Thirteen

A storm coils on the horizon, thick with the scent of rain and ruin. Birthdays should be simple—candles flickering atop frosting, a wish whispered into a slice of cake. But mine is no ordinary birthday. This one is a tempest, a ritual, a doorway edged in shadow. Somewhere beyond the veil, Aunt Haddie watches. She is as dead as the secrets she carried, but her gaze lingers, weighty and unseen, knowing what I cannot yet fathom.

They say the dead can’t speak—but Haddie does. She whispers on the edge of sleep, her voice like wind threading through a crack in the window, sharp and insistent. She warns me of what’s to come, of truths buried in time. “Selene,” she says, her words a spell etched into my dreams, “the storm will find you. The blood moon will awaken what has been waiting.”

My father, lost long gone to a nameless war waged by faceless men, was part of a prophecy carved into Salem’s dark history. Back when my kind—witches were turned to ash and bone by their fear, their hatred, their ignorance. Assholes, all of them. But magick survived, seeping into the roots of the earth, waiting for the right moment to rise again.

And now it rises for me. In three days, on the eve of my thirteenth year, the storm will come. It will tear through the sky, through me, and through everything I thought I knew. It will not ask permission. It will not stop.

It’s coming. And it knows my name.

Her warnings came wrapped in riddles: storms that devour worlds, blood moons that stain the heavens, truths that shatter everything you thought you knew. Always, there was this birthday. This moment. She spoke of it as if it were etched into the bones of the earth, a prophecy sealed in time.

Her words rooted themselves deep, seeds buried in my chest, waiting to bloom. Now, with that blood moon just days away, I feel the weight of her prophecy in every breath I take. It presses against me, heavy and unyielding, like the charged air before a storm.

Mother and I are leaving behind the house of my childhood—the fragile sanctuary of scraped knees and whispered dreams—and moving into Haddie’s mansion. A place of vast, hollow rooms that seem to sigh when no one is looking, stairs that creak under the weight of forgotten footsteps, and walls alive with the pulse of her lingering magic. It waits for me, restless, as though the house itself knows what’s coming. And so do I.

"Excited about Widow’s Peak?" Mom asked.

I was at that age where people accused me of having a resting bitch face. I preferred to call it my eat-shit-and-die face—far more accurate. I glanced at her, and she was wise enough not to take on my Medusa equivalent of Are you shitting me?

I left behind the scarce few I dared to call friends, bound for Widow’s Peak—a name torn from the pages of some cursed tome, or perhaps a place drenched in the shadow of bloodied sacrifice. Maybe it was for my mother, the widow herself, who dragged me there. What I didn’t know—what none could have known—was that the prophecy born in the 1600s whispered her name into its marrow. How did they know?

The thought of starting a new life here chilled me deeper than any grave. Still, Haddie—my faceless wraith—laughed as if this torment were some grand jest, some thrilling adventure.

***

Driving to Widow’s Peak felt like sinking into a dream you couldn’t escape. The sun had long vanished behind the mountains, leaving only a black sky where stars stared like unblinking eyes before the storm overtook them.

The road twisted higher, the trees tightening around us, their branches gnarled and clawing like skeletal arms. Rain hammered down, streaking the windows and distorting the world outside, rippling and swaying as if reality itself was unraveling.

The branches above tangled like claws, roots clutching the earth as though holding it hostage. The cold seeped in, not the kind you shiver from, but a deeper chill that crawled beneath your skin and stayed there.

Lightning cracked in the distance. Then I saw it—a gate. Rusted iron, slick with rain, barely visible through the gloom. It loomed ahead, heavy and foreboding. But before the car could roll closer, the stillness broke. A rustling in the undergrowth.

All this scene needed was a half-naked woman running through the trees, screaming, while a guy with a chainsaw chased her. Classic horror movie vibes.

“Mom, seriously? Really?” I said, deadpan.

I spoke too soon. At first, there was just a shadow—a flicker at the edge of my vision. Then the headlights found it. A wolf. Massive, drenched, water streaming from its muzzle.

Its eyes—those eyes—burned like lanterns, unnatural and alive.

Then it wasn’t alone.

Snap. A twig cracked in the dark. Another wolf slipped from the trees, its wet fur glistening as it moved. Then another. And another. Until the road teemed with them—sleek bodies spilling from the forest like shadows given form. They moved too smoothly, too silently, their presence rippling through the air.

I tried to count—seven? Eight? More? They multiplied with every blink.

They weren’t afraid. The headlights didn’t faze them, the engine’s hum didn’t make them flinch. They just stood there, still and waiting. Watching. Their glowing eyes locked on us, unblinking, as if deciding something.

The car slowed to a crawl, tires hissing on the rain-slick road. I leaned forward, breath fogging the glass. The wolves didn’t snarl or move—they just stared, their gaze deliberate, as if measuring something invisible. The leader stepped forward, water rippling under its massive paws. Its glowing eyes locked onto mine, holding a depth I couldn’t name.

And then, as suddenly as they’d appeared, they were gone. One by one, the wolves slipped back into the trees, their movements calm and deliberate. They didn’t run. They simply vanished, their glowing eyes lingering in the dark like fading embers before winking out.

