West of Louisville, KY

Journal Entry – September 20, 1871

I have not thought of that night in years—the night I stood at the edge of the black wood, invited into the circle of women who called themselves sisters. Their lanterns burned like harvest moons, suspended from carved staffs etched with bone symbols and crescent blades. Their whispers stitched the darkness with words older than scripture, syllables that left frost on the ferns.

I felt the pulse of the earth beneath my bare feet—a heartbeat slower than time, older than any church bell. They anointed my palms in ash, oil, and bloodroot, then pressed them to a stone etched with spiraling sigils. I was told to speak his name—not aloud, but inward, so the wind might steal it like smoke through the trees.

There was a man then. His face still lingers like a half-burned photograph—he had promised loyalty and delivered only betrayal. The coven listened in silence as I threaded his name into the air. They handed me a sprig of dried hemlock and a length of red silk, wrapped around an obsidian pin. I tied the knot with trembling fingers, and pierced the earth with the pin at my feet. The forest went still. The stars dimmed. Something opened.

Three nights later, the same wind brought news of his fever. A blaze took him before dawn. The sisters never spoke of it, nor did I. But every October, the scent of tallow, sage, and scorched pine awakens that memory like an ember in my ribs. I still tell myself it was coincidence. But the night does not forget. And neither do I.

Tonight, the lanterns flicker again. I feel the weight of that first hex settle across my shoulders like a cloak. The season turns. The old sigils whisper. Beneath my skin, a hunger stirs. A current of power, rising like tidewater through bone. It murmurs secrets yet unclaimed—and a strength that longs to be fed.