This catacomb has lain untouched for centuries, the stone covering its entrance not having been moved since the last body was entombed here. The air is stale, old, stagnant, and thick with dust and decay. The silence is heavy and overwhelming, save for the stones and bones rattling and crunching beneath my boots. The pressure of being so far underground weighs on my chest and the darkness is nearly impenetrable. I carry a torch; the fire casting shadows against the walls and tombs. Skeletons wrapped in disintegrating adornments, surrounded by sentimental treasures. Not even the rats seem to be here anymore; any remaining corpse long past the time when they ever had any flesh on their bones. Unexpectedly, the moths come to my light. Awakening from their centuries-old slumber, to flit and dance around the warm flame, bumping into my hand, their soft wings brushing me in ancient dust. Have they been sleeping here among the dead all this time? Had they ever even seen a light before? If they had-would they even remember it? These moths must be in awe of me as the light-bringer, much how I am in awe that they are alive here, in this forgotten place, where there has only been darkness and silence.
Tag: spooky
Witch’s Kit Bag (10-9-18)
Her gnarled and wrinkled hands, long fingers like spider’s legs, nails like daggers, clutched the black leather bag and its two handles. It had served her well for centuries; larger on the inside than it appeared on the outside, and only ever weighing hardly anything. It sat aerodynamically upon the tail of her broom and always match her dress. She set the bag down and unclasped its buckle, rummaging through its contents for the supplies she needed for her spell work. It contained innumerable items, both ancient and modern, used for purposes both good and sinister.
Reference books and spell books and her book of shadows. Crystals and metals and minerals and gems. A portable iron cauldron, a broom repair kit, and charged water from a Solstice. Various bundles and satchels and jars of both fresh and dried, medicinal and poisonous, herbs and plants. Salt and honey and the powdered wood of various trees. Holy symbols and statues and effigies of Gods and Goddesses. Candles of beeswax in every color conceivable. A corn dolly, a voodoo doll, and figures formed of clay. Bottles of ink, and feather quills, and parchment for notes. Ancient rune stones, tea leaves, tarot cards, and a crystal ball. A curved boline, an athame, an axe, and a wand. Burlap sacks, a wicker basket, pruning shears, a mortar and pestle, Alchemist’s refining tools, and grain alcohol.
These items and so much more. Each one having numerous uses, each one gathered and well-used in her travels. Some fear her, some love her, but most know her work by name. So many years. So many people. So many spells and remedies and ceremonies. Her old hands find each item where it should be, and she lays them out, preparing her workspace, and centering her mind. A witch’s work is never done it seems.
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