burnt.

It must be after midnight by now, the sun having left the sky hours ago and the flame of my candle barely hanging on. Its flickers allow me to periodically perceive the movement of my cat’s tail, which itself flickers slightly, notifying me of her presence at my feet. The air is cold, as November’s chill is starting to creep into my studio apartment.

I remove the hand-knitted blanket that was covering my legs and get up from my bed, clearly disturbing the furry creature that was sleeping soundly against my ankles. She makes a soft hissing sound, vocalizing her annoyance with little to no conviction, before laying her head back down on the blanket.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m not allowed to move when you deem me worthy enough of your presence to sleep next to me. I’m sorry Noire, Queen of the World, I whisper with an eye roll. Go back to sleep, I’ll be back before you know it.”

I don’t understand how she can sleep so peacefully right now. Doesn’t she understand that this is one of the most powerful moments of the year? First of all, it’s the night between the first and the second of November, when the portal between the dead and the living is open. Well, at least according to Mexican tradition. I’m not Mexican by any means so, I don’t know much about that but she’s a cat! Isn’t she supposed to see spirits or something?

Okay, maybe it’s only for the deceased remembered by their Mexican families… I heard that somewhere, but you know, don’t quote me on that. Noire probably doesn’t care about Día de Muertos anyways. But as a black cat, she should at least care about Witching Hour.

I certainly do.

I can never sleep between midnight and 3 in the morning. My friends call it insomnia, anxiety or just being a university student. That’s all well and good for the modern world, but it must mean more. I see it as a long tradition of witches staying up at night because they felt more powerful, because they were more connected to the spirit and magic worlds, and most importantly, because they felt safer in the darkness of the night, hidden away from the humans chasing them.

In all the confusion that the world can bring (what am I going to do after uni, how do I do my taxes without my parents, how can we save the Earth from burning up… to name a few of mine), one thing I am sure of is that the witches were right. There is something special about this time of night.

After midnight, I always feel invigorated, capable of anything, connected to something bigger than myself. I am all alone with my thoughts, and I love it.

While I’m starting the kettle – a rusty copper stovetop kettle that shrieks bloody murder when the water boils –, I choose a concoction for the night. Will I go for a blend of chamomile and lavender to soothe the nerves? Nah, my febrility could be of use tonight. Maybe guarana for a quick burst of energy? That might be too much… Ah! Ashwagandha, you are perfect. I’ve always felt like you were one of the witchiest ingredients, with your incantation-like name and your multiple properties. Tonight, I choose you.

The whistle of the kettle jerks Noire awake, making me cackle.

“Oh Noire, you never learn, do you? We do this every night, and you are still as jumpy as the day our paths crossed. It’s okay, I reassure her with slow pats between her ears, it’s only the water for my tea.”

While I wait for my tea to brew, my thoughts diverge back to the day Noire and I moved in. I loved the apartment, with its old stone wall and vintage appliances. In a world of copy-pasted white-on-white modern apartments, this was a gem. I could totally imagine all my plants, crystals and thrifted knick-knacks filling up the space beautifully. There was only one problem.

This place was haunted.

Or at the very least, it had “bad vibes”, a “creepy presence” or “weird energy”, as my friends pointed out.

So, I did what any normal 20-something girl would do.

I burnt sage every day for a week. I took out my great-grandma’s old spell book and asked the spirits to leave in broken Latin. I brewed potions with dried orange peels, cranberries and cinnamon sticks (it smelled divine BTW). I took my broom and “swept” the bad energy out onto the balcony.

I’m pretty sure I heard my neighbors calling me a freak, but I did not care at all. I needed this place to be my sanctuary, mine and Noire’s. 

And you know what? It freaking worked.

I don’t exactly know if it was the potions, the sage smoke or if by some miracle I read the Latin incantations right, but after a week or so, I just know the spirits got tired of my shenanigans and went elsewhere.

But tonight, I’m ready to invite spirits back in. They might not be ghosts, but they are terrifying.

The spirits I am talking about are the memories of the witches that came before me. The tortured, the stoned, the hanged and the burnt witches. The murdered women that came before me.

I curl myself up on my reupholstered armchair, the warm cup of Ashwagandha tea in my left hand and a gorgeous encyclopedia of the history of witch trials in my right. I find the page I last read and start back up with this statement:

Those accused of witchcraft were majorly middle-aged women living alone. Some had previously had husbands and children, but most were unmarried, childless and living with cats. The modern stereotype of the childless cat lady most likely evolved from the character of the witch, this lonely woman without family or friends, who was cast out by her community for being odd and preferring animals and books to marriage or human connection.

The image on the page depicts a woman with long curly hair and dark robes, surrounded by piles and piles of books, sitting on an armchair, with a black cat on her lap. I take a long sip to digest the irony of this image.

As I look down, I see the ends of my own long curly hair, swept across my midnight blue dressing gown. I smile. Wanting to put down my cup of tea, I realise what I use as a “coffee table” is a pile of books, not that different from the one in the depiction of the witch’s quarters. And to make matters worse, Noire meows her presence while jumping swiftly on my lap. I continue reading as I pet her black fur:

The women who spoke their minds loudly and did not follow tradition were immediate suspects. When women gathered, whether it was to drink tea and socialize or brew potions and cast spells, they could be accused of forming a coven of witches. This was a particularly difficult period for healers, as the origin of their abilities was questioned.

I quickly realise that as a literature student who does not ever envision her life including children or a husband (a wife, maybe, but isn’t marriage just leftovers from a deeply patriarchal society?), I am one of the women they would have accused of witchcraft. As a woman who deeply values her female friendships, as a woman who goes to rallies and manifestations for women’s rights, as a woman who brews teas and uses ointments, I am one of the women they would have called a witch.

I am one of the women they would have burnt.