Witch, Please!

Witch, Please!

I only signed up for Mindfulness & Manifestation to skip gym.

It was either that or three months of pretending to enjoy dodgeball with the same sophomore jocks who think deodorant is optional and “gay” is still an insult. Spoiler: I don’t dodge. I manifest. And I sure as hell don’t sweat on purpose.

So when Ms. Delacourt breezed in on the first day wearing a silk kaftan and smelling like patchouli, I thought, Cool. Cult vibes. I can nap through this and maybe unlock my inner peace or whatever. I did not think, I will summon a demon before third period. But here we are.

“This circle is sacred,” she announced, placing a mason jar full of moon water in the center of the classroom rug like it was the fucking Holy Grail. “You are not here by accident. The Universe has chosen you.”

“Yeah,” I whispered to Jen beside me, “the Universe and the school’s understaffed elective board.”

Jen snorted and elbowed me, nearly knocking over her chakra crystal. She’d also chosen the class to escape gym, and we’d bonded instantly over our shared hatred of forced cardio and sage-burning pseudoscience. We didn’t not believe in magic — we just didn’t trust anyone who wore toe rings in winter.

Ms. Delacourt gave us a withering look, like she could smell the sarcasm wafting off us. “Tasha. Jen. Energy like yours could burn a portal open if you’re not careful.”

“Hot,” Jen muttered.

But the weird thing? She wasn’t wrong.

Fast-forward three days.

We’re sitting in our assigned “intentional manifestation pods” (aka throw pillows that smelled suspiciously like cat pee), writing our “vision statements.” Jen was doodling a cartoon demon making out with a unicorn. I, being a productive little chaos goblin, had scrawled:

I wish Principal Darnell would fall into a pothole the size of his ego.

I folded the paper, tossed it in the “Desire Fire” bowl, and promptly forgot about it. Until the next morning when he missed school due to a “freak sinkhole accident in the staff parking lot.”

A sinkhole. In Iowa. During a drought.

“Okay, that’s kinda sus,” Jen whispered at lunch, scrolling through her phone. “Look. The security footage shows his car just… disappearing. Like whoosh. Gone.”

“I mean, potholes are vicious,” I said, trying to sound chill. “This town doesn’t even have a budget for road salt, let alone mystical infrastructure.”

“Babe. You cursed the principal. With a vision board.”

I sipped my diet soda with trembling hands. “Manifestation is a powerful tool when wielded with intention.”

Jen raised an eyebrow. “You’re quoting Delacourt now? Jesus, Tasha. This is how cults happen.”

That’s when the raven flew into the cafeteria.

Not “a bird.” Not “a crow.” A full-ass, black-feathered, red-eyed omen of doom dive-bombed our lunch table, knocked over our tater tots, and dropped a scroll onto my tray.

Jen screamed. I screamed. The lunch lady screamed and threw a corndog.

The scroll unfurled itself and read:

The Moon calls you. Midnight. Old gym. Come alone. Or else.

“This isn’t what I signed up for,” I hissed.

“No,” Jen deadpanned, brushing ketchup off her jeans, “but I am going with you. Because I don’t trust you not to join a demon pyramid scheme.”

We showed up at midnight, as requested, mostly because we had the shared IQ of a Scooby-Doo episode and zero survival instinct.

“Remind me again why we’re doing this?” Jen asked, gripping her phone flashlight like it could fend off ancient evil. “This has ‘dismembered teen girl found behind bleachers’ written all over it.”

“Because I want answers,” I whispered, pushing the creaky gym door open. “Also, if I did accidentally curse Principal Darnell, I wanna know how to uncross my karma before I manifest a plague of frogs or become a meme on WitchTok.”

The old gym hadn’t been used in years—ever since a bat infestation during Homecoming '19 turned the dance into a scene from The Craft meets Fear Factor. It still smelled like mildew, gym socks, and despair.

Inside, the air shimmered faintly.

I squinted. “Do you see that?”

“Yeah,” Jen muttered. “Is that…a glowing pentagram made of Dorito dust?”

Not quite. It was salt. Real, glistening, vaguely glowing salt in a perfect circle at center court, surrounded by tall black candles. Standing inside it?

Three women.

No, not women. Witches. Old, regal, and terrifying in that “we remember when the Salem witch trials were a personal inconvenience” kind of way. One had snakes coiled in her dreadlocks. One was barefoot in the snow. The third held a cat with glowing yellow eyes and what I swear was a Bluetooth earpiece.

“Shit,” Jen hissed. “They’ve got familiars and everything.”

I took a shaky step forward. “Hi? Uh. I’m Tasha? You left me a scroll?”

The one with the cat stepped forward. Her voice was like molasses and judgment. “You opened the path.”

“Path?”

“The veil between worlds. You cracked it like an egg with that petty-ass pothole wish.”

Jen smacked my arm. “I told you to keep it positive!”

Snake Hair Witch raised a withered hand. “We are the Sisterhood of the Sixth Moon. And you, child, are the first in centuries to summon the Crossroads Spark without ritual, training, or clue.”

