The morning before Harry's fated party, the shop is vandalized.
I awake with the sun and its warmth brings me the energy I need to open the shop so that Nan doesn't have to. The stroll to downtown is peaceful, the town still sleeping peacefully in their beds as the birds greet the day and the leaves give me a round of applause in the wind.
Mother follows me all the way, though I don't even mind her presence. The warmth from my coffee shields me against the chill in my fingers and the sun shines against my back and lights the way.
Despite the ominous event that transpired the week before, I had woken up feeling refreshed and rejuvenated.
Until I turned the corner to the little alcove where our store sits.
The once pristine brick walls that line our small alley are covered in the goo of unfertilized eggs, the spiral staircase leading up to Nan's flat has been covered in wet toilet paper, and –most painful of all- the potted plants that line the windowsill have been knocked over.
The red door meant to keep out evil is spray-painted in giant black letters, "GO AWAY WITCH!" The shame of those words heats my cheeks and I nearly drop my mug in shock at the cruel sight.
What will take the most repair would be the whole in the window, presumably put there by a rock.
My eyes prick at the sight and I hope, more than anything else, that Nan's heavy sleeping came in handy and that she did not wake from the commotion. All her hard work... her passion... squandered by the ignorant.
Hate creeps towards my heart, but I try to push down all the rage and bitterness I feel towards the cowardly people in this town. Instead, I let pity take that place. How sad it must be for them to have such a small world, to live so in fear of things they do not –cannot- understand.
We must pity the willfully ignorant. For their worlds are much smaller than our own.
I let one silent and defiant tear slip down my flushed cheeks, but that is all the emotion I will allow these monsters to draw from me. Though we have endured many rumors, eggs thrown at our shop, and even passive letters shoved into our mailbox –this is the first time the townspeople have been so actively cruel. The first time they have vandalized our place of business.
My mother's weight grows heavier and I can't help but feel that she enjoys this drama. If she had it her way, this store would have never opened.
A calming and deep breath shudders my lungs before I set to work in cleaning the hatred off my shop's walkway. Before Nan can see it and let it sadden her heart, before the people of the town begin waking up and walking by just to cast malicious glances our way, silently thanking whichever evil soul did this to our store.
I push up the sheer peasant sleeves of my green chiffon, plunge neck dress, remove my tan suede hat, and my thigh-high tan suede boots to feel the cobblestone beneath my feet and set to work. It's a bad day not to be wearing pants.
By the time the sun has finished it's painting and the bell-tower at the church lets out an eerie chime, nearly two hours have passed. I have succeeded in clearing the stairs, hosing off the brick of any egg substance, and sweeping up the spilled soil and broken pots.
I am transferring the plants into temporary homes when the first few morning birds begin to trickle down the sidewalk.
I can feel their heavy gazes against my back as they take in the destruction. Most have the decency to pretend they aren't looking when I catch them, but there are a few who continue to stare, to even laugh when they read the words so cruelly written on our door.
I believe myself to have a strong sense of self and an even stronger disregard for other's judgements, but the looks and whispers come to be too much. Even for me.
Grabbing my boots, my hat, and my matching purse, I head inside with a heavy heart and misty eyes. I cringe at the nasty writing as I walk through the door and contemplate my next move. I could leave the paint on the door as some act of defiance, but I know it would hurt my Nan to see.
However, the thought of getting on my hands and knees to scrub the hateful words from the door while the whole town watches and cackles like I'm a circus performer is too much for me to bear.
This Sophie's Choice is interrupted though, when I finally see what was thrown through the window. I had grabbed all the supplies from the shed in the garden and hadn't even been inside yet to assess the window damage.
My stomach churns and a small scream involuntarily falls from my lips at the sight.
The corpse of a rat, limbs shriveled up, mouth agape to reveal its yellowed teeth, and black fur stained with dried blood.
A rubber band wrapped around it's body to hold a small note written in the same writing as the paint on the door, "HERE'S YOUR DINNER, WITCH!"
An involuntary whimper escapes me and in a frenzy, I grab a paper towel, gloves, and an empty box from the supply closet. Through my tears I pick up the poor animal and carefully remove the malicious note before placing its body into the box and sealing it.
