The tower clock struck 1:00 am. The cold of the Chicago night was more than just winter’s bite. I raced toward the train station, feeling a presence behind me. The sensation gnawed at my nerves, each step amplifying my mounting dread. I stopped and turned around, scanning the empty street. Nothing. Only the faint hum of distant traffic. Yet, the cold was strange, unnatural even for a Chicago winter. It was as if I’d opened a freezer, and the frigid air engulfed me, and the night itself held its breath, waiting.
I descended into the subway station, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The chill seemed to seep into my bones. God, I would give anything for a hot cup of tea. I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets, trying to preserve any remaining warmth.
“Got a light?” A deep male voice shattered the silence. I jolted, my heart leaping to my throat. A dim light revealed a towering figure emerging from behind a poster post. It wasn’t a man—it was a horse-like creature walking on two legs. Four deliberate steps, each click-clop of hooves echoing ominously, brought him closer. He wore black velveteen trousers and a perfectly tailored tuxedo jacket, and an oversized bow tie. A long wool scarf that hung almost to his knees completed the odd vintage wardrobe. His horse head was real, crowned by a magician’s hat.
“No,” I mumbled, my breath visible in the now Arctic air.
“No, you don’t,” he confirmed, his voice a melodic contradiction to his horrifying appearance. “But you have something else I want.”
Terror surged through me. His eyes—or rather, the dark, smoke-filled voids where his eyes should be—seemed to pierce my soul. His cigarette lit itself, the ember glowing in the dim station. I was paralyzed, unable to look away.
“What do you want from me?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, a blend of fear and curiosity.
A long pause. He stepped closer, the click-clop of his hooves unnaturally loud. I stepped back, but he matched my movements perfectly.
“Your grandmother never told you the truth. You left before your 17th birthday, never to see her again before she died,” he said, his voice unsettlingly calm. “Your grandmother was a witch. And so are you.” He smiled revealing his half-rotten yellow teeth. The stench emanating from his mouth was hardly bearable.
My mind reeled. “What do you want from me?” I demanded, the words tasting of panic.
“We need you. You need us. Join us, and…” The roar of the approaching train drowned his words. Without a glance, he jumped onto the tracks, disintegrating into a cloud of smoky dust as the train barreled through him.
I bolted up the stairs, adrenaline turning my fear into flight. No way was I getting on that train! My heart hammered in my chest as I ran through the city’s early stirrings, barely registering my surroundings. Familiar landmarks blurred past me. Somehow, I found myself in front of my building. Had I really run five miles?
I stopped, gasping for breath, when I noticed something was off. Looking down, I was shocked to see my feet hovering inches above the ground. I wasn’t just standing; I was floating, suspended in the air. Panic escalated to a new high. This was impossible! But as I willed myself to descend, I gently touched down on the sidewalk. The realization hit me like a lightning bolt: I was a witch! This wasn’t a dream or a hallucination—it was real.
I stood paralyzed, staring at the lake. My thoughts raced, heart pounding with the shock of the revelation. Words about my grandmother echoed in my mind, the truth undeniable. I was a witch. Maybe that’s why people felt intimidated around me.
* * *
The sound of a helicopter roused me. My hands and feet were numb from cold. I was still by the lake, the sunrise partially reflecting in the calm waters. Had I fallen asleep standing there? The memory of the subway encounter felt like a bizarre dream.
“Good morning,” said the doorman as I entered the lobby.
Awaiting the elevator, I smiled at the absurdity of being a witch. My grandmother, a tiny yet formidable woman, always seemed to have superhuman energy. Barely five feet tall, but her presence was like a force of nature. She lived on a farm her entire life. I recalled her talking to animals, particularly her cow while milking. Could she have been a witch? The thought of her hidden objects, candles, and mirrors now seemed less whimsical and more significant. I have a vague memory of an accident during a hot summer harvest, where she lifted a horse! I never knew how she had found the strength.
Suddenly, the elevator stopped, and an intense light pierced through a small opening above, stretching like an aurora. It grew blinding.
“Your thoughts are all correct, my dear,” came my grandmother’s calming voice.
“Grandma?” I whispered, feeling like a child again. The sweet scent of her apple pie filled the air. Tears streamed down my cheeks. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too. I never got the chance to tell you, but you always had a sense of it, didn’t you?”
“Are you really a witch? Am I?”
“There isn’t much time left. You must discover your powers quickly. He wants you, and you must find your abilities before he does.”
“Grandma, what are you talking about? What powers? How do I know my powers?” I was overwhelmed with questions. “I was flying. Is this my power?” I asked, curious.
“Flying is a natural gift, just like playing with light. The four elements—Water, Earth, Wind, and Fire—are your playful friends, too.” I sensed a smile in her warm voice. “Animals and plants are gifts of the Earth. They are already in your heart. Keep them close. But you must find your own unique powers,” she emphasized.
“How?” I was desperate.
“You must find a way. Find them before He does.” She paused. A small box landed in my hand. “Accept being a witch before sunset. There is a full moon tonight. As a sign of acceptance, put one of the rings on before the sunset and the moon rises. If not, you decline it. The rings not only bestow powers but also protection. Wear at least one on your ring finger.”
“But if you accept it, there is one trade-off: You must give up love. It’s hard for witches to find real love—not impossible, but difficult and impractical.” She sighed. “Remember our relationship with your grandfather? Witches are cursed. We can’t find true love.”
This was too much for me. My head was spinning.
“I have so many questions…” I started, but she cut me off.
“You can do so much good, dear.”
Her voice faded, replaced by the hum of the elevator. My mind was racing. Could I embrace this legacy? Did I have a choice? I held a box of rings in my hand. I couldn’t stop staring at them. The box emitted a soft glow. Then I looked down at my feet planted on the floor. I rose onto my toes, pointed them, and pushed hard. And it happened. I took off, levitating a few inches above the ground, just like before. This was real. I was a real witch! That would explain so many mysterious things. As the elevator door slid open, I floated out of it toward my door.
I spent the entire day in front of the window, staring at the lake, rewinding my life in my head, while holding the box with rings in my hand. The realization that I was a witch came with a heavy burden. What are my gifts and powers? What will I do with them?
The sun began to touch the horizon, and the hardest question still lingered: Am I willing to give up love—the one thing I have always wanted so much? But what if I am really cursed and there is no love for me? The thought terrifies me. To give up on love feels like giving up on a part of my soul. Yet, love has evaded me for so long. Can I keep chasing something that might never find?
I took a deep breath and opened the box. One by one, I slipped the rings on my right ring finger. “I will be married to myself,” I whispered. The words felt both empowering and heartbreaking.
As the last ring settled, I felt a surge of energy. I was a witch. I had chosen power and purpose over a dream that seemed out of reach. Perhaps this was my own form of devotion, a commitment to a different kind of life, one where I could still do good, even if it meant giving up on love. In that moment, the sun immersed in the lake. I watched it disappear, casting a warm orange glow.
© 2024 WolverineLily 🌺
This is my first stab at a fantasy piece. I drew inspiration from the cold Chicago Metro and my wild imagination.
Wolverine Lily 