The Coven of the Sacred Heart's Final Rite

"Double, double, toil and trouble..." Agatha rubbed her hands together and cackled, loud enough to send the birds squawking from a nearby oak tree.

"Could you be any more on the nose?" Jen rolled her eyes. Women like this perpetuated the myth of witchcraft as a group of warty-nosed hags dancing around cauldrons putting curses on people. It was bad enough that she was called Agatha: was she trying to be a cliché? Agatha pouted and perched atop a nearby gravestone, as if keeping herself upright was simply too much effort.

“Get up!” Jen hissed at her, eyes flashing; disrespecting a grave was frowned upon to a greater or lesser degree in all religions, but for a Wiccan on All Hallows Eve it was strictly verboten. And all they needed was for the spirit of – Jen squinted at the headstone – Karen Jenkinson (1956-2002) to sabotage their rites before they’d even begun. She should’ve known that Agatha would bring them trouble; all that cackling and black eyeliner as if she were a Disneyland rent-a-witch. If she didn’t even know basic graveyard etiquette, what hope was there? But the coven was low on numbers, so Jen had to take what she could get.

Jen – strictly Jennifer to her parents - had been elected leader of the Coven of the Sacred Heart a year ago, after their last (and most disastrous) Halloween debacle, and she was determined that this year’s ceremony should go to plan. For five years she had watched the coven’s more senior members bumble and fudge their way through Wiccan rituals making mistake after mistake. They were mainly thrice-a-year witches, with no real commitment and very little true understanding of Wicca. After Charlie had resigned last year, Jen had campaigned for leadership, making it clear that a vote for her would be a vote for commitment, discipline and action. Inevitably, many of the old guard had left after she won, reluctant to give up more than three evenings a year to the practice, but at least Jen knew that the members who remained were true to the cause.

Jen flicked her eyes towards the gate leading from Sacred Heart, impatient for the others to arrive. They had agreed to meet at 10pm and it was already five past. This was the most important date in the Wiccan calendar, and there was pressure to succeed after last year’s mess. If they didn’t turn up soon, there wouldn’t be enough time to set up and perform the rites.

Her phone buzzed. The coven WhatsApp group.

Running late, traffic on the bridge is murder. Be there soon xox

Jen let out a sigh of frustration. Every year she reminded the others about the Halloween parade, and every year they forgot until they wound up in the traffic jam. Since the three of them were all carpooling, Jen decided to get a head start on the prep and hope they arrived in time for the main event.

“Did you bring the candles like I asked?” Jen turned to Agatha, who was sitting cross-legged on the grass looking sullen.

“Of course, I’m not a moron. I can remember basic instructions.” Agatha responded, somewhat snippily.

Could’ve fooled me, Jen thought to herself, but smiled gratefully nonetheless: at least Agatha was here - and on time - she reminded herself, unlike the others. Agatha reached for her backpack as Jen walked away, pacing out the boundary that would form the magick circle. She had worked out the positioning of the circle a few days previously, ensuring it was 9 feet in diameter as set out in Buckland: this year, she was determined, nothing would go wrong. Her preparations had been meticulous. She reached out a hand to Agatha for the candles, four colours for the four elements, and placed one at each compass point of the circle. Of course they couldn’t be lit yet; the circle boundary could not be crossed once it had been activated so she would need to wait for the others to arrive first – if they ever did.  

As she bent down to place the final candle – red, for fire – she heard a scratching sound behind her. Just a mouse, Jen reasoned. She walked back to her bag, which she had left next to Agatha, to find that Agatha had disappeared somewhere. Jen figured she’d probably gone to take a selfie with the creepy sarcophagus next to the oak tree, and rolled her eyes at the thought. No doubt Agatha would be back once she had enough shots for her Instagram page, @witchplease. Jen opened her bag carefully, lifting the tiny folding table she’d packed along with the linens that would form the ancestor altar, and headed back towards the circle.  

She had just finished placing the altar when she heard the scraping of feet along the path from the church. Tonya’s mum was always nagging her about dragging her feet. Jen let out a sigh of relief as she checked her watch. 10.25pm. About time. She jumped to her feet, excitement beginning to bubble in her stomach now that this final hurdle had been overcome. This was going to work! Everything was going according to plan, and she felt a thrill at the idea of the evening’s potential.

As Jen looked towards the path, however, instantaneously the smile on her face fell.  It was not Tonya, but the figure of Agatha bearing down upon her, eyes unnaturally wide, legs shuffling like they’d recently relearned how to walk. In her hand, outstretched, was a shovel. As she came closer, Jen noticed that her mouth hung open, drool making trails in her thick layers of foundation as it slid down her chin. It might have looked comical, especially given the date, if Jen had not been so utterly and completely sure that Agatha was possessed by a spirit. And not in a good way.  

There had been rumours circulated by the older members that the coven was cursed and that was why none of their magick succeeded. The story went that a rival coven had taken revenge for a banishment spell cast on its leader, ensuring that the Coven of the Sacred Heart’s powers were broken and all spells cast would fail for three generations. Jen had herself thought it to be a convenient excuse for the ineptitude of Sacred Heart’s members (after all, why would you keep trying to perform spells if you knew they wouldn’t work?), but as she saw the vindictive shadow in Agatha’s eyes, she began to suspect that there might be some truth to the rumours.

It never occurred to her to run. She knew enough about the occult to know that if a spirit wanted to destroy you, it was going to succeed. No amount of outrunning could beat the undead. Better to die on her own terms, with courage, than to be cut down screaming in terror as she fled. She stood up straight and faced the figure lumbering towards her, only hoping that the others wouldn’t arrive in time to see her demise.

As the shovel slammed through the air towards her skull with superhuman force, Jen couldn’t help but feel more annoyed than scared. Why did this have to happen on her Halloween? She had planned everything so carefully, had done so much research, and was so sure that her rites to invoke protection and power would work. Her feet buckled under her and obliquely she felt herself crash to the ground. Maybe that was precisely why, she considered, with the last of her thoughts. She had done too good of a job.