The car was silent, apart from the relentless drum of rain on the windshield. Ahead, the gate loomed, shrouded by low-hanging branches weighed down with rain, as if trying to hide the path to Widow’s Peak, which waited just beyond the trees.

The wolves were part of the initiation. A welcome. Mom knew them, and soon, I would too.

Lightning tore across the sky, jagged and frenzied, its electric veins lighting up the iron gate ahead. For a moment, the gate seemed alive, pulsing with energy. Then—BOOM.

The sound wasn’t just noise; it struck like a fist, heavy and hollow, shaking the air itself. A sharp, violent KRAK followed, splitting the night wide open, the world buzzing in its wake. Then came the rumble—low, endless, crawling across the sky like an ancient growl.

The storm felt alive, its voice raw, primal, too big to understand.

I sank into my seat, exhaling sharply. "Nice touch," I muttered, trying to sound unimpressed. But my voice wavered. Everything felt too alive, too staged, like the night was watching me.

Then, cutting through the storm, her voice came—sharp, clear, and impossible, like the thunder itself had spoken.

“Thank you.”

I froze, goosebumps stinging like needles. The voice—the playful, familiar voice—wasn’t in my head this time. It wasn’t in the car, either. It was outside. Surrounding me.

My eyes locked on the shadows beyond the windshield, where the lightning had briefly lit the world.

“Mom,” I said, my voice shaking, “why are we here?”

She didn’t answer right away. Calmly, too calmly, she rolled up the window, rain dripping from her fingers from the keypad. The gate groaned open, ancient and heavy. Mom wiped her hand on her jeans—a slight, casual movement that sent a shiver down my spine.

“You hear the voices?” she asked, too calm.

My heart skipped. How did she know? I’d told no one about Haddie.

“Voices?” I mumbled, my voice cracking.

She smiled that knowing mother smile that saw right through me. The gate creaked shut behind us, its sound final and heavy.

“Sweetie,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on the winding road ahead, “in a few days, your life is going to change drastically.”

“What does that mean?”

Her smile widened, but there was something unreadable in her eyes. Something unsettling.

“Homeschooling starts now.”

“Say what?!” The words burst out from me, my voice cracking with panic.

“It’s not safe for you to be around mere mortals when the transformation happens,” Mom said, her tone maddeningly calm, like the stillness before a storm. “Sorry, sweetie. It’s for the best.”

I stared, mouth open, words stuck in my throat. The rain pounded the roof, the trees outside growing darker, taller, as we drove deeper into the estate.

Transformation? Mere mortals? Aunt Haddie?

I wanted to scream, to demand answers, but deep down, I already knew. Haddie wasn’t just a voice.

And I wasn’t just a girl.

The days before my birthday felt wrong. Mom was too calm, her eyes too knowing, like she held a secret too big to contain. She did.

She was a witch. A real one. And worse—I was, too.

The night before the blood moon, everything broke. Or maybe it finally fit. I still can’t tell.

I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, fixing my favorite jeans and blouse, pretending I wasn’t completely unraveling inside. When I stepped into my room, she was already there, waiting.

She glanced at me, eyes sharp. “Those won’t do.”

With a flick of her wrist, my clothes vanished. One moment, denim and cotton; the next, a flowing whisper of white silk. It clung to me—weightless yet suffocating—like something from an old painting. Virginal. Doomed. Sacrificial chic.

Even my makeup was gone, stripped away as if I was being undone, piece by piece.

The gown shimmered, so fragile it seemed spun from moonlight, barely covering me, like a shadow that could disappear at any moment. I felt exposed, transformed, and utterly powerless.

“Mom?” I whispered, staring at the silk clinging to me like a second skin.

“You’ll be fine,” she said, calm but unyielding. “Just trust us.”

“Us?” My voice cracked, pitching higher.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she gestured to the orchard entrance. The untouched doors groaned open, spilling a breeze that smelled of earth, honey, and something sharper—something ancient.

As we stepped forward, Mom shifted. Her black gown, conjured by the same flick of magic, shimmered like a living thing, her golden hair catching the faint moonlight. But it wasn’t just light—it was her. An aura, soft and radiant, glowing faintly as fireflies swirled around her. She didn’t look human. She looked like a queen from an old myth, stepping out of the pages of a forgotten story.

I followed in silence, the air thick with the scent of the orchard, my skin prickling beneath the silk. This wasn’t just a family secret. This was something far older, something alive.

The colors of the gowns meant something—I could feel it—but I didn’t yet understand.

“Mom, I don’t think—” I started, but she raised a hand, silencing me without a single word.

We moved deeper into the orchard, and the world shifted. The fireflies weren’t just fireflies anymore—they spiraled around us in intricate, impossible patterns, their glow weaving shapes, symbols, words I couldn’t read. The trees stretched taller, their arched branches forming a canopy that felt more like the ceiling of a cathedral.

The air buzzed, alive with energy, humming low and steady. It pressed against my skin, seeping into my bones. Each step felt heavier, like I was walking into something vast, something waiting.

