Skyler

I woke to the unmistakable sound of Grandma yelling at Grandpa to leave the house.

For a split second, I thought it might have been a dream. But no—her sharp voice cut through the floorboards, and the heavy footsteps pacing below confirmed it.

I groaned, rolling over and dragging my pillow over my head. Ghosts didn't care about sleep schedules, and apparently, neither did Grandma.

From her bedroom below, I could hear her muttering in broken English and Welsh. The words were sharp and musical, even if I didn't understand them. But I didn't need a translator to catch the frustration in her voice.

"You've been dead fifty years, Marvin! Why can't you leave us alone?"

Her shout echoed through the house, louder than the morning birds outside my attic window.

I sniffed the air and sat up abruptly, panic prickling the edges of my sleep-hazed brain. The smell of burning sage was faint but distinct, creeping into my room like an unwelcome guest.

"Seriously, Grandma?" I muttered.

She knew better. The smoke made her lungs seize up, and the coughing fits that followed were nothing short of terrifying. I'd spent months convincing her to use the sage spray I bought her, or at least the cinnamon besom, but she'd refused both with a dismissive wave. The old ways are the best ways, she'd said. Apparently, those "old ways" included asphyxiating herself.

I shoved back the covers, yanked open the trapdoor to my attic, and called down, "Do I smell sage burning?"

Grandma appeared in her doorway, sage stick in hand, her wild curls escaping the bun she'd tried to wrestle them into. The smouldering bundle sent thin tendrils of smoke snaking into the air as she zigzagged it over her doorway. Her lips moved in quiet incantations as she traced invisible patterns through the space.

"Grandma!" I shouted. "Please tell me you didn't light that thing."

She paused, giving me a look that could curdle milk. "What's the alternative? Let your grandfather roam around like he owns the place?" She shook the smoking stick at me as if it were a weapon. "Skyler, when I married your grandfather, I vowed to love and honour him until death do us part. Well, death has happened, and he needs to bloody well part!"

"Ghosts don't usually listen to wedding vows, Grandma," I said, leaning on the edge of the trapdoor. "Besides, I think it's kind of sweet he still visits you."

"Sweet?" She snorted. "He left me with a baby and a mortgage. If he wanted to be useful, he shouldn't have gotten drunk and driven off a mountainside."

Her words hung in the air, heavier than the smoke. I knew the story by heart. Grandpa had gotten behind the wheel after a few beers, swerved off the road, and left his truck dangling in the branches of a spruce tree like a macabre Christmas ornament.

Grandma had been only twenty—a new bride, a new mother, and suddenly, a widow in a foreign country. Her family back in Wales had sent money to help her scrape by, but resentment had replaced grief long ago.

"Grandma," I said, softening my tone, "can you please put out the sage? You know it's bad for your lungs."

She ignored me, still waving the stick like it was her badge of honour.

"He creeps around like a house spider," she said, her voice sharp with irritation. "Last night, he scared me half to death—standing at the foot of my bed, babbling on about his mother's scrying bowl. Like I know where the bloody thing is!"

I glanced toward her dresser and couldn't help but sigh. The bowl sat there in plain sight, overflowing with white ash and cigarette butts.

"It's on your dresser," I said, deadpan. "You've been using it as an ashtray."

Grandma squinted at the bowl, then shrugged. "Ah, well. It's an easy mistake to make."

"Grandma," I said, pinching the bridge of my nose, "you need new glasses."

"Oh, poo-poo. My eyesight is perfectly fine." She extinguished the sage stick with a practiced twist, then tipped the bowl's contents into the wastebasket. "It's your grandfather who's the problem. He's got nothing better to do than mither over his mother's bloody bowl."

I sighed again, more deeply this time. "And please don't put the bowl in the dishwasher again."

She waved a dismissive hand. "Fine, fine. Take it to the creek and cleanse it. But if it's a harvest moon tonight, you'd better bless the pumpkins while you're at it. They're so small they could be mistaken for oranges."

I smiled despite myself. The garden hadn't done well this year, and the pumpkins were pitifully undersized. "I'll do the blessing tonight," I promised.

"Good. And use the blessing my troll friend gave me," she added casually. "Did I mention he has a very handsome son? His mother was a siren, so he's got the looks."

