Monstrous Love Bites Back - Short Story Anthology

THE RITUAL

written by hdbergen

*****MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY*****

SALEM, 1676

My Coven arrived in this land with the settlers in 1626. The ley-line running through these colonial lands is potent, encouraging many of our kind to travel here over the years.

Through the many moons of our calendar, the wheel spins, marking the eight witch festivities of the year. We hold our obscure rituals on sacred grounds, while our Coven infuses and infests the haunting darkness through the soil. We breathe and practice dark magic, taking the pure energy of the earth and corrupting it. That's why we came to Salem.

A pioneer village, a community settled in the Americas by those that came from the old countries. My ancestors also traveled from Europe, along with the colonists, trading resources through the seaports. They never suspected the evil they brought to this new land, a land ready to be explored with the dark tendrils of the triple deity.

Worshiping our Goddess Hecate, we wait for her to bring the apocalypse to these sinners. These God-fearing men, praying to a weak, false God that will never leave his comfortable throne, abandoning them to wither and decay with age. The seven capital sins tainting their mortal lives.

There is no God.

No one to save them from despair.

Only chaos.

The force that runs through the veins of our sisters is twisted and wicked, woven into the fabric of our flesh, sprouting straight from hell. But we veil our coven in secrecy. Banished from our former homes, finding a new commonwealth to hide within.

"Rowena."

I'm ripped from my trail of thoughts when my mother announces it's time. I rest my quill from scribbling and close my notebook. Smoothing out the wrinkles of my apron over my dress and petticoat, I stare through the window towards the street outside.

Tonight, we celebrate the Harvest moon, the autumn equinox, Mabon. This is the time of the Dark Mother. She is bearing a sickle and scythe through this cycle, prepared to reap what has been sown.

The High Priestess, spiritual center and the energetic force of our Coven and the witches of Salem, has chosen me to perform tonight's ritual at the altar in Salem Woods. An offer to the Book of Shadows, a gift that marks this new beginning in the witch's calendar.

I center my coif on my head, securing my hair beneath the thin cotton material of the headpiece. Writing our thoughts down is a practice most of us young witches do in preparation of receiving the honor of annotating our first spell in the Coven's Book of Shadows, readying ourselves to leave our mark for the generations to come.

Tonight is one of the many steps towards my future as a full-blooded witch.

Under my shift, below the button that keeps the fabric tightly wrapped around my neck, the pentagram on my chest feels cold to the touch. An omen of the night to come. I never understood the colonial vestments, restricting the female body, not showing an inch of skin. Should we not celebrate the luscious curves that Hecate bestowed upon her daughters?

The wooden flooring creaks beneath my leather shoes as I walk to the adjacent chamber, following the melodic voice of my mother. She filled the tub in preparation for the ritual, to cleanse me of all mortal influences. The warm water is mixed with black salt and amethysts are placed on the sturdy wooden bottom.

"It's going to be a good harvest," she announces with a solemn face, knowing that the honor of being chosen for this equinox is important to the Coven.

We both grab the pentagrams below our clothing with our left hands and nod to each other, acknowledging the moment. Removing my clothes, I admire the scars on my skin: runes and magical spells, etched into the flesh of witches, carved with the blades of our ritual athames.