I grab a wand of sage and light it with shaky hands, letting it's healing properties wash over the entirety of the shop, focusing on the coffin of the rat, and take it outside to cleanse the alley, now tainted with hatred.
Once the sage is out, I take the rat into the garden and bury it amongst the flowers.
The naïve children can mock me all they want, but using a defenseless animal as some kind of tool to taunt me is unforgivable.
I cover the box with dirt and try to control my rage, the bright outlook of the morning now dark and daunting. I pocket the note, crushing it in my fist and promising to enact justice when I get a chance.
Collecting myself, I head back inside to wash the dirt and stench of death from my hands. I sweep up the shards of grass and place a ring of protection stones around the spot where the body lay for hours.
I don my shoes and hat once again, flip the OPEN sign over –even though I doubt anyone will come in with a warning sign literally painted on the door-, and plaster a large smile on my face as the clock strikes 8 AM.
Like clockwork, my Nan's light tread can be heard on the back staircase and I brace myself for the uncomfortable explanation I must give, but take a little gratitude that she didn't come down the stairs out front.
She is in her usual loose and long frock, feet bare, and hair untamed. Her usual mystic purple, though, has transformed into a muddled green akin to the deepest layer of a swamp.
A dark green aura is not a permanent state, but is representative of a time in one's life full of insecurities and resentment. This aura consistently reflects a feeling of self-blame and inner doubt. This aura will pass as these feelings are dealt with, but it often reflects a time of strife.
Well, looks as if she is already aware of the vandalism.
She stops at the foot of the stairs and holds my steady gaze in silence. I try to communicate my simultaneous sympathy for her and contentedness for me.
"Comment va ton coeur, ma chère?" (how is your heart, dear?) She speaks in a language most familiar to her, one she can feel safe and at home in, so I respond in the same manner.
"Il est plus fort que jamais." (it is as strong as ever).
She smiles in response and I don't bother asking about the state of her heart because the answer is written all over her solemn expression, in the sluggish and dark aura that surrounds her.
Her eyes scan the shop and linger on the shattered front window, shaking her head and sighing slowly. Though there is an irreverent sadness in her gaze, she does not look the least bit surprised in seeing the damage to her shop.
"Did you hear them do this last night?"
I hope with everything in me that she slept through it, but she nods in response, "Yes, I woke when they were throwing toilet paper on my stairs, running up and down them. I thought they were going to try to get inside my flat."
Anger so fierce surges inside of me it nearly tips me over. The image of my Nan inside her apartment, hiding from the fiends outside who vandalized and mocked the sweetest soul I have ever known is unforgivable.
My nails pierce the skin of my palm and I focus on that pain instead of the one etched onto her sagging face.
"Who did this, Nan?"
She glides towards me then, placing a hand on my arm, my rage so palpable it concerns her, "It does not matter, ma cherie. They are children who will learn and grow. The universe always rights itself."
It's what I've always thought to be true, always relied on. Though, I know more than anyone that the universe lets people get off easy from deeds that can never be forgiven.
You can't always rely on the universe to enact proper justice.
Nan's face has grown haggard, her movements sluggish, and the darkness under her eyes is more pronounced than usual. My heart aches at the sight, the idea that she may have been too scared to fall asleep. Instead, up all night fearing the intruders would come back to do irreparable damage.
"Nan, why don't you go back up to bed and I watch the shop? I'm sure we won't get any visitors this morning and you can get some much-needed rest."
Usually, this is exactly the kind of suggestion that my Nan would profusely reject, but I can see her shoulders sag with relief at the prospect. She smiles gratefully and gives me a light peck on the cheek before gliding back up the stairs and into the darkness.
Though my motives were mainly centered around the well-being of my Nan, I did have another reason to get her out of the shop.
With her gone, my rage creeps back into my heart with full-force. The little voice that usually talks me out of speaking ill of others or voicing any cruel thoughts is squandered by a much louder and forceful one.
To prey on such a compassionate and innocent woman like my Nan, to deface the one place she holds so dear and worked so hard for, to put stress and fear into her fragile heart...
It's unforgivable.
It's damnable.
And that's exactly what I intend to do.