My smile dropped. "Grandma..."

"What? He's single. Works in his father's witchcraft shop. Seems like a good match for a smart young lady like you."

"I'm good, thanks," I said quickly. "The forest gives me everything I need."

"Except a man."

"Okay, this conversation is over," I said, pulling the trapdoor shut with finality.

It had always been like this, for as long as I could remember—just me and Grandma.

My mother had been a free spirit, as Grandma always put it. A wanderer. A dreamer. The kind of person who lived for adventure and cared little for roots. She disappeared when I was just a baby, leaving nothing behind but a faded photo and a vague memory for Grandma to spin into bedtime stories. Since then, it had been the two of us, tucked away from the world in our little cabin on the edge of the forest.

Grandma homeschooled me, teaching me everything she knew about the old ways. We grew our own food, foraged in the woods, and preserved enough to last us through the harsh winters. We made poultices, tinctures, and ointments from herbs and flowers, selling them to a few trusted suppliers in town. It was a simple life, self-sufficient and grounded in nature.

For the most part, I loved it.

Our cabin was surrounded by towering trees, the kind that swayed in the wind and whispered ancient secrets. The dirt path that led to the main road felt like a line separating our world from everyone else's. There was freedom here—the kind that came from walking out your front door and stepping directly into the wild, where no one could tell you who to be or how to act.

But recently, that freedom had started to feel like a cage.

Grandma had been bringing up the subject of men more and more lately. At first, I'd brushed it off as her usual meddling. She'd always been half-serious about wanting great-grandbabies, casually throwing out the names of eligible men in town.

But lately, her tone had shifted. There was a nervous edge to her comments now, a kind of desperation that wasn't like her.

It wasn't about babies anymore. It was about me.

True, I was twenty-one and had never been asked out by a man. That part didn't bother me as much as it probably should have. I knew I was odd. The kind of odd people didn't know how to deal with, let alone fall in love with. But Grandma's sudden urgency made it clear that she was worried—worried about what would happen to me when she wasn't here anymore.

And the truth was, I was worried too.

I'd never let myself think about it before, but the thought of being completely alone in this cabin, miles away from anyone who might care, was terrifying. I didn't know how to live in the world outside these woods. I barely knew how to speak to people without feeling like I was saying the wrong thing. The few times we went into town, I could feel the stares, the whispers.

"Witch girl," they'd call me behind my back, thinking I couldn't hear.

And maybe they weren't wrong. I was a witch, in my own way. But hearing it said like that, with disdain and mockery, made the walls of my chest feel too tight. It reminded me that I didn't belong—that I'd never belonged.

What scared me most wasn't just the loneliness. It was the idea that I might never escape it.

What would happen to me when Grandma was gone? Would I spend the rest of my life here, wandering the woods alone, fading into the background until even the trees forgot I existed?

I shook my head, trying to push the thought away, but it clung to me like a shadow.

I loved this life—the cabin, the woods, the old ways—but I couldn't help feeling like I was standing on the edge of something. A cliff, maybe. Or a chasm. And I had no idea what was waiting for me on the other side.

I got dressed and made my way to the kitchen.

It was my favourite room in the house. The air was warm and alive with the mingling scents of herbs, spices, jams, and the faint tang of woodsmoke. Sunlight streamed through the window, catching the trailing vines of ivy that Grandma insisted were "good luck."

The room felt like a sanctuary, cluttered with jars of dried flowers, bundles of lavender hanging from the beams, and baskets filled with apples waiting to be turned into cider. It was chaos, yes—but it was our chaos.

I wandered over to the log-burning stove, the kettle already starting to hum on its surface. Lifting the lid of a bubbling pot, I peeked at what Grandma had been cooking—wild berry jam, its rich, dark colour gleaming like a jewel.

My mouth watered at the sweet, tart aroma. Winter was fast approaching, and this jam, along with the rest of our preserves, would have to last us until spring. Living off the land meant careful planning and hard work, and though I loved it, this year had been... challenging.

The pumpkins, for one, had been a disaster. Pitifully small and shriveled, they looked more like clementines than gourds. Grandma swore they'd been cursed.

"They're puny because something wicked has taken root," she'd declared, stomping through the garden banging two large saucepans together. "Spirits hate loud noises. That's how you drive them out!"

