The nightmare returned last night.
The same scene. Same shadows. The same silence pushes against my chest like a weight I can't move. It never changes. Not a single detail changes. It's like seeing a memory on repeat—one I don't recall having, but one that refuses to let me forget.
I awoke with tangled blankets about my legs and the taste of ash on my tongue.
It's Saturday, and the sun is already warming the windows, and I need to head to the Pagan Academy. Not that I mind. Today's lesson is on charms, and it's one of the few classes I've been looking forward to. My mother uses charms all the time around the house, but she has never allowed me to watch her make them. She claims that some things are best acquired through experience.
Charms are placed into every area of our home. My mother has no idea I noticed them, but I have. There's one over each doorframe, made of dried plants and bound with string. I recall the first time I saw one: lavender, dry, and brittle, hanging above the living room doorway. I assumed it was just decoration. I ripped it down and threw it outdoors.
My mother arrived home and lost her mind.
She frantically searched the house, demanding to know who had touched her charms. I never confessed. The following day, a new bound bunch of lavender hung in the same position.
Today, our professor moves from desk to desk, walking us through the procedure of casting a simple protective charm. We were instructed to bring a pendant, something personal, that we would wear every day. I brought a little silver crescent moon with a leather string. It used to belong to my grandmother.
The irony is not lost on me.
As we start to chant softly, our voices blend together like threads from the same cloth. The air begins to vibrate with energy, and for a brief time, I feel it—the enchantment, the tingling sense of electricity in my blood. The professor travels around the room, stopping at my workstation to inspect my charm, nod approvingly, and record my grade in her ledger.
Top of the class. Again.
It is not about pride. It's all about freedom. The better I perform, the sooner I will be able to practice unattended. No more waiting for approval. No more rules.
My mother made it known that if I wanted to attend a public college, I needed to continue my witch training. No excuses. There are no missed lessons. And I will not allow my "mundane life" to interfere with my responsibilities.
She pays the student loans. She determines the rules.
So I juggle both worlds: college during the week, the academy on weekends, and part-time work at the local bookstore in the meantime. It's a lot, but I can manage. The bookshop is my sanctuary, and the proprietor, Mr. Henderson, is almost like family. He allows me to borrow new releases before they hit the shelves. It's like having my own personal library.
My magical training focuses on white witchcraft. Healing, protection, and herbalism. I'm very skilled at producing herbal cures; however, they smell like something crawled out of a swamp. My favorite part of the day is when we chant together in class. There's something powerful about saying ancient words and feeling the energy around you react.
Learning more at the academy, I've realized there are some things I'd like to attempt but don't want my family to know. I've been practicing scrying in secret, concealing the bowls of water and black glass so no one would notice. Most days, it seems difficult to accomplish. The surface refuses to ripple with significance, and the shadows refuse to assume form. I look until my eyes ache, a dull throbbing spreads behind my temples, and the visions fade away. Frustration gnaws at me, yet I will persevere.
My grandma was an expert scryer; she could draw entire lifetimes from a single drop of ink. People claimed the gods themselves whispered through her mirrors. I can't let that legacy die with her.
Her name is Lottie.
She was once the pride of our coven, revered, sought after, and nearly impenetrable in her wisdom. People used to line up for her advice, bringing offerings and questions they were certain only she could answer. But then something changed. A shadow fell over her, slowly at first and eventually devouring everything. Visitors stopped coming. My mother stopped saying her name. And I stopped visiting her residence.
I used to pay her a visit every Wednesday. It was a tradition. She'd make tea, tell me stories as old as the stones, and help me sort through my nightmares. But one Wednesday, I approached her with a nightmare I couldn't shake. I don't remember the details anymore; she made certain of that.
It has been four years since I last saw her.
Not since the basement incident.
She told me she needed to look deeper. She escorted me down to the basement. I trusted her. I always had.
When I walked inside, the latch snapped shut. She began to chant in a language I didn't understand, and the air became so thick it burned my lungs. My head swirled, and the stone floor rushed up to meet me.
When I opened my eyes, I was lying in her guest bed, the covers moist from sweat. She told me I had fainted and that she was only trying to help me recall the details of the nightmare. Her speech was smooth and nearly believable.
But I knew better.
Something was gone. Not only do I remember what she did to me, but I could also feel the blank space it left behind, as if she had chiseled out a piece of me to keep for herself.
I never informed my parents. I never informed anyone. I never returned to her house.
My current pendant, the silver crescent moon, was hers. She gave it to me on my thirteenth birthday, saying it would keep me safe from "the things that live between dreams." I didn't comprehend what she meant. I still don't.
But I will wear it regardless.
My earliest memory of magic was considerably older. I was six. My sister and I were in the backyard looking for treasure. We had seen a show at school where a man smashed open a rock and discovered crystals inside. We were determined to discover ours.
We snuck inside Dad's shed via a hole in the back wall. After inspecting each tool, we determined that the hatchet was the sharpest. Ideal for cracking rocks.
We discovered a rock that was round, gray, and promising. When I reached for it, my sister swung the hatchet in delight.
I yelled at her to stop. She did not hear me.
It happened so quickly. I didn't feel it at first. Simply a strange numbness. Then I looked down and saw it: my finger, lying in the grass.
I did not yell. I did not cry. I just entered the house, blood trailing after me.
My mother greeted me at the door with panic in her eyes. She raced me to the sink, splashed cold water on the wound, and took out a jar of something thick and green. It smelled like death. She smeared it on the stump and chanted softly beneath her breath.
My dad drove me to the hospital. The doctor reattached the finger without difficulty. No pain. There were no complications.
Later, I realized the chant was a healing spell. The paste was a traditional family remedy. My mother had saved my finger, and possibly more.
That was the day I learned magic was more than just fiction. It was real. It ran through my veins.
Sitting here in the academy classroom, I feel the warmth of my newly enchanted pendant against my skin, and I wonder what else is hidden in my DNA. What additional secrets does my family keep?
Lottie's name still haunts my dreams, rasping through the darkness in a voice that isn't her own. Her eyes follow me even now, black and bottomless, with something old flickering behind them. I recall how she stared at me that day in the basement, her eyes bereft of love and devoid of humanity. She did not see her granddaughter. She saw prey. She spotted a vessel. She saw something she could unmake and claim as her own.
I believe she is the one who put it there. The nightmare is consistently the same.
A door. A voice. A choice.