A Meditation on the Witch
The witch is a shapeshifter, a marvelous creature who evolves with the times. Those who fear her have burned her at the stake, hung her body from the gallows, and drowned her in the sea—none of which were able to properly kill her because the witch is more than a woman, more than a body. The witch is an idea, a representation of autonomy, freedom, and resistance. Someone who isn’t afraid to be different or alone, who sees beyond the veil, who walks beneath the moon. A witch is a person, regardless of gender, who knows what it’s like to be persecuted, who speaks in poetry, works beyond the pockets of capitalistic greed, who respects and understands that we belong to nature, not the other way around.
Growing up, you might have met her when she pressed a highly toxic copper-based makeup to her skin and screamed with flying monkeys while her face burned on set. Or as a teenager, perhaps you watched The Craft, not knowing that during the beach scene, the tides were especially high, unpredictably savage as the girls called the corners and the waves crashed their set. Witches were in our fairy tales, our history books, in the paranormal romances we hid from our parents. They were our next-door neighbors, the weird noise in the woods, the warnings from the church, and the idea that maybe, just maybe, there was something more, something indescribable out there if only were we brave enough to reach out and grab it.
The witch is neither friend nor foe, but she is present in all moments of magic and mystery, her shadow climbing walls and crawling in the dirt. If a cackle hits the air, a ritual gets written down, or a circle of unity forms, she is there, watching, waiting, silently whispering in our ears. Horror has condemned her, uplifted her, given her dance studios and a coven run by a black goat. It has fed her children, built her houses, and killed everyone who tried to tame her. Culture aligns her with the devil because the devil answers to no one, and a woman without reins is . . . unspeakable.
So, we write to her, invite her in to play. She teaches us empathy with every broken neck, cautions children against strangers with each sugar-spun lie. We cry to her over tea, sharing stories and scars, spread our legs to herbs and silver, speak names into thorns. When we conjure the witch, we unlock something in ourselves, something hidden, repressed. Through her, we embrace our rage, expel our shame. She is permission. Permission to want, to desire, to accept, to be.
Horror is a genre that thrives on giving in to our intrusive thoughts. Touch the flame. Lick the poison. Read the book. Open the door. The witch is there in every action. She is the fire, she wrote the book, brewed the poison, put the sigil on the door. To know her is to fear her, and to fear her is to respect her. That’s why when we write her, there are a few things we should keep in mind:
Love spells are not consent. You don’t need a coven to practice. Nature always provides. Not everyone follows the threefold rule. Your voice is the greatest tool you have. You don’t need to spend money to do rituals. The elements are there to help you. Power can be addictive. Intention is everything. Sometimes getting what you want isn’t a good thing. Always have salt in your kitchen. Never use a welcome mat. Don’t leave flames unattended. Don’t open doors if you’re not ready to see what’s on the other side.
That said, as writers, we are agents of chaos. It’s why our characters make pacts with demons, use Ouija boards at slumber parties, break into abandoned houses, and do blood rituals with their friends. To that, I say live deliciously . . . just don’t be a cliché. Move beyond the hyper-sexualized siren, the wart-riddled hag. Know your history and your boundaries. Hold people accountable for their actions. And most importantly, have fun.
After all, people don’t sell their souls for nothing.
Five Must-Read Witch Novels:
Carrie by Stephen King: Let’s set the scene: a child bleeding her way into womanhood who starts to move objects with her mind; a young girl drowning in religious trauma at the hands of an abusive mother; a woman drenched in the blood of an animal sacrifice turned humiliation ritual. No matter how you look at it, even if you take the telekinesis out of it, Carrie is a witch, the quintessential outsider who just happens to burn everyone else at the stake.
We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson: After the death of almost their entire family, Constance, a kitchen witch turned mother, takes care of her sister Merricat, who spends time studying poisonous mushrooms, enacting protection rituals, and burying household objects in the backyard. This beautifully gothic book wears many faces when it comes to the witch: the feared, the spinster, the fairy tale hag. We know Shirley Jackson can do no wrong, so read this dark little book and then treat yourself to her short story “The Witch.”
I, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem by Maryse Condé: So many of us were raised on the Salem witch trails yet know nothing about Tituba. What Condé did in this book was research Tituba’s life and give her a voice that has so long been silenced. While this slants more historical fiction than horror, it’s a must-read for anyone seeking to understand the history of the witch.
Cackle by Rachel Harrison: Harrison is the queen of female friendships in horror, and this novel is a perfect example of it. Packed with witchy cooking, a spidery familiar, and a few ghosts in the basement, this is a fantastically dark, cozy read that will leave you reaching for the rest of Harrison’s catalog.
Circe by Madeline Miller: It’s hard for me to not think of mythology when I think of the witch, and Miller’s feminist take on the character Circe left me breathless and in awe. This book is literal magic. Its poetic take on legacy, learning, and embracing our own unique power is unmatched and not to be missed.
