Cursed

The news of her good friend and mentors car accident would rattle her enough to prompt the practicing Wiccan in to having an infrequent glass of Pernod, which she’d enjoy over ice, with a squeeze of lemon and a spoonful of sugar. The call came at 8:27 p.m. It was Friday, October 30^th and Gwendolyn McCaffrey; co-steward of the “Idabel Coven” was just putting the finishing touches on her famous “Red Velvet Devil’s Food” cupcakes. She wasn’t on the phone for more than three minutes, but those three minutes would be long enough of an opening for Gwen to cross through the doorway of Wiccan normalcy and end up at the feet of a Twilight Zone episode.

It was the day before the big “Samhain” celebration, the day before Halloween and the timing of Lenora’s accident and passing was nothing short of ominous—even for the veteran witches of Idabel. Her and the seven other members of her coven had just days earlier been joking about ways to freak out Griselda; the judgmental old Catholic lady that scowled and waved crosses in their direction whenever she could from her second-story window, across the street from the hole in the wall that they called their temple. Nora had teased about using moon magic to cast a seduction spell that would help old Grizzy exchange the stick up her ass for something less thorny. The joke was a hit, if not for the foreboding nature of Nora’s last words before departing the octet: “I’ll probably die in a car crash before that old bag sees another dick”— was the last thing she would say to her coven as a group.

After nursing the first glass, the second went down in half the time, and a slight buzz was slowly catching up to Gwen’s rapidly moving emotions. She was a divorcee in her early forties that got a kick out of the notion of being a “Milf” and to that end would some times allow strapping young men glimpses of her panties. The news paired with the Pernod made for a good night to call on Miles to distract her from her life at the moment, but the call would turn out to be the worse decision she could have made. His phone rang twice and after the second ring, a split second before the third, Gwen got the feeling of something being off. She ended the call without it having been answered and decided she’d just take a shower and turn in for the night.

She decompressed under hot water for twenty minutes and exited her bathroom to notice her phone blinking; indicating a message had been received. She figured that Miles was responding to her outreach and a shiver of anticipation percolated the hairs on her skin. The message was from Miles phone, but the words were not his:

“To whoever this is, I am sorry to inform you that my brother Julian “Miles” Durant has died this morning, a car hit him last night. Please allow my family and I a few days to organize and deal with…”

Gwen was in such shock that she almost collapsed right where she stood, never finishing the message. It took her almost two minutes to realize that she was not dreaming, that she had just received two death notices within two hours, and that the two people dead were both killed by motorized vehicles. Nothing about the motorized vehicle part bothered her, however, the fact that Nora was killed crashing in to someone driving a Volkswagen Tiguan; the same model of car that ran over Miles and that she herself had just sold only three months ago unnerved her slightly. Coincidences for sure to a non-initiate; but to a seasoned Wiccan practitioner there are no soft landings, no coincidences to hide behind; only omens, ominous as they may be.

The following morning, after an absinth induced if not good sleep, Gwen woke up suddenly, as though she’d been startled in a dream. It was 8:22 a.m. and her phone not only had no business ringing this early, but she was certain that she had changed the sound of her ringtone two day before. “I’ve been around the world, I’ve seen a million girls” was the AC/DC loop that Nora had loaded on to Gwen’s phone almost three months earlier, and hearing the second song off of the “Highway to Hell” LP after last nights ambush and knowing that she had changed it back to her old Judas Priest “Painkiller” drum intro was not helping her morning go well at all. 

She did her usual thing of allowing the call to go to voicemail where she could gauge its importance and thus need for response, but was rerouted by a second call right after. Again she allowed it to go to voicemail, and again another call, and another after her third attempt at avoidance. The fourth action from her phone was a “you’ve got a new message” buzz that was as chilling as a sudden spray of blood to the face. Whoever it was, they were apparently not going to leave her alone until she at least looked at her phone, which she finally did after a gulp and a sigh and a quiet plea for no more.

She girded herself for the worse but was awed by the deviance of her current karmic train wreck. “What did we do” was all she could think after seeing the message that came from her now decomposing mentors phone. 1FGB678, the license plate number of her now sold Tiguan, was also the plate number of the car that smashed in to Lenora’s Lexus RX some forty-eight hours prior, according to a texting widower. It was almost three years since the then three men and four women of the Idabel chapter had performed a spell copied out of the Codex Gigas, and while she herself had accepted that they might have misinterpreted parts of the ceremony since the desired effects did not seem to be germinating, Nora had always stressed that complex spells only worked when completely forgotten about, and someone was obviously still obsessing.

