There’s a card on your window when you wake up in the morning, eight pointed star and smaller, repeating fractals in alternating black and white and silver.
The scariest thing isn’t that you recognize the symbol–though it’s been years since you’ve seen it–but that the card is on your window.
On the inside of your window.
They were inside your house.
They’ve found you.
///
When you were younger, you were praised for being powerful, for being smart, for being charming.
“You’d be a wonderful spell caster,” your mother said.
“What about a summoner?” your aunt offered instead.
“Healers are always in high demand and greatly regarded,” your grandmother added, and you nodded in agreement.
You could have been anything, but you chose to be a diviner.
You chose wrong.
///
As the abilities of individual witches grew–tied to the earth or bloodlines or other tangible, reachable things–beliefs changed.
Religion became superstition became silly old bedtime stories.
The gods were forgotten and the divine faded from memory.
Or so the public thinks.
///
You can’t hide from them forever.
You never thought you could.
JackSGreyson Says 