Close Encounter of a Witchy Kind

Our kinds don’t usually mix. I saw her at the pagan festival. I didn’t want to get caught staring, but she was looking at me too.

I could feel her power; I’m a little addicted (some would say I collect powerful witches)—it was like nothing I’d sensed before.

Then she approached me.

She wanted to read my palm, she said. I asked her why; she told me she had a hunch about me, and wanted to see if it was on point.

I yielded up my hand, and when she touched me.... I had to hide as best I could the tremors quaking through my body. This was no ordinary witch.

“I was right.” She teased.

I gave her an eager, expectant look. She paused long enough for me to really doubt that she was being honest in saying she knew anything; but I was still trembling, so I waited on edge.

“Does she visit you often?” She queried.

We both knew who she was talking about, there was no need to feign ignorance. “They’re always here.”

“Keep them close,” she instructed; “they are your shield against the dark.”

Cutting, shadowed memories came into focus. “I know.”