Let me set the scene:
The temperature drops. The call of snow taps on your window. You’re inside at your desk, a steaming mug of lavender tea warming your hands. There’s a crocheted blanket draped across your lap and a half-burned candle near a plate of gingerbread crumbs.
You watch the cursor blink, the blank page pulling you deeper into the static, the lack, the nothingingness on the page. You sit there, dreaming of witchcraft, of magic, the long hallways of gothic castles, the taste of brimstone, the allure of the woods.
You slip into dream, into labyrinth, into storms, the whisper of darkness — the promise of ghosts a temptation you can’t ignore. You are not of this world. Spirit walker, witch. There are pomegranates in your eyes, curses on your lips. You are made of hellebore and fated queens, the broken bones of dragons.
When you breathe, you inhale the memory of wine-stained dresses, exhale the blood-soaked armor you left dripping on the road. You are legion and recluse, wolf and girl.
A fantasy, a mirage.
What will you do with endless possibilities before you? Will you stalk the rivers for Kelpies? Hunt vampires for their fangs? Have you studied the arcane texts, used a scrying glass under the light of a full moon? How often do you harvest foxglove? Have you memorized the road to Hell?
On Character
Your identity is a precious jewel, one you might be even searching for yourself. Are you human? Are you fae? Do you descend from royalty? What is your family lineage? How old was the eldest person in your family? Do you have any magic? What makes you different from your bloodline? How old are you? Do you identify within or outside the binary? If you had to lose your eyes or have one of your hands chopped off, which would you choose?
There’s an old legend about a looking glass that’s able to see your true self. Don’t stare into it. Show us who you are by your interactions with others. We want to see your personality, hear the lilt of your laugh.
Are you standoffish or inviting? Do you smile with your teeth or hide behind a bashful smirk? Where did you get the scar above your left eye? Do you always sparkle — or is that some kind of glamour a witch gave you? How do you like to wear your hair? What do your clothes say about you? Be honest with me: are you a cape person? That one’s important…
Okay, okay, I get that not everyone is as excited about fashion as I am, so let’s move on to the dagger strapped inside your boot. No? Okay, what about the diary in your knapsack? The one you found beneath the old willow tree west of The Bleeding River?
Yeah, I figured mentioning that might perk you right up. I saw you writing in it last night by the fire, your quill dipped in the green blood of a bog-bellied lizard. Are you still wearing the key around your neck? That’s foolish. I’d stitch it under your tongue. Harder for a thief to take it there.
On Worldbuilding
So, The Bleeding River. How did you hear about it? Do you have a map? I always wanted a map. Maybe I should start making one? Oh, you heard about it from the drunk down at The Forgotten Stag. Bold of you to go there. I don’t know many who venture through the Shadowlands to get there.
Heard they make a mean fried egg there, though. Do you like yours like that or do you prefer them runny? Not an egg person, I take it? What about tea? Black or with cream? Need sugar? Wait… you put what in there?
Goddess, no one should ever ruin a cup of tea with a shot of Pufflelick juice. That’s a defining character trait though, I’ll give you that. Says something about where you grew up, too. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Pufflelick before, so the fact that you caught one and managed to juice it is pretty impressive. Who taught you to do that?
You know, people always underestimate the importance of food and drink, but I’ll tell you a secret, we all love the smell of waterberries and honey bread in the morning — am I right? The crops, drink, and spices of a place tell stories all on their own, especially when you think about how often you can get them.
I mean, I know a witch who only collects the wings of Lunar Mothfaries on the new moon every other month, and she swears they are the only thing that bubbles her broom, if you know what I’m saying. Plus, a person’s favorite meal says a lot about them. I know I think of my gran every time I eat a warflookle sundae.
But that’s enough about me. I want to know more about where you grew up. City? Small-town? From the look of you, I’d bet you never worked a day in your life before showing up here. No? A Blacksmith? Not with those hands. Try again.
A Tea Mage? Now that I believe. You and your Pufflelick juice and all. What kind of plants grew around you? Was it an apprenticeship or schooling that taught you? I don’t know many people who do tea for a living, but who am I to judge?
You know what? I am judging. Just tell me how you caught the Pufflelick and we’ll call it even.
On Relationships
I’ll admit, when you showed up, all mysterious and red-toothed, I assumed you were fresh off a kill, hiding for your life. I had no idea the brand on your hand was a marriage seal or the red of your teeth was er…what did you call it again?
A Neverthought Stain? Do I even want to know what that means?
Yeah, you’re probably right. So is that why you left? Did they snore? Secretly love your mum? Sorry, hit a nerve on that one. Won’t mention the mum, then. Best to keep dad out of the picture, too, I assume?
What about siblings? Only child? Yeah, that’s a tough bit of luck. You lot usually get those harmful stereotypes attached to you. The Golden Child. The Chosen One. I have 38 sisters and two half-ghouls myself. No one barely knew I existed.
Lucky? Nah, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. Loneliness is its own kind of curse. Can’t imagine someone like you ever felt that, though. I used to sit at the Sapphire Rook Café and write love letters to people I only hoped would someone exist.
Wait. You were how old when you got your first kiss? Well, better late than never. Mine was a bit of a nightmare. I accidentally bit her lip, and it took two stitches and a blood transfusion to ensure she survived.
Was yours nice at least?
Lucky.
On the Journey
Speaking of partners, are you by chance looking for company now? I can’t offer much, but I’m good with the stars and I can make a fire right quick. I’ve also been known to dabble in The Sight now and again.
Yeah? Alright then, where are we going? The Blood Moors? Wait, are you serious? You know who lives there, right? The one with the red eyes and the red hair and the toothy, well you know. Sounds like a death wish. Does this have something to do with the Neverthought Stain? Ah, I figured as much…
Well, how far is it? I heard rumors you can only get there by dragon and it’s been quite some time since anyone has seen one of those. An underground tunnel? Are you sure? Yeah, I see the map, but I also see a whole bunch of notes about eight-legged monsters scurrying about there and I have to tell you, I have a lot of kinks but getting tied up with webs isn’t one of them.
Okay, I trust you. Well, I don’t trust you, but I don’t exactly have a lot of options beating down my door, and you seem…interesting. I think we’d make a good team, you with your dark past and me with my fiendish charm. Just promise me one thing.
If we survive, I want to be in the sequel.
And dammit, I want to see a Pufflelick!
About the author
Stephanie M. Wytovich is an American poet, novelist, and essayist. Her work has been showcased in numerous venues such as Weird Tales, Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories, Fantastic Tales of Terror, Year's Best Hardcore Horror: Volume 2, The Best Horror of the Year: Volume 8, and more.
Wytovich is the Poetry Editor for Raw Dog Screaming Press, an adjunct at Western Connecticut State University, Southern New Hampshire University, and Point Park University, and a mentor with Crystal Lake Publishing. She is a member of the Science Fiction Poetry Association, and an active member of the Horror Writers Association.
Her Bram Stoker Award-winning poetry collection, Brothel, earned a home with Raw Dog Screaming Press alongside Hysteria: A Collection of Madness, Mourning Jewelry, An Exorcism of Angels, Sheet Music to My Acoustic Nightmare, and most recently, The Apocalyptic Mannequin. Her debut novel, The Eighth, is published with Dark Regions Press.
Follow Wytovich via her Substack and on Twitter @SWytovich.