I'd watched from the porch as she clanged a pot and pan together, her wild curls bouncing with every emphatic stomp through the pumpkin patch and orchard. Now that the noisy part was done, it was my turn to finish the job.

The blessing lay waiting on the kitchen table. I set the jam spoon down and picked it up, curious.

Immediately, I frowned. This didn't look right.

Pumpkin blessings were usually sweet and cheerful, full of rhyming couplets about bountiful harvests and gratitude for the earth's gifts. This... wasn't that.

The paper was old, its edges curled and yellowed, the ink faded but sharp, written in a language I didn't recognise. The letters were spindly and angular, twisting across the page like skeletal vines.

"What is this?" I murmured to myself.

Next to the blessing sat a small scrap of paper with the instructions: simple enough. I only needed a single black candle to perform the ritual.

I glanced back at the blessing, an uneasy knot forming in my stomach. There was nothing cutesy about it. It didn't feel like something meant to nurture pumpkins or bring joy to a humble garden.

It felt... wrong.

"Grandma, are you sure this is the blessing?" I called out, holding the paper gingerly between my fingers.

"Is it the one on the table?" her voice floated back from the living room, accompanied by the rhythmic creak of her rocking chair.

"Yes..."

"Then that's the right one," she replied, her tone as casual as if we were discussing the weather.

I stared at the page again, my brow furrowing. Where on earth had she even found this? The letters looked more like something out of a cursed grimoire than a sweet pumpkin blessing.

"Alright," I muttered under my breath. "If you say so."

Setting the paper back on the table, I turned toward the cupboard under the stairs. The black candle was tucked away in there somewhere, waiting for me. Normally, it was a place I avoided unless absolutely necessary.

The cupboard was practically alive, a dark, cramped space that had become its own ecosystem. Spiders spun their webs across jars of dried herbs, and moths fluttered in the stale air. It smelled of dust, old wood, and forgotten spells.

I opened the door cautiously, armed with a pair of salad tongs to shift aside the chaos inside.

"Please don't let anything jump out at me," I muttered under my breath.

The candle box was buried under a mound of jars and pouches, half-hidden behind a tangle of cobwebs. A particularly large spider perched on the box, its many eyes glinting in the dim light.

"Please move," I said, my voice low but firm.

For a moment, the spider stayed put, as if debating my request. Then, with deliberate grace, it scuttled back into the shadows of its web.

"Thank you," I whispered, carefully extracting the black candle from the box.

Once free from the cupboard, I set the candle in the centre of the kitchen table. The house felt different now, heavier, as if the air itself was holding its breath. I unfolded the blessing, my eyes scanning the jagged, curling script.

The words weren't in English—or any language I'd ever seen before. They looked strange, otherworldly, and just reading them made my head thrum.

"What have you given me, Grandma?" I muttered, shaking off the creeping unease.

I struck a match, lit the candle, and watched as the flame flickered to life. Shadows stretched long and deep across the room, twisting unnaturally with the movement of the flame.

Taking a steadying breath, I began to read.

The first word came out awkward, thick and guttural. It didn't feel like it belonged in my mouth. The second word was worse, as if the syllables resisted being spoken.

As I stumbled through the strange script, the air in the room grew colder. A faint breeze swept past me, carrying with it the faint smell of rain.

Outside, the wind began to rise, howling through the trees.

I hesitated, my fingers tightening on the paper. But I pushed on, my voice trembling as I forced the strange words past my lips.

The rain started then, soft at first but quickly escalating into a torrential downpour. The wind slammed against the windows, rattling them in their frames.

With every word I spoke, the storm intensified.

The candle flame flickered wildly, threatening to go out. My voice wavered, but I didn't stop. I was almost done.

The last word felt like a knife dragging across my tongue. I spat it out, then leaned forward and blew out the candle.

The flame vanished.

The storm outside stopped.

The silence that followed was absolute. No wind. No rain. Not even the usual creaks of the house. Just... nothing.

I stood there, frozen, the paper still clutched in my hand. The air was thick, charged, and I swore the shadows on the walls were moving, twisting in ways they shouldn't.

Something had changed.

I couldn't explain how I knew, but I could feel it. The blessing was anything but ordinary.