I flip back over the sign in the smashed window so it reads CLOSED and head into the back room of the shop where we keep more of the powerful and darker talismans and amulets. The room is dim, the contents covered in dust, and the smell of rotting paper and mothballs fills the air.
As soon as the door shuts behind me, I am overcome with the heavy weight of my mother watching over me. I don't care if she sees what I am about to do.
The energy in this tiny, dank room is powerful and suffocating. It feeds into the darkness and rage surrounding my heart, poisoning my aura and my mind.
Instead of running from the dark force, I welcome it.
The closet is cramped and bursting at the seams with odds and ends, lit by a single swinging bulb hanging from the ceiling. Most of what we keep back here are stronger, last-resort amulets for protection or certain objects given to us by concerned patrons who believe they need to be cleansed or kept hidden away due to dark forces that cling to them.
But, I pass these powerful amulets, picture frames, mirrors, and dolls that are said to be cursed and head to the glass case in the corner, key in hand.
The case is full of objects Nan has accumulated against her will over the years and refuses to throw away in fear of what such an action would conjure.
They are ingredients for black magic.
Black magic is the counterpart of white magic. Where white magic is used for cleansing, purity, and good fortune, black magic is an ancient and powerful supernatural force that is used for selfish purposes and punishing those the castor wishes to seek revenge on.
The term "magic" gives me pause as I do not practice the art of witchcraft, nor do I really believe in the reality of magic. However, I do believe that some objects carry power to influence the universe and that intention is the leader of many an influence on someone's actions.
Just as I use my crystals and talismans to ward off evil, these trinkets summon those dark forces.
It will be difficult without a name or an idea of their faces, but the handwritten note, torn from one of their notebooks, should be enough of a connection for the hex to work.
A jinx is a temporary spell placed onto the subject which brings them general misfortune, a hex is a more powerful and specific charm placed upon the subject that will cause them misfortune until their lesson is learned OR the castor removes the hex, and a curse is the most powerful of the three that casts a permanent change to the subject's life and can carry on throughout generations.
It is fury that controls my hands as they reach for the ingredients that I need. Bitter ire smothers my heart and resentment binds my mind. My soul struggles to reach for a lasting shred of sensibility, but it is hatred that chokes it into silence.
To cast a "Two Wrongs Make a Right" Hex you will need:
1. A black candle: ruled by the planet Saturn and used for retribution and evil.
2. A white candle: ruled by the moon and used for cleansing and protection.
3. A sealable jar to contain the hex.
4. Vinegar: a bitter and eroding substance absorbed into the subject.
5. Black pepper: to choke on their words and stop spreading lies.
6. A pin: placed in the area of the poppet the subject will feel stung when they do harm.
7. An object belonging to the subject to strengthen the connection.
8. A poppet to represent the subject.
I work quickly to light both candles before grabbing the small canvas doll stuffed with hay from the glass case full of oddities and books on curses. Given to us from a family in town who found this stuffed in the back of their attic, it is a rather strange doll with a stitched-on smile and button eyes. Though it is not particularly evil, it is surely creepy and will suffice for my purpose.
Carefully, I tear the back of the poppet and grab the note from my pocket. Glancing at the scribbled writing and the hateful words, I fold up the note as small as possible and stuff it inside of the doll before taking a pinch of freshly ground pepper from the shelf and placing it in the throat of the poppet.
I grab the sewing kit I keep in my purse for emergencies and close the doll back up, no hesitation in my movements.
I am too far gone.
Setting it aside, I grab the vinegar and fill up the sealable jar we keep in the garden to collect rain water halfway before sprinkling in more black pepper. Grabbing the poppet, I take one of the many pins in the case and stick the pin in one of the small hands of the doll, which, I imagine one of the vandalizers used to write the menacing note.
While stuffing the doll into the jar and tipping some of the wax from the black candle inside I recite the incantation,
"With this pepper, I halt you from speaking ill of others. With this pin, I incite pain onto your hand whenever you commit an evil deed. With this vinegar, I cast bitterness into your life. With this candle wax, I hex you to misfortune until the evil in your heart fades."
