just ignore all those traumas happening around you. You happy forest bunny, you. This, I see a lot these days. This is really more of a therapist’s wheelhouse. If you ask me what to do about your despair over the state of the world, I’m going to show you to the nearest crossroads and tell you how to make a deal. Nothing feels as good as letting it all go and slipping into the Dark Lord’s fiery embrace.
But I was telling a story.
A man in a bright red snow suit had just reached the bottom of the steps, he held a selfie stick out in front of him and talked nearly incessantly into the cellphone camera. Pretty impressive considering he’d just climbed a mountain in waist deep snow. But also, who has that much to say while they’re climbing a mountain? I went to the kitchen and started the defrost tea.
Eventually, I heard his boots stomping on the wooden porch. A pause as he read the sign:
Take off anything wet or covered in snow. Hang it on the drying rack. Or my dogs will eat you.
And then, muffled, but still audible.
“What the fuck? My phone just died! I had battery left!”
I smiled to myself. It’s a little warding spell I have that kills electronics as soon as they hit my porch. Not mine of course, they still work, but I have zero desire to show up on some idiot’s social media feed.
I heard a knock after a couple of minutes of huffing and cursing. Then I opened the door to a twenty-something young man in jeans and a sweater, a fanny pack slung over his shoulder and a beanie on his head. The phone and selfie stick were clutched in his hands, his eyes were beseeching. I almost laughed, but managed to keep myself together.
“My phone died,” he said.
“My condolences. How can I help you?”
“How do you live up here?”
“Quite well.”
“It took me two hours of hiking through snow to get here.”
“RIP.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’d better really be what they said you were.” His dead phone chimed and his eyes lit up like motion sensor lights under a new moon. He held it up to his face, which then paled. “There’s a message from my Nanna.” He swallowed hard and put the phone in his fanny pack. “She died two years ago.”
“Reception is spotty, but when it’s good, it’s really good.” I moved aside to let him in, “What did she say?”
He huffed. “‘Get off your phone.’ She always said that when she was alive, too.” He stepped inside in his stocking feet and moved to the table I motioned him to, giving the dogs a wary glance. They showed their teeth.
“Your Nanna sounds like a wise woman. Too bad she kicked it.” I put a cup of tea in front of him and sat down. He looked at the tea, then up at me.
“To warm you up. I suppose I could poison you and steal whatever cash you have on you, but can you imagine burying a body in this snow? Jesus, the back ache I’d have.”
The dogs chuckled from their beds by the fire. A log broke and sent an errant spark flying through the room. He picked up the teacup and smelled it, then tasted.
“It’s really good,” he said with raised eyebrows. “I’m fucking freezing.”
“Now, Clayton, tell me why you’re here.”
“You know me from my videos.” It wasn’t a question, it was an assertion, with a smirk.
“Nope, I’m magic.” I nodded at him. He stared at me for a minute, then he set down the tea cup and closed his eyes. Rubbing his temples, before taking a deep breath and then pulling off his beanie and dropping it on the table with a flourish. He opened his eyes and looked up at me.
“What?” I knew, but I just had to ruin the moment.
“What do you mean ‘what’? Can’t you see? Are you blind?”
“See what? Turn around, do you have an embarrassing tattoo on your head or something?”
“Lady, I’m bald! Oh my God!”
Baldness is not a flaw, but I do get plenty of men at my cabin absolutely in a state over it. They don’t want to look old, get old, be old. No one does. I mean look at me. I’m- actually I don’t even remember how old I am anymore. But I don’t look a day over thirty. That said, I’m a witch, not a therapist, so I sell the cure.
“I see that. Is that your problem?”
“Jesus, yes! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Someone just got his price raised.
“I do have something for that, but it is very difficult to get and it ain’t cheap.”
“I make a shit ton of money online, I don’t care. I just want to be able to shoot a video without a fucking hat on. People leave comments about it all the time. Always speculating. Like, do they even have lives? Such fucking sheep. They’re so easy to bilk. I hate the way they talk about me. Fucking losers.”
“Are you done?”
“Quite the bitch witch aren’t you?” He smirked again.
I am not so petty as to freak out every time I’m insulted, but this guy was a real piece of work. Tempted as I was to lean forward and rip the stud out of his lower lip, I rose from the table and mixed a concoction from my cupboard, including way too much Dracaena trifasciata. I handed him the vial.
“Drink this exactly ten minutes before you hit record on your next video.” His next video was to be a live recording of a gaming event. I had seen it in the obsidian ball when I went to mix the potion.
He left. I was two grand richer for my troubles.
I watched his next live video. It was epic. Right on cue his head sprouted hair, growing out from under his hat and popping it off his head. Then his face sprouted hair, his neck, chest, arms, fingers, his tongue even! I had added some bristly oxtongue in hopes that would happen, but I hadn’t known for certain it would work. It was incredible. He had to stop talking and cut the video. He can shave all that hair off, but it’ll keep growing back. Even on his tongue. Can you imagine shaving your tongue? Can you imagine eating with a hairy tongue? I’ve made sure to write down this recipe for future use. Perhaps if I collect enough assholes, I could release them into my forest and start charging for Bigfoot tours.
Influencer boy will try to come find me again, he’ll want retribution. But he won’t be able to get back here. I live everywhere and nowhere. You can’t find me if I don’t want you to.
😂 For some reason I kept picturing Tim Pool as the influencer...it must have been the beanie!
I hope you anthologize these in a book some day...