The Witches of October

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1. The Storm

It was the 21st of October, and the storm to end all storms raged. The wind howled like wolves. Branches clawed at my window until the latch snapped, and the storm burst into my room with the smell of wet leaves and earth.

Mum hurried in, slammed it shut, and soothed me.
“Just an autumn storm, Jeremiah. Tomorrow you’ll play in the leaves and find conkers.”
She left the door ajar. A strip of golden light stretched across the floor, and I drifted to sleep.

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2. The Bang

BANG!
The door slammed shut. The light was gone.

I opened it again. Relief. Glow. Safety.
But as soon as I curled back into bed—
BANG!

The door slammed again.
“This is… weird,” I whispered.

And then the laugh came. Low. Bubbling. Sinister.

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3. The Witches

Shadows circled my ceiling lamp. Not shadows at all—women. Ancient, crooked, clothed in rags, hair wild, eyes gleaming. Each rode a broomstick.

Witches.

The yellow-eyed one rasped, “A pale morsel.”
The blue-eyed one giggled, “Plenty of flesh, though.”
The black-eyed one silenced them. “Enough. He knows why we are here.”

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4. The Name in the Dark

Her black eyes pierced mine.
“You have been expecting this, haven’t you? It makes the transition easier.”

The word echoed: transition.
I had heard it before. Whispered in dreams.
Sometimes, in the darkest hours, a name drifted to me: Herder.

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5. The Claim

The yellow-eyed witch raised her hand. A bolt of lightning cracked, freezing the air, blackening the bedpost. My heart seized.

The black-eyed witch stopped her.
“Patience, sister. Let him speak.”

And I did. Words not my own, yet rising as if from deep within:
“Ladies, I am Herder. I claim my destiny, immortality itself, and Earth—for Wicca.”

The witches shrieked with joy.

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6. The Mother

The door creaked. Mum stood there, pale with shock.
“Jeremiah, what are you saying?”

She ran to me, held my cheek. “You’re my son. Just my boy.”

But coldness filled me.
“My name is Herder. Jeremiah is no more.”

She pleaded, “But you are my son—”

My hand rose. The bolt leapt.
She crumpled.
The witches cheered.

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7. The Awakening

I woke with a gasp. Morning sunlight. Mum at the window, smiling.
“Just a nightmare. The storm’s gone. Look—perfect for collecting conkers.”

Relief surged. She was alive. Safe.
God bless her.

And yet—on the bedpost, a blackened mark.
As though lightning had struck.