Once the vinegar is sufficiently tainted with the wax into a muddled grey, I blow out that candle and seal the jar, enshrouded in darkness once again. Moving quickly, so as to prevent the hex from leaking out, I take the purifying candle and drip the white wax all around the lid until it is sealed.
I shake the jar until the poppet is sufficiently soaked and then sneak through the back door and out into the garden. Like a thief, I cradle the object and look around inconspicuously to ensure no eyes are upon me.
The garden is thriving and provides lots of cover from my Nan's window. I make my way down the winding cobblestone path where the plants have overgrown and have begun to creep onto the stones and bird fountains.
I find a spot near the back garden where the copper beach tree provides the most shade and get on my hands and knees to dig into the soft earth at the trunk. I feel the birds eyeing my strange actions as they sing their eerie tunes and I continue my expedition.
Burying a talisman or object that has been spelled ensures the vitality of the curse/jinx/hex. Sealing it into the earth will guarantee that it is properly carried out and will protect innocents from being affected by it.
It has rained recently and the soil gives way easily under my fingers. I dig with my hands until I am satisfied by the depth of the hole before placing the jar inside and covering it with dirt.
I fall back on my heels, breathing heavily and nearly dizzy from the exertion and magnitude of what I have just done. My fingers ache from digging and mud is so embedded into my nails I am not sure I will ever be able to get it out. Dirt clings to my dress and I suddenly feel nauseous, staring at the freshly dug earth and letting what I have just done sink in.
On shaky knees, I stand and try to wipe down my dress that is likely permanently stained with my shame. Needing to be away from that cursed jar, I hurry inside to light more sage and cleanse myself from the power of the hex.
I'm not sure that sage will be enough anymore.
The farther away I am from that jar and the more time I have to calm down, the sicker I feel. The darkness around my heart begins to fade and the anger I felt simmers, replaced by great shame and fear.
Fear of myself and what I have just done. What I am clearly capable of capable.
It's as if I am waking up from a fever dream, the actions I have just carried out seeming fuzzy and unreal. As if I watched myself casting a hex on some ignorant children from afar, like my hands were not my own.
But, they were my hands. My own hands willfully and deliberately carried out each malicious step, letting rage and pride overtake my senses.
This is not the first time I have let the darkness inside my soul take over my body and my morals. I had thought I was overcoming this evil, that I had been growing into a kinder person.
But, you can't purge evil entirely.
Oh my spirits, what have I become?
Vigorously, I wash my hands until my fingers are raw and pruney. Still, the dirt remains under my nails, reminding me of my wicked deed. The chiffon dress is beyond repair and it makes me sick just wearing the evidence.
It is after I finish frantically wafting the sage over my entire body, centering on my heart, that I hear something that nearly makes me jump out of my skin.
"Nova?"
Harry.
Panicked and embarrassed at what I have just done, I glance down at my scrubbed hands and dress and am appalled by how caked they still are by dirt, by evil. Harry's footsteps grow closer and I realize I must have forgotten to lock the door. I shudder to think what would've happened if someone walked in while I was stuffing a canvas poppet into a jar of vinegar.
They would've surely burn me at the stake.
"J-Just a minute!" I call out and curse as I stumble back to the small bathroom and scrub my dress until my fingers cramp. But, no matter how much soap I use or how hard I scrub, I cannot get the dirt out of my fingernails or the creases of my dress.
What have I done?
It is as if I have just awoken from a trance, the enormity of my actions hitting me with their full force. My Nan's words float back to me and I imagine how disappointed she would be if she knew I had just used "black magic."
I need to undo the hex and I need to get Harry out of here to do it.
When I turn the corner into the front of the shop my face is flushed and my heart is punishing me with its rapid beat. I must look crazed with my ruffled hair, wet dress, and muddy boots. Regardless, I still look better off than Harry. His face is somehow redder than mine, his eyes frenzied as he paces the hardwood in his gym attire.
Suddenly forgetting the great disservice to the universe I have just committed, I approach him with concern. For a moment, his concerning appearance takes precedence over my grave mistake.
"What's wrong?"
He lets out a sharp bark of laughter that rings in my ears and I fall back, shocked at the hissing quality of his aura.