We stopped in a clearing. The trees parted, the fireflies scattering like stars. Mom turned to me, her eyes shining with a light that wasn’t hers—or maybe it was.

The moon stained the sky as the clouds parted. The prophecy was coming true.

“It’s time,” she whispered, her voice carrying more weight than the words should.

She smiled faintly. “Happy Birthday.”

Before I could speak, the fireflies erupted around me, spinning faster and faster until their golden light swallowed me. My hair lifted as if caught in a storm, but there was no wind—just the heat.

It started as a flicker in my chest, warm and comforting, like a spark catching fire. Then it spread, blazing through me, remaking every inch of my body into something unfamiliar yet undeniably mine.

The air roared, but the trees stood still. This wasn’t wind—it was alive. The fireflies scattered like shooting stars, leaving trails of light in the dark. Beneath me, the earth pulsed, steady and rhythmic, syncing with my heartbeat until I couldn’t tell where I ended and it began.

Then came the whispers. An entire magical history crammed into my brain.

Soft at first, like the edge of a dream, then rising, overlapping, filling the clearing with a language I didn’t know but somehow understood. They weren’t just speaking to me—they were filling me, flooding me with something ancient and infinite. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating.

The energy surged, tossing my hair, making my skin tingle and glow under the moonlight. I glanced at my hands, and for a second, I swore my veins pulsed with light, like liquid fire coursing through me.

And then—everything stopped.

The light vanished. The whispers died. The clearing fell silent, impossibly still, the kind of quiet where the world holds its breath.

When I opened my eyes, my skin felt raw, tender, like I’d been burned and healed all at once. My body ached, but it wasn’t pain—it was power, humming through me, alive and waiting. I lifted my hands, and a spark flickered across my fingertips, delicate as stardust. It blinked, testing me, daring me to command it.

The air reeked of ozone, sharp and electric, like lightning had struck and left its mark. Everything was louder, brighter, sharper. I could hear the rustle of leaves, the hum of life in the trees, the faint crackle of magic still lingering in the air.

I wasn’t just a girl anymore.

I was power. I was magick. I was a witch.

And then she appeared.

A massive gray wolf with glowing eyes emerged, its hot breath cutting through my gown.

I didn’t flinch.

The wolf twisted, cracked, morphed—into my twin, wearing the same gown.

Fireflies swarmed her, their glow trembling as the air pulsed with her power.

“Hello, Aunt Haddie,” my mom said, her voice calm but edged with something unspoken—respect, maybe, or fear.

I froze. Aunt Haddie? My Aunt Haddie? The voice in my head, the whispers in my dreams—the one who had guided me all this time?

She wasn’t a ghost. She wasn’t a figment. She was real.

She smiled. Not warm, not cold—just knowing. The kind of smile that stripped you bare.

Her dark hair shimmered like spilled moonlight, her eyes impossible—liquid gold and emeralds that pulled you in.

“So,” she said, her voice smooth and resonant, like the hum of a cello. “At last, we meet.”

I tried to reply, but the words tangled in my throat. My heart thundered, each beat a betrayal.

“Don’t be shy,” she murmured, tilting her head, her sharp gaze dissecting me—not cruel, but unrelenting. “We have much to do, and you have much to learn. Time…” Her eyes seemed to darken, the air tightening around us. “Time is slipping through your fingers. Your transformation was only the beginning,” Haddie said, "Now, we begin the real work,"

"What work?" I asked, my voice trembling, though I tried to sound steady.

She turned her golden-green eyes to my mother first, then to me, her gaze piercing, unrelenting. "The kind of work that saves lives before they’re lost. The kind that stops wars before they begin."

I froze, the weight of her words sinking into my chest. Wars. My father. His absence had always been a quiet shadow, lingering behind every birthday, every empty chair at the dinner table. My throat tightened. "What do you mean? What does that have to do with me?"

Haddie stepped closer, the air around her humming like a live wire. "Your father didn’t have to die. His war didn’t have to happen. But it did—because no one stopped it. No one saw it coming. That changes with you."

The fireflies around us swirled faster, their light growing brighter, hotter, as if responding to the weight of her words. "Me? What am I supposed to do about wars?"

"You’ll see," Haddie said, her voice softening, though her intensity never wavered. "You’re not just a girl, Selene. You’re a sentinel—a witch whose power isn’t just for herself but for the world. You don’t just inherit magick. You inherit responsibility. And believe me, the world desperately needs you to rise to it. There are others, and you will lead them."

The air grew colder, sharper. Mom stayed silent, her expression calm but distant, like she had already made peace with whatever truth Haddie was laying on me. I looked between them, my heart pounding. A hundred questions tangled in my mind, but only one made it out.

"Why me?"

Haddie’s expression softened for the briefest moment, though her voice remained firm. "Because you’re the only one who can. Magic doesn’t choose at random, Selene. It knows where it needs to go. And it’s chosen you. Tonight, the prophecy is complete."

I swallowed hard, my voice barely above a whisper. "What if I can’t do it?"

Haddie smiled faintly, a knowing curve of her lips that was equal parts comforting and terrifying. "You can. You will. And this is where it begins."