9G

The air in Salem, Massachusetts, during October of 1994 didn't just smell like autumn; it smelled like ozone, crushed pine needles, and stolen rain. Ten years prior, at the tender age of fifteen, Marceline and her closest friends had gathered in the deep, untamed woods behind the old Gallows Hill, cut their palms, and bound their spirits together. They were different from the stories told to tourists. They weren’t old crones, nor were they practitioners of boring, textbook magic. They were a new breed—strange, mercurial, and entirely unbothered by the mortal world’s rules.Now twenty-five, the coven had become a living urban legend in the coastal town. To the townspeople, they were a beautiful, terrifying enigma. They moved through the foggy October streets like a singular entity, a wave of dark velvet, heavy silver rings, and the faint, sweet scent of burning sage. They were known for their low, shared laughs that seemed to echo in empty rooms, and the way the streetlights subtly flickered whenever they walked past.Their sanctuary was a sprawling, hidden cottage buried deep within the Whispering Woods, a place shielded by powerful cloaking glamours that kept unwelcome eyes away. The cottage was the epicenter of their girlhood and their craft. Inside, the walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves overflowing with leather-bound grimoires, jars of pickled roots, and drying bundles of lavender and mugwort. Vinyl records from the Cranberries and Mazzy Star spun endlessly in the background, mixing with the bubbling sounds of heavy iron cauldrons.October was their peak season, a month dedicated entirely to running amok and celebrating their shared magic. Their days were filled with pure, unadulterated witchy adventures. They would spend crisp afternoons foraging in the thickest parts of the forest, searching for rare nightshade and moon-bloomed herbs, their fingers stained with berry juice and damp earth. They bonded over the shared secrets of the universe, laughing wildly as they tested new, unpredictable charms.When the sun dipped below the horizon, their true fun began. They wore coordinating, meticulously styled outfits—grunge-era slip dresses, heavy combat boots, and matching, midnight-black velvet cloaks that billowed behind them like shadows come to life. Under the cover of darkness, they would take to the skies on their sleek, enchanted brooms, soaring high above the foggy tree lines, the cold wind whipping through their hair as they laughed at the tiny, sleeping world below.Yet, even witches have earthly nuisances. Since their sophomore year of high school, the coven had been plagued by Michael, a local guy who had made it his life's mission to be a supreme, unmitigated dick. In high school, Michael was the arrogant varsity athlete who threw rocks at their cottage gates and loudly mocked them in the hallways, calling them "freaks," "goths," and "creepy dikes." Even now, at twenty-five, he hadn't grown up. He was still the town bully, lounging outside the local diner with a cocky, mean smirk, throwing sarcastic jabs at Marceline whenever she passed by, entirely ignorant of the literal cosmic power she held in her vintage purse.For a decade, Marceline had preached patience, preferring to let their mystery torment him. But on a particularly chilly mid-October night, after Michael purposely splashed muddy puddle water all over their matching velvet cloaks with his truck, Marceline decided that enough was enough.Returning to the warmth of the cottage, fueled by sweet red wine and the collective indignation of her sisters, Marceline laid out a fresh parchment. It was time for Michael to finally learn his place. They gathered around the central hearth, tossing handfuls of dried vervain and honey into the fire. Marceline crafted a highly specific, tailor-made spell designed to thoroughly dismantle his inflated ego.The curse wouldn't harm him physically, but it would completely strip him of his cocky, mean exterior. Marceline’s spell was designed to turn Salem’s biggest jerk into a literal, eager-to-please puppy for her. The next time he tried to utter a sarcastic insult, his mind would short-circuit, replaced entirely by an overwhelming, irresistible urge to follow Marceline’s every command, pant for her approval, and hopelessly shadow her every move like a loyal, submissive pet.With the spell cast and simmering in the ether, waiting to latch onto its target, the coven let out a collective, mischievous cheer. The petty grievance was handled, and the rest of the night belonged entirely to them. They grabbed their brooms, threw on their pristine backup cloaks, and ran amok into the Salem night, ready to dance under the full October moon, completely unbothered by the mortal boys below.