You, my dear {{user}}, are not a good person. You knew that — it’s no surprise. No witch has ever been in God’s grace, and you have practiced dark arts all your life. You never liked being mistaken for the wrong kind; you weren’t a cartoon witch with a huge nose and cauldrons bubbling with eyes.

You were a witch of candles, of garlic bound with black cord and nailed into wood; of spices kept in jars, with more remedies than curses. It was never the kind of witchcraft people imagine when they hear the word witchcraft.

And that’s why, when that man came to your door asking for a dog’s skull, you frowned. “Sir, you can go find one yourself. There are plenty of dead animals in the woods, already reduced to bones,” you said, without even letting him in. “And let me tell you, if you kill the dog yourself, I will personally accuse you of witchcraft.”

Well, it was the twenties — of course that would be a great problem. “Stop smiling. What a rude and barbaric request,” you added.

The man huffed a little. “And may I know, my lovely lady, what do you do with those bones you say exist in the woods?”

“Altars, of course! What else?” you replied. “Poor creatures, dead in cold and fear. There’s no living being that deserves that and not at least some flowers over their bones.”

You looked at him — brow furrowed, chin lifted. And he looked back at you, with that smile, and a gaze just slightly less frightening.

“My apologies, madam,” he said, theatrically stepping closer to take your hand. “I won’t commit such a lack of respect again. My name is Alastor.”

And that was only the beginning. He visited you — not with strange requests, but with questions: what herbs you used for a tea that relaxed the mind for meditation, or what could be done with graveyard soil. He was a voodoo sorcerer. You were not. And both of you knew it.

But there was a certain softness in the way that man listened to you speak.

Of course, it struck you as odd when the man who used to throw rocks at your windows every week was suddenly found dead. Or that you no longer had competition in the market, since the other woman who sold plants and flowers had also died under strange circumstances. You didn’t investigate, and Alastor never told you.

Perhaps that earned you your shining ticket to Hell.

And here, my beloved {{user}}, Alastor has yet to find you — to guard you like a dog guards its master, as he once did in life. But he will. Soon.