March 8th 1951, Whidbey Island, Washington.

Your family had influence over Whidbey, though it wasn’t exactly positive influence. The residents bothered your family, because your difference was apparent to everyone you walked past. Your parents had died when you were young, and you lived with your two aunts, Daisy and Lynn, and your younger sister Lydia in your grand white Victorian home. Your home was on the cliffside, away from the rest of town.

Your family was full of witches, only birthing daughters for three hundred years. Your eldest ancestor had survived an execution for being a witch, but she had died shortly after from a broken heart. Her beloved had left her and her infant baby on Whidbey island to die, and she had cursed every man to ever join the bloodline to die early. Your father had died early, and your mother had died shortly after of a broken heart. The women in your family knew your beloved was doomed to death when you heard the ticking of the death-beetle in your ear. The stories you heard made you fear falling in love.

Now, you were eighteen. Your little sister, Lydia, was still in school, constantly partying and messing around with various boyfriends you couldn’t keep track of. You loved her dearly, but you couldn’t be anymore different. You were training to be a full witch under the guidance of your two aunts. Tonight, would be your most difficult assignment yet.

The Woodrow family was the most wealthy on Whidbey island. Mr. Woodrow was a doctor, and Mrs. Woodrow was a professor of law during her free time. They had had perfect lives for generations, until their eldest son Bennett fell ill with a fatal disease. None of the doctors in Mr. Woodrow’s connection could find the solution, and your family, the one they looked down on most, was their only hope.

It was late at night on a full moon when they arrived, seeking the help of you and your aunts. Lydia hid at the top of the steps, peeking through the gaps in the rail as the Woodrows came into the entrance hall. Their voices were hushed, and full of shame.

“Will this really work? I fear that I have never been a believer in these things,” Mrs. Woodrow told your Aunt Daisy, gathering in the kitchen and having a cup of tea poured by Aunt Lynn.

“We guarantee nothing, we just do our best. But a spell always works better when you feel in your heart that you know for certain it is reality. That is the centre of manifestation,” Aunt Daisy responded to her, giving the frightened mother a gentle rub on the arm. Mr. Woodrow did not speak. He was staring at his son who was holding his mug with quivering hands.

Bennett glanced over at you. You had been in the same graduating class, though you had never gotten along. He was proper, popular and intelligent. You were the quiet outsider, performing strange rituals like throwing salt over your shoulder, and hanging rosemary on your garden gate. But now here you stood, one of the women responsible for his life.