Season of the Witch

HELLO YOU.

Yes—you. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? I noticed the others that came before. Nosey neighbors with greedy fingers, always certain the hand they pull back can still play piano.

Relax. You’re safe. I like you. So much that I’m going to give you an introductory course on what you’re about to experience.

Maraeth 101—class is in session.

:≡≡≡≡≡: ☉ ☉ :≡≡≡≡≡:

THE ARM LIFTS ON COMMAND and moves without touch. Beneath it, black vinyl spins around a platter, the light cutting across the lines as they spiral towards the center. The needle lowers into the groove, a small surrender, and a low hum warms the room. Then the music begins—Lana Del Rey’s Season of the Witch.

The speakers bleed psychedelic haze—strings drifting like mist, guitar chords bending slow and low, her voice languid as a spell half-sung. The sultry tones drift across the hardwood, coil between rows of heels, and stir the hems of dresses hanging in recessed alcoves. The notes flutter through lace, brush across leather, and fill the whole room with the song until it’s breathing in rhythm with the haze.

I stand before the mirror, skin bare, nothing between me and the glass but the smoke of the song. Arms raised, shoulders set. This body was perfection long before I became what I am, before I became the Eater of Dreams. Look at the shape in the glass, at the answer it gives when you ask the question: am I beautiful?

See: sun-kissed skin, unbroken, without scar or stain. See: flesh carved into muscle dense as stone, corded with power. See: the hourglass—curving past full breasts, cinched at the waist, flaring into thick hips that anchor me to the floor. See: the eyes, my eyes, kaleidoscopes rimmed in black voids, each one a star collapsing inward.

The melody shifts, drawing the room into tempo. The mirror holds my gaze as dresses stir—an unseen hand skimming the row until one is chosen. The velvet hanger drips, letting the straps slip free without fight. A long line of crushed-berry silk drifted towards me, like starlight caught in my singularity.

It slides over my arms first, then runs down my body like spilled rosé, sticking as it slides, tracing every line before settling.

I decide on the Manolo Blahnik suede mules. From the shelf, they answer, slipping free to come wait at my feet. I step into one, then the other, as the dress’s hem cascades softly down my stretching legs to the rising heels.

You got to pick up every stitch, the singer croons in a breathy falsetto as the dress arranges itself, adjusting the asymmetrical necklace to lay just right across my chest, and the hemlines smooth to fit the shape of my body.

The chorus unfolded, like falling ash after a fire, or a wish you aren’t certain you wanted granted as I pluck rings from the air and slip them on one by one until each finger is adorned. Nails harden, flushing with color to match the dress, French tipped and just long enough to slice. Diamond studs. A gold cuff with a dozen emerald eyes that glimmer with light.

My lips stain into a bright red, skin deepening around the eyes as shimmer sweeps the lids and bronze sharpens the line of my cheekbones.

The mirror gives me the line I expected: deliberate, dangerous, magnetic even in the ordinary. Lana’s voice swells and then recedes, the chorus turning distant again as if the record decided to keep its secrets.

I step closer to myself, hips swaying to the music as my hands work through raven curls, giving them a toss. The mirror shivers with the motion, the surface no longer glass but liquid dark, rippling outward until depth reveals itself. Silver fades to shadow, and the reflection folds away, leaving a passage yawning where my shape once stood. A tunnel stretches forward. Black, endless, the air thick as velvet. At its far end a door waits patient as a held breath.

The music carries me down the corridor. It feels longer than it is—they always do. Even as I draw closer it flees from me, like the space between is expanding. These pathways between worlds are mischievous. The doors shrinks away from me but my steps echo faster, and my arm reaches forward, stretching like slowed time, until fingers curl around the handle and I come forward to open it.

The Shamrock Bar and Grille pours into the tunnel, flooding the deadzone with raucous music and the clatter of a hundred voices blending into a noisescape of broken language. I glance back through the tunnel just in time to see the portal snap shut—the last glimpse of the Vale sealed away behind darkness. One door, Miami. The other door, Madison, Wisconsin.

