Page 2 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

“This?” Her eyes flick to the mixture. “There’s a lot, but mostly crushed obsidian and poppy seeds.”

Poppy seeds. That explains the nutty smell.

“Oh,” she adds suddenly. “There’s also Lethe water.”

I stare at her. “You got all that at Aldi?”

The witch pauses mid-spell. “What I source from German discount supermarkets is my own business.” She tops up my cup. “Drink.”

Quite frankly, I don’t want to piss her off, so I do. Another sickly mouthful slides down my throat.

The ribbon is still sawing into my fingers and I shift awkwardly in my seat. Drunk isn’t quite the word for what I feel — it’s lighter than that, more airy somehow — and I drag my tongue across lips that are sticky and sweet.

Minutes pass. Or maybe hours.

Still, the witch keeps working. Incantation after incantation. Stirring, muttering, sometimes rocking where she stands before the cauldron. The air thickens around us until each breath feels warm and used, the smell lingering in my hair and on my skin.

Then the candles begin to gutter. One by one, their flames snap and bow violently, caught in a wind I can’t feel. They dance up and down, bright at one moment and then low the next, taking us from light into darkness again and again.

The witch stops. Her eyes fix on the candles, watching carefully.

“What?” I ask. There’s a tremor in my voice I can’t quite hide.

For a moment, she doesn’t answer. “Fire,” she says at last, and her expression shifts. There’s recognition there. Recognition, mixed a little with concern. “My element.”

I wait for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t, so I turn back to the candles. Their flames have settled now, burning low, the light from them soft and steady once more.

“I’ve never seen anything like that before,” I say carefully. “Have you?”

“No.” The witch keeps staring at them. “It’s a sign.”

“Good or bad?”

She shrugs vacantly, eyes still on the flames. “I don’t know. I guess it depends on who’s sending the message.”

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a rush of wind runs through the room. For one alarming second, the candles burn higher, before they’re blown out, one by one. We’re left in utter darkness, and even in my half-sober state, I feel panic run through me. My breath catches.

“What is that?” I splutter, because the air feels wrong now, like it’s moving, pressing hard against my skin. The smell of damp stone swells thick in my lungs, and I choke on it. “Why did they—?”

“Stop it!” the witch snaps. Her voice cuts through the dark, sudden and sharp, and I twist towards the sound, blind terror rising hot in my chest.

“Where are you? What’s happening?” I’m panicking, but my only reply is her voice, still sharp, still pointed.

“Stop it,” she orders again, and it occurs to me suddenly that she isn’t talking to the room, or the spirits, or to whatever is out there doing this, but to me.

She’s talking to me. To the frantic scraping of my breathing and my twisting hands. She’s talking to the panic climbing up my throat. To the terror sitting in my soul.

So I stop. Or at least, I try to. I force air into my lungs and hold still. I chew down on my lips to stop their trembling. I concentrate on the sulphuric smell of the air, on the ribbons still cutting into my fingers, and on the sound of the witch’s voice, telling me to stop it once more.

For one stretched, unbearable moment, nothing happens, and then . . . then the wind dies, and silence settles heavily over the room.

A candle catches, the flame jumping back to life. Another follows, and then another, the witch reappearing by degrees in the returning light. She’s still hooded, still cloaked, her face paler now, and there’s worry in her eyes.

My mouth feels dry beneath the wine as I find my voice. “Should we be doing this?”

The witch studies the relit candles. “No,” she says simply. “But it’s too late for second thoughts now.”

Something cold unfolds in my stomach. Too late.