The Witch People

It has been etched into the earth like some damned thing from a dream you had as a child.

You watch from the edge of the clearing, out of their site, your thin frame hunkered down in the trees. You think to yourself, this is it. This is where it will happen. This is where it is all going to come down, and your illusions of it will be shattered.

The Sabbath has begun.

And it is peculiar how natural it feels...

Chants and invocations.

The hint of fire and ash on the hillside.

Summoning and sacrifice beneath the light of the full moon.

See, you awake one morning, expecting nothing out of the ordinary. You wake to a morning just like any other. You awake believing the world we inhabit is a rational and sensible place. That the make-believe we read about and see on television stays on the television. You shut off your alarm. You pull yourself up. You dress. If you are anything like me, you are probably down to your last, clean shirt and blue jeans. Still, you take your coffee with a slight splash of bourbon, from time to time. And I bet you smoke two or three of the cigarettes you stashed away and swore off the week before, just as I do.

This, too, is perfectly natural.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

You comb your hair, wash your face, pick the lint from your belly button, and gargle vigorously. You may forget to floss your teeth. It happens. But, once you know you are ready for it, you will search for your keys, shut and bolt your windows tight, and walk out. You'll remember to lock the door behind you. Thinking, all along, this is... just another day. A day that will remain unchanged and identical to the last. The magic cannot exist here. It cannot survive in this routine. It has no foundation. Grocery stores... Restaurants... And check-out lanes... The only real wickedness we have is what we invent inside and most remain innocent to it. If it is any place, it is hidden away. Locked in some dark basement or wrapped in a bloody blanket, buried in the dirt beneath your feet.

"Off to chase more ghosts, Ricky?"

You immediately sense her sarcasm. It doesn't bother you much. You are used to it. Comes with the trade.

"No, not today," you say. "I'm off to the country. On a vacation of sorts."

This, of course, is a lie.

"Well, have a good one...," she says with a smile. "Love the car, by the way, Rick."

Yeah, thanks, bitch.

You pay her no mind.

It only becomes actualized and physically real when we allow it. Up until that point, it is an illusion. A pipedream. A fantastical notion of reality invented by children or grown men terrified of their own mortality. You remember the fascination you had with witchcraft and Ouija boards as a small child. For some of us, a hankering for a glimpse into that reality has been our only way out.

Like an angel in the dark.

Or a demon on the wing.

As you turn the key and ignite the engine, music floods the inner compartment of the automobile. You are listening to the same shit that you listened to when you were 16. But you could care less what people think. It still sounds good. It still means something.

My mother was a witch, she was burned alive.
Thankless little bitch, for the tears I cried.
Take her down now, don't want to see her face.
All blistered and burnt, can't hide my disgrace.

The bitch was right, by the way. You are after ghosts. You are after witches. Maybe even a little black magic.

And have been since you were 13...