When I pull the door closed, the shimmer is gone. Only a bathroom placard nailed to the wood remains, stamped with the Unisex symbol.

The Shamrock breathes dim and narrow, brick walls pressed close, the smell of whiskey and fried food hanging in the air. Small tables run the length of one wall; the bar sprawls opposite, its lacquer catching the light. A jukebox hums in the corner, low enough to sound like memory.

I step forward. The bartender looks up, eyes flashing once with light like struck metal. He doesn’t speak. He simply reaches for bottles, hands moving in a rhythm set to a metronome only he can hear, crafting a drink no one ordered aloud.

Larry Gowan waits at the table near the back wall, shoulders squared like a man trying to look comfortable in his own haunt. A narrow glass of something fizzy sits in front of him, half-finished, bubbles still breaking against the rim. He drums his fingers once on the wood, eyes flicking toward the front door. He doesn’t yet realize the door he’s watching was never going to be the one I would use.

“Lar-Bear,” I say sweetly, with manufactured affection of the highest quality. He looked up, his features breaking into a look that is more acknowledgement of my presence than actual happiness to see me.

It’s understandable. Let’s rewind.

The year is 2023. Mr. Gowan was the co-owner of the hottest regional wrestling company in the country—UPRISING. And la-dee-doo, guess who the star of the show was?

Me.

Not the me you know now, of course. The Old Me. Yelena Gorgo. Fresh faced daughter of a certified maniac (the paperwork is boxed up in storage) who you might say was a chip-off-the-old-block. Old Me wasn’t satisfied with simply being the best. I was then as I am now. Endlessly hungry and my teeth were just as sharp as they are now.

So I bit. And I bit. And I chewed. And I chewed. Until I gobbled up as much prestige as I was allowed, and when I ran into gatekeepers like Larry, I took bites out of them, too.

Eventually Mr. Gowan folded and coughed up his share of the company and I installed his successor.

So ask yourself—why does he sit here now, glass in hand, suddenly my loudest champion?

Now back to your regularly scheduled Maraeth programming.

He stands too quick, hitting his hip on the corner of the table with a wince that he tries hard to hide.

“Maraeth,” he says as his hand juts forward. The name was right but it came out wrong, like he hadn’t practiced saying it enough in the mirror for the muscles to form the sound correctly.

“Ma-wrath,” I say with a smile as I take his hand. We exchange a single shake before we both move to take our seats.

“Maraeth,” he says, this time with the proper short a, while reaching to fidget with his glass, like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted a drink or not.

My smile grows. “You got it, chief.”

Over my shoulder, the bartender delivers my drink in a tall glass. It’s deep red and garnished with a blood orange peel. I pick it up and take a sip through the straw.

His eyes look down at my glass in thought. Now, I have heard that when he was younger he had a bit of a problem with alcohol and that’s why he’s drinking Diet Coke. But it’s not longing for a taste that has him all silent in thought.

He’s conflicted.

The color is drawing his eye, like a bull staring at a red cape. It holds his gaze while his mind wrestles with itself over whether he’s doing the right thing.

Business Larry knows what signing me to a contract will mean for MWA. Financial Windfall is the term you’re looking for. Trust me, I’m a billionaire. I know. You’re wondering about that, too. We’ll cover that part of the story later.

Simply whispering my name is enough to drum up interest. Stick me in front of a camera and watch the YouTube views skyrocket. Every advertiser that flees because they don’t wish to be associated with me will be replaced with five beginning for the same spot, and willing to pay twice as much to have it.

It’s a win/win. A slam dunk.

Business Larry knows this. That’s why I’m here.

Emotional Larry is a grenade straining to keep its shrapnel inside. That little vein at the corner of his eye is screaming Freak Out In Progress like a Times Square billboard.

It’s telling him to scream at me, to blame me for killing UPRISING (Check) and all the back luck that came rolling after. Oh it would feel so good to tell me off, I can taste it.