"What's wrong?" He nearly shouts, indignant, gesturing to the broken window and closed door behind him, "Who the fuck did that?"
Suddenly, I can't meet his eyes. Whether it's from embarrassment of the vandalism or my harsh response to it is unclear. Probably both. Either way, I find myself feeling small and weak in his eyes and I don't like it.
Sighing, deciding to de-escalate the situation instead of adding fuel to the fire, as I already have mistakenly done. Tamping down my still simmering rage and guilt, I try to come off as nonchalant as possible.
"Probably some dumb kids playing a prank, it doesn't matter."
"Doesn't matter?!" He rears back and I am surprised at how angry he seems on my behalf, "Imagine if you or your Nan was here when they showed up? This isn't some harmless prank, Nova. This is violent."
I don't dare inform Harry that my Nan was indeed here when those hooligans showed up, but I can feel the rage bubbling up in my chest again at the reminder.
"I know, Harry. But, no one was hurt and that is what really matters. I'm sure karma will take care of it for us." With a slight push, of course.
He scoffs at my words and I try not to take offense because I clearly didn't believe in it either when I took matters into my own hands, "Please... you need to call the police."
Now it's my turn to scoff, "The police? It was probably their kids that did this, Harry. They're even less helpful."
I think of the attitudes of the police when my mother had died and after my car accident. Their flippant tone, snide glances, fake sympathy...
I could feel their prejudice radiating off of them. As if they reveled in our misfortune. They wanted nothing to do with our family and the feeling is mutual.
"So, what? You're just not going to do anything?" He throws his hands up in the air, tone harsh and biting.
I gulp, trying to keep my expression neutral, while my stomach churns and heart clenches. Is the guilt written on my face? The sin oozing out from my pores?
"No, I'm not. The universe will right this wrong, trust me... For now, all I need to do is wash off that spray-paint, so you should go."
I feel queasy being so short with him, but his judgmental tone and almost accusatory attitude is starting to really grate on my nerves. Not to mention I need to undo what I just did before it is too late.
It might already be.
He falls back at my demand, and for a short second I see his emerald irises flash with something deeper and more painful than the rage he feels. He stands, speechless, as my heavy words hang in the air above us.
It is a stand-off neither one of us wants to be in and seems to have occurred for no reason. Regardless, we both stand firm, chests aching and feelings hurt.
I should thank him for his concern, ensure him that we are safe. But, my lips feel glued together, my throat clogged with molasses. I just need Harry gone, need to get to that hole in the dirt that is calling out to me.
Harry's shock fades quickly and is replaced by more indignation, "Fine. Do nothing, I don't care. Rely on some mystical force to fight your battles for you, like always. You aren't being kind or forgiving. You're being cowardly, Nova."
He spits the words out like poison and I brace myself against them, eyes stinging. I understand that he is just frustrated with me and my inaction. I can't be mad at him for caring, but I feel an overwhelming urge to cry. Not just over Harry's words, but over this entire awful day.
Seeing the shop so cruelly destroyed, welcoming such evil into my heart and the world, hearing Harry mock me once again. It's all too much.
If only he knew just how I decided to fight this battle... would he ever look at me the same again? Would he still call me cowardly?
When I glance back up, Harry is tugging at his wild curls and trying to say something. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, eyes stormy with regret. I remain stoic and silent, heart aching, as he decides against saying more and storms out of the tattered shop instead. The sound of the door slamming reverberates around the room and shakes my core.
I hesitate to move, the bitterness of our interaction twisting my gut even more. To think that just last week I had opened up to him about my family and laughed and bonded with him like a true friend... like something more. Now it feels like all our progress has been erased because of the actions of some cruel children.
I feel my frustration boiling over, but I tamp it down. Those brats may have caused great distress today, but they still don't deserve a hex looming over their heads.
No time to waste, I choose not to dwell on this awful interaction. Wiping my eyes and steadying my heart, I swiftly turn and head back to the garden.
Harry and I will make up like we always do, but the damage I had caused earlier by casting that hex is irreparable.
I retrace my steps through the maze-like garden, causally glancing over my shoulder at Nan's window. Halting mid-step, heart caught in my throat, I see her paisley curtains swaying lightly. Hoping it was simply the fan that made them dance I wait for them to move again.
