The nightmare came back again last night.
Same scene. Same shadows. The same silence that presses against my chest like a weight I can't shake. It never changes. Not a single detail shifts. It's like watching a memory on repeat—one I don't remember living, but one that refuses to let me forget.
I woke up with my sheets tangled around my legs and the taste of ash in my mouth.
It's Saturday, and the sun is already warming the windows, but I'm stuck at the Pagan Academy. Not that I mind. Today's lesson is on charms, one of the few classes I've been looking forward to. My mother uses charms all the time around the house, though she's never let me watch her make them. She says some things are better learned through experience.
We have charms tucked into every corner of our home. My mother doesn't know I've noticed them, but I have. There's one above every doorframe, woven into dried herbs and bound with twine. I remember the first time I saw one—lilac, dried, and brittle, hanging above the living room archway. I thought it was just decoration. I pulled it down and tossed it outside.
My mother came home and lost her mind.
She stormed through the house like a hurricane, demanding to know who had touched her wards. I never confessed. The next day, a new bunch of lilacs was hanging in the same spot.
Today, our professor walks from desk to desk, guiding us through the process of casting a basic protection charm. We were told to bring a pendant, something personal, something we'd wear every day. I brought a small silver crescent moon on a leather cord. It used to belong to my grandmother.
The irony isn't lost on me.
As we begin to chant softly, our voices weave together like threads of the same fabric. The air starts to hum with energy, and for a moment, I feel it—the magic, the tingling sensation of electricity in my blood. The professor walks around the room and stops at my desk, inspecting my charm, nodding approvingly, and marking my grade in her ledger.
Top of the class. Again.
It's not about pride. It's about freedom. The better I perform, the sooner I'll be allowed to practice unsupervised. No more waiting for permission. No more rules.
My mother made it clear: if I wanted to attend a public college, I had to keep up with my magical witch training. No excuses. No missed classes. And absolutely no letting my "mundane life" interfere with my responsibilities.
She pays the student loans. She makes the rules.
So, I balance both worlds: college during the week, the academy on weekends, and a part-time job at the local bookshop in between. It's a lot, but I manage. The bookshop is my sanctuary, and Mr. Henderson, the owner, is practically family. He lets me borrow new releases before they hit the shelves. It's like having my own private library.
My magical training is focused on white witchcraft. Healing, protection, and herbalism. I'm especially good at making herbal remedies, though they smell like something that crawled out of a swamp. The classes that have us do chants are my favorite part of the day. There's something powerful about speaking ancient words and feeling the magic around you respond.
Learning more and more at the academy I've come to find there are some things I want to try, but I don't want my family to know. I've been practicing scrying in secret, hiding the bowls of water and black glass where no one will notice. Most days, it feels impossible to do. The surface refuses to ripple with meaning, and the shadows refuse to take shape. I stare until my eyes ache, until a dull throbbing spreads behind my temples, and still the visions slip away. Frustration gnaws at me, but I keep going.
My grandmother was a master scryer; she could draw whole lifetimes out of a single drop of ink. People said the gods themselves whispered through her mirrors. I can't let that legacy end with her.
Her name is Lottie.
She was once the pride of our coven, respected, sought after, and almost untouchable in her wisdom. People used to line up for her counsel, carrying offerings and questions they swore only she could answer. But then something shifted. A shadow settled over her, slow at first, then swallowing everything. Visitors stopped coming. My mother stopped saying her name. And I stopped setting foot in her house.
I used to visit her every Wednesday. It was tradition. She'd brew tea, tell me stories older than the stones, and help me untangle my dreams. But one Wednesday, I came to her with a vision I couldn't shake. I don't remember the details anymore; she made sure of that.
It's been four years since I last saw her.
Not since the basement.
She told me she needed to see deeper. She led me down into the basement. And I trusted her. I always had.
The moment I stepped inside, the lock clicked shut. She began to chant in a language I didn't know, the air turning so thick it scorched my lungs. My head swam, the stone floor rushing up to meet me.
When I opened my eyes, I was lying in her guest bed, the sheets damp with sweat. She told me I had fainted and that she'd only been helping me remember. Her voice was gentle, almost convincing.
But I knew better.
Something was gone. Not just the vision, I could feel the hollow space it left behind, as if she'd carved out a piece of me and kept it for herself.
I never told my parents. I never told anyone. And I never set foot in her house again.
The pendant I have now—the silver crescent moon—was hers. She gave it to me the day I turned thirteen and said it would protect me from "the things that live between dreams." I didn't understand what she meant. I still don't.
But I'll wear it anyway.
My first memory of magic is much older. I was six. My sister and I were in the backyard, digging for treasure. We'd seen a show at school where a man cracked open a rock and found crystals inside. We were determined to find our own.
We snuck into Dad's shed through a hole in the back wall. After inspecting every tool, we decided the hatchet was the sharpest. Perfect for breaking rocks.
We found one round, gray, and promising. I reached for it, and my sister, in her excitement, swung the hatchet.
I told her to stop. She didn't hear me.
It happened so fast. I didn't even feel it at first. Just a strange numbness. Then I looked down and saw it—my finger, lying in the grass.
I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I just walked into the house, blood trailing behind me.
My mother met me at the door, panic in her eyes. She rushed me to the sink, ran cold water over the wound, and pulled out a jar of something thick and green. It smelled like death. She smeared it over the stump, chanting softly under her breath.
My father drove me to the hospital. The doctor reattached the finger with ease. No pain. No complications.
Later, I learned the chant was a healing spell. The paste was an old family remedy. My mother had saved my finger—and maybe more.
That was the day I realized magic wasn't just stories. It was real. It was in my blood.
And now, as I sit here in the academy classroom, my newly enchanted pendant warm against my skin, I wonder what else is buried in my bloodline. What other secrets has my family kept?
Lottie's name still stalks my dreams, rasping through the dark in a voice that isn't hers. Her eyes follow me even there, black, bottomless, with something ancient flickering behind them. I remember the way she looked at me that day in the basement, her gaze hollow of love, stripped of anything human. She didn't see her granddaughter. She saw prey. She saw a vessel. She saw something she could unmake and claim for her own.
I think she's the one who put it there. The nightmare is always the same.
A door. A voice. A choice.