“Sounds on brand for me,” I muttered. “So… what now?”

The barefoot one spoke. “We want to train you.”

Jen choked. “Train her? Like Hogwarts??”

“Hogwarts was a liberal arts college for babies,” Snake Hair sneered. “We offer something... older.”

My brain screamed NOPE, but my mouth apparently had other ideas. “Okay. Sure. Let’s say I’m in. What’s the catch?”

Bluetooth Cat Witch smiled. “Only this: you must not speak of us. You must not reject your gift. And above all…”

She stepped forward, placing her icy fingers on my forehead. “You must obey the Moon.”

“Define ‘obey,’” Jen cut in, hands on her hips like a pissed-off guidance counselor.

“Silence,” the witches snapped in unison.

And suddenly we were outside.

Literally just poof — standing in the school parking lot, no memory of how we got there, my hoodie singed, and Jen’s phone vibrating with 48 missed calls and a calendar reminder that said:

🌕 FULL MOON. BEGIN PHASE ONE.

Jen looked at me. “Girl. What is your life.”

The next day, I felt... different.

Every time I blinked, I saw flickers. Shadows moving when no one else noticed. People glowing with colors that didn’t make sense. The chemistry teacher’s aura looked like slime and disappointment.

During math class, I accidentally made my calculator catch fire.

During Spanish, I sneezed and made a boy's retainer levitate.

And in gym? (Because yes, I still had to go.)

I muttered under my breath about how I’d rather die than run the mile again — and Coach Hastings tripped over nothing, landed in a patch of ice, and broke her whistle in half with her butt.

Jen just gave me a look. “Tasha.”

“I didn’t mean to! It’s like… I think something and the universe just says bet!”

By lunch, the whole school was whispering about the “witch girl.” Someone tagged me in a TikTok with sparkles and ominous music. I got three requests for love potions and one dude asked if I could curse his ex.

“This isn’t what I signed up for,” I groaned, hiding in the bathroom stall while the hand dryer randomly turned on and off like it was possessed.

Jen passed me a granola bar under the door. “You’re literally living the plot of every YA fantasy novel ever. Except, like, with acne and AP tests.”

“I didn’t ask for this!”

“Well, you did ask for Principal Darnell to fall into a hell hole, so…”

I groaned again. “Okay, fine. What do I do now? Become the next Sabrina? Join the witches of West Elm? What if I mess this up and summon something worse?”

There was a long pause. Then Jen said, very quietly, “Tash… you might wanna come out.”

“Why?”

“Because the mirrors are… melting.”

So here's the thing they don’t tell you in witch orientation — when the mirrors start melting, run.

Because that’s not quirky chaos magic. That’s a warning.

A demonic one.

When I burst out of the bathroom stall, the whole row of mirrors looked like they were made of goo. Like Salvador Dalí had just done a line of pixie sticks and gone hog wild on the reflective surfaces.

Worse? They were moving.

Faces. In the glass. Watching me.

And one of them—deadass, hand to Satan—looked like me. But goth-er. Like, full black sclera eyes and a smug little “I know what you did last Tuesday” grin.

“Hell no,” I said, backing away.

The lights flickered. The air went ice cold. Jen screamed.

And then all the mirrors shattered at once, raining down glittering slivers that didn’t cut, but definitely whispered on the way down.

Like… legit whispers.

“Tasha…”

“Blood of the moon…”

“She walks the liminal path…”

I grabbed Jen’s hand and ran like hell out the door, down the hallway, and straight into Mr. Bellamy’s class — because if there’s one thing stronger than evil magic, it’s a tenured English teacher with no tolerance for drama.

“Miss Bellamy, can we, um, hide here for a minute?” I wheezed, flinging myself into a desk.

She didn’t even blink. “Only if you’re prepared to recite The Raven in Old English.”

I nodded solemnly. “Nevermore, my dude.”

Jen, meanwhile, was still vibrating. “That was like The Ring meets Hot Topic. We need to go to the witches. Now.”

“No. Nope. Nuh-uh,” I said, hugging my knees. “They said not to reject my gift. They didn’t say anything about returning it for store credit.”

Jen snorted. “What do you think happens when you don’t play along? You think demon-you’s just gonna chill in reflective surfaces and not try to wear your skin like a Forever 21 hoodie?”

My stomach dropped. I had felt weird lately. Like my body was… borrowed.

Like something was knocking from the inside.

That night, I lit every candle in my bedroom, arranged a ring of salt (because if movies have taught me anything, it’s that salt = spiritual Windex), and opened my stupid moon journal.

The page had changed.

Where I’d written “I want peace” now read:

Peace is earned in fire. Phase Two begins.

Suddenly, my room went dark.

And something started crawling out of my vanity mirror.

It looked like me.

But wrong.

My face — but paler. Stretchier. Like someone tried to draw me from memory after two shots of absinthe.

Same outfit, but reversed. Same hoodie, but the logo was upside-down and bled ink that dripped onto the carpet.

“Wanna trade?” it said in my voice. “Just for a little while?”