The earth stands still and the curtains remain motionless, not even a shadow silhouetted behind them to be found. Cautiously, I continue my journey. The birds are suspiciously silent this time as I veer around the thick trunk of the tree.
I quickly realize why.
The spot where I placed the hexed poppet is now dug up once more, the entire jar missing.
I audibly gasp, color draining from my face as I spin around, searching for the culprit. It's impossible. I had only been gone for about 20 minutes, how could the jar have disappeared in that short time?
The only footsteps I see sunken into the soil are my own, and I search the surrounding vicinity for the hex or evidence as to what happened to no avail. The jar has just vanished.
Who took it and why? How did they know it was there in the first place?
My mind flashes back to last week when I stepped on that rusty nail that showed up out of nowhere, when I discovered my Hamsa hand suddenly upside down, and when I encountered that same snowy owl in front of my house for the second time.
That same ominous feeling washes over me and the hair on the back of my neck pricks up, as if I feel eyes on me... watching. Panic begins to crawl up my throat and my chest rises and falls rapidly as dread makes a home in my gut.
There is a sudden shift in the wind, a strong gust whipping long strands of hair in my face and making my dress stick to my thighs like glue. The once sunny day is now victim to dark and ominous clouds that hide the warmth and cause goosebumps to rise along my flesh.
A crow caws in the distance and the leaves whisper in the breeze as the sky is cast in gloomy darkness.
Something is not right. Something is very, very wrong.
I feel that heaviness upon my shoulders again, frightened of how the hex disappeared and who may have seen me place it under the tree in the first place. Though, I am more terrified at the thought that I cannot right my wrong.
It's too late now. The hex is placed and I cannot reverse it.
The gravity of this situation makes regret shroud me like a wave. The chill grows and the sky continues to darken and I wearily begin to head inside, searching for the signs of footsteps or trampled grass. Pondering the implications of what this means, I know I cannot break the hex now. It is up to the child to break his own curse by changing his ways.
More than that, whoever took the jar can now manipulate the hex if they so please. Make it stronger and crueler.
Whatever happens to that misguided child will be my fault and I have no way of stopping it. That realization hits me stronger than the gusts of wind pounding my back.
The bell chimes when I walk in, chastising myself for my stupidity and racking my brain for charms I could use to counteract the hex or locate it. I stride to the front door, hoping to find any evidence that someone came in while I was washing up.
Wind whistles through the broken window and the door easily swings open from the force of it. I find no evidence of intrusion, but discover something much more shocking instead.
The hateful words maliciously painted on the red door have been scrubbed clean, only a faint outline left. In their place is a note that flaps violently in the breeze.
With trembling hands, I pull it from the door and shut it behind me, blocking most of the wind. My eyes scan the page, heart lifting and falling all at once, as I realize who is responsible for the cleanup. Despite all that had happened today and the fear I now face towards the missing hex and towards myself, I feel a hesitant smile lifting up my lips for the first time today.
Sorry for what I said earlier, I was just scared. I can come fix the window tomorrow, if that's okay. Hope you can still make it to my birthday tonight.
-H xx
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Hey... How ya'll doin?
Whew, I think this is the longest i've gone without updating don't hate me... (': I've had a lot of shit going on, but my biggest setback happened recently and I am v sad. I moved out of my apartment in January and, somehow, misplaced my journal in the move. MY JOURNAL THAT HAS ALL MY OUTLINES FOR THIS STORY!
Soooo, it's made me very disheartened and angry bc I don't remember where I exactly I wanted to take this story per chapter. So we out here wingin' it now.
Regardless, I pushed myself to update bc I know how hard things are rn. I hope this can bring you a little solace and peace during this stressful time. I will try to be more consistent now that we are all stuck at home anyway.
I beg all of you to stay healthy and safe by practicing physical distancing and staying home. If you need someone to talk to please reach out.
Q: How are you all keeping busy during this time?
Q: What is your favorite song on Harry's album (yes, it's been this long)?
A: Nova would either be a Scorpio or Aquarius. I actually don't usually get along with Scorpios, but that's okay lol.
Q: Can you guess what sign I am lol?
I love you all xx