I’d been interested in Wicca since college. I even did my final graduation essay on the Salem Witch Trials. Once I lived on my own, I started dabbling — silly little spells to bring in money, spells to find a boyfriend, spells to punish people who pissed me off. Nothing serious, but I enjoyed it.
When I moved back to Massachusetts, I got a bit more serious. I set up an altar in my room and burned candles and incense daily. I made my own spell book, researching new ones and trying them out. It kept my mind busy and out of trouble. I ordered supplies online and looked forward to every package like it was Christmas. Something new to try, another trick to add to my growing notebook of “spells.” It became a routine. If I didn’t need a spell that day, I’d leave thank‑you offerings on the altar — flowers, spices, whatever felt right. I teased my friends that they shouldn’t mess with me because I was a witch. I think they half believed it.
When Alex started having trouble with her boyfriend, I pretended to create spells to get him back. Witchcraft karma, in a way. I needed something to represent him, so I bought some voodoo dolls — cute, colorful little things with spiked hair and half‑formed faces. We chose one to represent Logan, and every day we’d stick pins in it or put it on the altar and weave spells around it, hoping he’d pay for abusing her. I think she believed it more than I did. She’d laugh when he lost his keys or hurt his back. She thought it was hilarious when he got diarrhea after dinner. We tortured that doll for a year.
When things started falling apart between Alex and me, the doll got shoved away and forgotten. No amount of witchcraft was going to fix what she did to Rowan and me. Witchcraft was a game, and I didn’t have the time or energy to play anymore. When Rowan and I escaped, all my witchy things were left behind in a box under my bed. I figured I’d get them later. They were just things.
But time passed, and the fighting between Alex and me got worse. She kept telling me she’d thrown out my belongings and I’d never see them again. I cared, but not enough to fight. They were just objects. I could replace them.
Then came the day she convinced me to meet her so she could return the belongings she’d supposedly put in storage. She handed me a box. Inside was a metal treasure box Avery had made me, full of letters, cards, and trinkets from my kids. My grandmother’s Bible was there too — something I’d cherished since the day she died. A few other items were tucked in, but one thing stopped me cold.
The voodoo doll.
Its hair was cut off. Its face was missing. But it was there.
It was as if mutilating it and returning it to me would somehow protect her from me using it on her.
LOL.
Like I told them before: never fuck with a witch.
Witchcraft was a game — but I was always better at it than they thought,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 