“NOPE,” I shrieked, flinging holy water (read: a LaCroix can I’d blessed with a Pinterest prayer).

It hissed, ducked, and lunged — but something caught it. The salt. It couldn’t cross the circle.

Yet.

“Tick-tock,” it whispered. “Full moon’s coming. You’re not ready. But I am.”

Then it melted into shadow and was gone.

Cue panic spiral.

Cue crying into Jen’s voicemail while half-heartedly Googling “how to exorcise yourself when your reflection is a bitch.”

Cue one very reluctant text to the Sisterhood of the Sixth Moon:

🙃 urgent?? demon me tried to possession?? full moon soon? pls advise???

To my horror, they replied immediately.

Come to the field behind the cemetery at midnight. Bring nothing but truth.

I stared at my phone. “Great,” I muttered. “Just what I wanted: a midnight meet-cute with eldritch hell witches and my own personal horcrux.”

I had a strong feeling this wouldn’t end with a group hug and moon tea.

Midnight behind the cemetery was exactly as horrifying as you’d expect. Misty. Moonlit. Crickets doing ASMR. Smelled like moss and regret.

The Sisterhood of the Sixth Moon waited by a bonfire, all in matching cloaks this time. Because of course they had a group aesthetic. I approached like someone about to return a possessed air fryer to Walmart.

“Truth,” Snake Hair Witch said, stepping forward. “Do you accept the gift, or do you surrender it?”

I gulped. “Define ‘surrender.’”

“Your powers are bound to you now,” Bluetooth Cat Witch said. “But if you reject them, the other version of you—the shadow—will take your place.”

“You mean Demon Me,” I clarified. “The one who popped out of my mirror like a Sims glitch with a vendetta?”

Jen (yes, she followed me again because she’s ride-or-die and also because she doesn’t trust me to not die tragically stupid) muttered, “Please tell me we brought garlic. Or silver. Or… sage vape cartridges?”

“She is your Echo,” the barefoot witch whispered. “Formed from your doubt. Your fear. Your sarcasm.”

“Oh,” I said. “So she’s basically me on a Monday.”

They handed me a dagger. A real one. Bone hilt. Wicked sharp. Probably ethically sourced from a goat that died of natural sass.

“You must confront her under the moonlight,” Snake Hair intoned. “In the Veil. If you falter, she takes over. Forever.”

I didn’t get time to say “hell no.”

The moment I touched the dagger, the bonfire whooshed upward—and the world around me changed.

Suddenly I was in a warped version of my school hallway, but like… if it had been designed by Tim Burton on edibles. Lockers melted. Walls breathed. Fluorescent lights flickered like a dying TikTok ring light.

And there she was.

Echo Me. Standing at the other end of the hall in my outfit, but looking like she’d bathed in shadows and sarcasm.

“You know they’re afraid of you,” she purred. “That’s why they want to train you. Control you. Wrap you in crystals and rules. But not me. I’d burn it all down.”

“Tempting,” I admitted, holding the dagger in front of me. “But I kinda like me. You know, the version that doesn’t monologue in evil lighting.”

She smiled. “Why fight me? We’re the same.”

“No,” I said. “You’re what I’d be if I gave up.”

Then she lunged.

The fight was not cute.

It was messy and magical and involved both of us levitating at one point while screaming insults like:

“Nice hoodie, Hot Topic reject!”

“Oh yeah? Say that to my face, Etsy witch!”

We crashed through phantom lockers. I dodged a shadow bolt with a cartwheel I did not know I could do. She knocked the dagger from my hand.

But I had one thing she didn’t: heart.

(I know, I know — gag me with a broomstick. But stay with me.)

As she pinned me down, I whispered, “You can’t exist without me. I made you. So I can unmake you.”

And I reached inside her.

Into the fear. The doubt. The petty bitterness I pretend is “just being realistic.”

And I let it go.

I forgave myself.

She screamed—this inhuman, glitchy wail—and exploded into black glitter.

(Which is now somehow in my hair permanently, thanks.)

I woke up on the grass, dagger still in hand, witches surrounding me like proud but slightly judgmental aunts.

Jen offered me a juice box. “So… did you win? Or are you a shadow clone now?”

“I think I won,” I croaked.

“You did,” said Snake Hair Witch. “And you proved something. You don’t just have magic. You are magic.”

Bluetooth Witch handed me a moonstone pendant. “This marks your place in the Sisterhood.”

“And your membership comes with dental,” the barefoot one added, deadpan.

I blinked. “Wait. I’m in the Sisterhood now? Like, officially?”

“Welcome to your next nightmare,” Jen muttered.

Back at school, things were… better.

The mirrors stopped whispering. I stopped levitating books on accident (mostly). Principal Darnell was fine, except he now refused to park anywhere near trees, sidewalks, or minor potholes.

And me?

Well, I’ve got glitter in my veins, power in my bones, and a best friend who helps me recharge my moon crystal when I forget.

I still mess up. I still get scared.

But now, I face it.

With salt. With sass.

And with a battle cry I mutter every time the magic gets weird:

“This isn’t what I signed up for… but I’m gonna own it anyway.”