Halloween morning was usually a favorite for Gwen, but she was having a hard time not languishing over the upcoming absence that she’d have to manage as the newly crowned “solo” steward of her coven. Over oatmeal with raisins and peanut butter she drank coffee quietly, contemplating the past ten and next ten hours, almost certain that there was some kind of curse in play. It was 9:58 a.m.— exactly thirteen minutes after a blood-curdling scream, followed by screeching brakes and crunching metal that prompted Gwen to inspect the scene that had just detonated outside of her 1-bedroom condo.

She had been relieved to find no Tiguan at the scene, but relief was quickly cut in half when she noticed the limp, female body on the ground behind the cracked and curbed Lexus NX, halved again in to a quarter when she heard an EMT trying to get a response out of the bloody driver who’s name apparently was Miles. That quarter’s worth of relief then morphed in to a tower of dread when the paramedics finally removed the driver from his car; making Gwen have to find another angle to view the carnage from. It wasn’t the mangled body that subdued the last of her unflappability, it was what she read when the now-in-sight vanity plate assaulted her attention: “TakeOne” it read; like a smart aleck teenager trying to get away with “futhermucker” as an alternative to “dang”

Like a mother cougar finding a hiker between her and her cubs, Gwen was instantly and ardently on the defensive; someone had cursed her and her coven and it was time to strategize and organize. She stormed away from the gathered crowd of neighbors and could hear Nora’s voice in her head repeating the words “To neutralize dark and negative energy wear all black”. Once inside she tossed out the remains of her breakfast, went in to her bedroom closet and adorned her self from head to toe in pitch-black garbs— of which she had plenty. She painted her toes and fingernails in black and for a moment felt like she was Trinity from the Matrix trilogy, dressing up for battle. She couldn’t mock the out-of-nowhere gun-rack but packed her hand-stitched witches sack with three bushels of herbs from her crisper, a number of trinkets from various marked shoe boxes in her living-room closet and a purple notebook in which she kept witching notes and spells.  

She had been so caught up with the goings on, that she had completely forgotten that it was “Samhain” and that she had responsibilities to tend to, not to mention bad news to deliver. As that realization hit her, she found herself for the first time since the call, submitting to tears. Sadness would be quickly overcome by anger and her resolve to defend and retaliate swelled as she wiped away her twenty seconds of weakness. She reached Estevans’ voice mail when she called to spread the word and left a message detailing what she knew up to that point. Steve was a committed Wiccan and third in line as far as seniority within their clan. He’d be valuable if they were going to war as his hexing was recognized as elite— on an occasion causing a whole triplet of repeat vandals to come to their temple and beg forgiveness—citing that one contracted a previously unknown skin condition, another lost two front teeth in a bicycle accident and the third accidently burned down his parents house when he tried to punish a persistent rat with lighter fluid and flame.

According to traditions, Wiccans are generally peaceful and loving souls, but as any living being that feels under attack; fight or flight responses show up and there was no chance that Gwen was going anywhere; nor did she feel that any of her co-sorcerers, save one would go for that. As a group they were as bold and brazen as Nora’s oft-exposed D-cups— fueling an audacious nature that would become a defining characteristic of their fold. Gwen herself had never been vindictive or confrontational but the drums of Nora’s will to fight magic with magic was gradually increasing in volume. Her friend was dead, and without guilt Gwen was compelled to step up and become the witch that she knew her sister-at-spells would have been if the pointed she were on the other black-nailed foot.

Just over three hours had passed since the macabre episode; it was 1:19p.m when Gwen finally reached Luca after having called twice. He informed her that the message about Nora had gone out to the entire coven as far as he could tell, having already discussed the matter with his wife Lourdes and Steve earlier in the morning. Their cat Thackery passing as the result of a claw and fang fight with two stray dogs late the previous evening, paired with a package being delivered to their address that morning for a person called “Zackery Slate” steered their feelings on the matter towards conspiracy and had them both in a similar defensive mindset as the one Gwen was in. The trio was now a foursome all in agreement that counter measures where in order, prompting Steve’s current road trip to Hayworth. This magic was treacherous they all agreed, making a meeting of minds imperative. They needed to commune soon; Samhain be damned if need be.

