Cursed Threads

Her escape had started small—warm cinnamon rolls baked in the quiet of her kitchen while burning a pumpkin spice candle, knitting sweaters and crocheting beanies in autumnal hues of burnt orange, mustard, and deep plum, hot glue gun drops on the kitchen table next to the scrap paper and colored pens from her handmade envelopes. It was meant to be for her, and her alone.

Sooner came sooner than later, and she ran out of room. She began pouring herself into making gifts first for her boyfriend, then for her friends. Then it grew to her boyfriend’s mum, sisters, brothers, and then her friends’ families. When that wasn’t enough, she found herself making things for her friends’ boyfriends and their families.

By the time October arrived, bringing with it the crisp air tinged with decaying leaves, wood smoke, and maple, every corner of her once-barren apartment was filled with her handmade creations. Pumpkins both real and crafted, floating candles in the windows, broomsticks hanging from the ceiling, and the walls taped with cut-out paper bats. It was her space, something she had worked hard to call her own. Her hands cramped as she toiled, her back ached, and her long auburn curls sagged, but she tried not to think about it. Dwelling too long led her mind to the other it.

Salem was only an hour’s drive away, and the gravestones always pulled her too close for comfort. She knew she was good, capable, and considerate. She was the kind of person who could make anything come to life. She was Mary Shelley reincarnated, if anyone asked. Yet no matter how the aroma of cinnamon and cloves stuck to her skin, the weight on her mind lingered. The pearly gates, in the form of rusted iron and weathered cobblestone, loomed before her, sealed with heavy chains and a massive padlock. She knew what waited if she went back.

So instead, on Hallow’s Eve, she committed to the rhythmic chugging of her sewing machine. She was working on a black mini skirt for her friend’s aunt’s daughter. The longest part would be embroidering a little cat with white thread on the front bottom corner. Embroidery wasn’t her strongest suit, but she would manage. For now, the steady click of the needle punctuated the rustling leaves outside. She stopped for a moment to grab her iPad and start a late-90s movie about her favorite Halloween town. Then she kept sewing with her black matte nails shaped to a point—not claws, but close enough to fend off the night. They made her feel in control. She liked how it felt to push fabric through the machine, releasing pent-up tension that sometimes boiled over into anger and frustration.

Even though she didn’t want to go to the gravestones, and she knew she had a choice, deep within herself, she felt it was only right. What else was she to do on Halloween? She already had plans with her boyfriend and his friends for a haunted house. She exhausted all other resources, her lines of defense, her attempts to run away from her unwanted and unchosen heritage, the very essence and fabric of what made her life her own. But the thoughts found their way through, pricking and poking at her. She knew if she was going to finally put it to bed, she needed to face it. The magic in her veins was undeniable. The longer she tried to tamp it down, the more it spilled over until getting out of bed became her biggest challenge. This time, no amount of quaint, quiet explanations would suffice.

She resolved to go to Salem first thing tomorrow, before her shift at the local bookshop. From here on out, each project she made wasn’t going to remind her of her past. 

The next morning, the air blew cold against her face. She wrapped herself in her handmade scarf, hat, and gloves—the purple ones—and wore her black knitted wool socks, jeans, boots, and a cozy, oversized chunky black sweater. She grabbed her matching purple jacket, just in case, and a bag of roasted pumpkin seeds. She walked for about 20 minutes, catching the train in time to travel up to Salem.

When she arrived, she didn’t look much at the historic houses, the water, the trees, the residents, or the spooky touristy decorations. Her childhood memories were strong, and she suspected if she stayed still too long, someone would start a conversation she didn’t want to have. She kept her head down, focused on getting to the cemetery across from Pickering House.

The graveyard was open, and she was surprised no one was around, given that it was Halloween. Maybe it was too early, or maybe the tourists and residents alike had stayed up late partying. Either way, she had expected more people and the coverage of the crowds, but she was alone. She found her way to a bench and sat. She wasn’t ready to look at the headstones she wished she wasn’t tied to. But the cold bench was close enough.

Her back ached, as it had since morning, but this time it was emotional pain causing her physical discomfort. Being here felt like too much. She wondered if she’d wasted $16 and her time. Maybe she should turn back and head home, take a nap before getting dressed in her Halloween costume and going into work. Maybe take some pain pills, too.

The emotions swelled inside her, and she knew it would be good to cry. But she was tired of knowing how much she needed to let this out. What was the point if her own rules couldn’t stop the pain of her past?

Eventually, she got up and made her way to the two headstones. Her ancestors. A pit formed in her stomach as she looked at the names. It was enough to trigger her. Tears burst from her eyes, her hands shook, and her grief turned to anger before looping back to disappointment. This was her legacy, her bloodline. She hated it with every inch of her body.

The last time she came was with her grandma. It didn’t take long to understand that if she’d been born during the witch trials, she too would’ve burned at the stake.

Her grandmother had tried to comfort her then, but it wasn’t enough. It hurt, and it still hurt. But it was her legacy, and though the tears wouldn’t stop, she knew coming here had been the right choice. She could already feel the weight on her mind beginning to lift. Just because she came from those who burned witches didn’t mean she had to carry their burdens. She was her own person, a modern witch, bustling about and brewing her own choices and desires, making the fate she always wanted and leaving the rest behind.