The Witches of the Idabel coven were gradually getting to their feet after having been knocked to the ground and their training was starting to assert itself. As Gwen already had already done, Luca and Lourdes began dawning themselves in protection spells, dark clothes, talismans, fragrances and other witching paraphernalia. The three recognized that now was the time to switch into full witching mode, which meant dropping birth names only using the names given to them at their witches’ baptisms. So Lady Allegra (Gwen), Silver Wolf (Luca) and Cassandra Blaise (Lourdes) made a tri-spell of fury to evoke the spirit of combat. They repainted all the doors of their homes inside and out a deep shade of purple that had been specifically created for such occasions. They hung bundles of herbs on trees and walked backwards around their homes seven times carrying lit black candles while chanting and tossing some sort of red powdery substance on the ground.

The plan was to meet up at temple around 5:30p.m, giving time for Cedar Shadow (Estevan) to get back and the other members to be brought up to speed. The celebration wasn’t due to begin until 11:30 so they had time to discuss and outline their situation without rush, maybe even weave a spell or two of their own in reply to the onslaught they were currently facing. As it turned out those few hours would be quite needed, as another volley of jinxed karma was soon to hit its mark. As Cedar Shadow drove his Bronco back towards town, he noticed what appeared to be branch of wood protruding from under the passenger seat where his raven Baltizar was sitting. While steering with his left hand he reached down with his right to grab the stick that he figured had been there for some time to toss it out the window. When the stick recoiled from his grasp he almost lost control of his vehicle, swerving dramatically right, then over-compensating to the left and slamming into the guardrail, almost hitting another car before leveling out.

Somehow a snake had made its way in to his car, he was at this point in a middle lane and couldn’t pull over right away and the snake had hidden itself beneath the seat; not doubt gearing up to strike at his ankles. From the dark he could hear the worse thing he could imagine hearing in this instance but the rattling sound triggered his road dog/bird Baltizar in to action. The bird leapt from its seat and began confronting the unseen pygmy-rattler with wings spread, slowly rocking back and forth as his ward tried to weave through 60-70 mph traffic, trying to make his way over to the right so he could get out of this death trap. The snake struck at balty twice, and by the time that the Bronco was finally able to get over, the snake had injected its venom into the bird and was coiling around it as though suffocation was needed.

Once stopped, Cedar Shadow jumped out of the car and grabbed a towel from the back seat, using it to swipe at the snake, which immediately let go of the raven and swiftly slithered out of the now open passenger door. He took the bird in his hands and began to inspect the harm done and was relieved to find the bird was still alive. He went in to his trunk and took out one of the bags that he had just brought, hoping a little healing magic could save his companion. He poured a foul smelling oil right where the bite appeared to have occurred then went back to the trunk and rustled through his things until he found a freezer-sized baggie that contained a lone black feather. He uttered some form of incantation and pressed the feather against the ravens wound, the bird crowed as though in pain but in short time seemed to ascend from its downward spiral and in a little while was back to itself, with the lone feather seeming to reattach itself to the bird, sealing its wound.

It took him two and a half hours to get the bird to a vet and have him treated, and by the time he reached Idabel it was close to 6:30p.m. He’d received a text from Silver Wolf a few hours ago, detailing the meeting time, so he went directly to the temple to catch up with what was going on. As he pulled up to his usual parking space he could see his coven standing outside, looking and pointing towards the building across the street. As he got out of his car and walked over carrying the recovering raven he had a moment of clarity about the past forty-eight hours plus three years. There was a reason his coven was outside, pointing and carrying on and he instinctively knew what it was; however hard it was to believe.

He knew this spell, knew that this sort of witchery was alive but never believed that he’d encounter it. She had sat in that window, waving and chanting at them for all that time and he’d missed it thinking she was just an old catholic, bitter at the world for her boring life. All this time they had been crossing the path of one of the oldest and most deviant forms of witchcraft ever to exist, and at this point it was probably too late to undo the spells she’d woven over a three year period. Her name was Griselda and she was far older than anyone could imagine. The devils daughter some called her, she was sworn to teach witchcraft in the most vile and inhuman ways for more than a thousand years. She was the keeper of the devils promises, a tormentor, and the pain that she induced was the worse kind as her curses lasted for generations. The Idabel coven was finished. As he realized all of this, drawing closer to his cursed clan, he could see that Lady Allegra was in tears as was Alita Devine. It wasn’t fair; they hadn’t even known she was a witch, for had they known they would have shown more respect. Now they were all doomed to torment, death and misfortune. For three lifetimes, they’d each live as cursed beings. His eyes watered as he joined his bemoaned clansmen and women. The Idabel chapter has ended in tragedy. Sadness prevails.