Oh, you may not know this but, there are no secrets with me. Don’t worry. Yours are interesting. Not particularly tantalizing. Well there was that one time where you—

Where was I? Larry and his little fantasy of telling me off.

Cute. It isn’t going to happen.

Larry is a genuine nice fella. I know he’s yelled at people in his life but I can’t picture it. He’s also smart. Smart enough to pick this quaint little gay spot in Madison to meet yours truly because he knew he’d be safe from me here. Just in case the stories were true.

They are true. Every single one of them. Even that one. Don’t blame me. They’re your dreams, after all. That’s where the stories come from. The Eater of Dreams, come to creepy-crawl across your sleepy mind and chomp at you dreamiest, chomp at you darkest, chew until the stories taste right.

But I like Larry. No, I really do. He’s an upstanding guy and I think the world is a better place with him in it. I definitely don’t have an ulterior motive that you are not quite ready yet to discover.

“Larry,” I say, sitting forward, “Are you okay?”

His eyes lifted and he relaxed, as if he had awakened from something not far off from sleepy.

“Yes,” he said with a nervous breath. “I’m sorry. That was—that was weird.” He laughed, looking like he wanted to say more but couldn’t decide what.

I sit back and cross a leg under the table.

“Larry,” I say with a click, “I know I did you wrong those years ago. I have no excuse for it. It was childish and destructive to you.”

He’s waving his hand, trying to cut me off.

I ignore him. I have an Oscar to win.

“It was terrible. Terrible I say. How atrocious. How reprehensible!”

I slam my fist on the table with enough force to rattle the floor. Larry jumped. Then I threw myself back into the chair with a dramatic flair.

His stare at me cuts like sharpened steel as I heave, half-cocked to the side, head at an angle like I died thirty seconds ago but gravity is winning.

Then he breaks.

“Are you messing with me?”

My lips break apart and I sit up, giggling like a school girl, my face half hidden behind my hand. He tries to not laugh for a solid ten seconds before he can’t help it.

“I know,” I say, giving him a flick of my hand. “I’m terrible. Awful. Rotten. But let’s loosen up. Relax. This is just a friendly chat between old acquaintances with a rocky past.”

“Sounds like a movie premise,” he says with a half-smile. I’ll take it.

“I would say a Rom Com,” I start to say with a smirk, “but given our… shall we say… incompatible attractions, let’s go with a buddy comedy. Odd Couple meets Road Trip.”

He chuckled. “Where are we going?”

I pick up my glass. “To hell.”

He mused for a moment, then asked, “And back?”

My lips curl into a very Spiral-like smile.

“We’ll see.”

I let that hang in the air for a moment, then give a wink as I pick up my glass. “To new beginnings?”

He raises his soda and we tap our glasses and sip through our straws.

“So,’ Larry says, making an awkward transition, “we should probably talk about this contract with MWA.”

“Let’s,” I say, setting my glass down across from his.

“I want you in MWA.”

The Magic 8-Ball says: Without a doubt!

“They want you.”

My sources say no!

There are a few holdouts in positions strong enough to potentially block me joining, but Larry is persuasive. It’s that level-headed reputation that lets him assure MWA’s power brokers that I’m not a threat to the bottom line. I’m its savior.

I need Larry fully on my side but even now, while I’m nailing this ‘totally not the vessel for an ancient cosmic god from beyond the veil of reality’ performance like Meryl Streep, there’s still doubt in his eyes.

How do I solve that?

Simple.

A musical number.

I ping the minds of everyone in the bar, one by one, until I find a drunk papa bear yucking it up with his friends near the jukebox. It doesn’t take much. A whisper in his mind that causes his head to snap to the left in search of the source, the movement strong enough to cause him to lose balance. He stumbles into the jukebox—the song skips.

Synthesizers blast over the sound system.

“My mama told me when I was young—we’re all born superstars!”

The bar erupts in off-key voices belting out the opening to Gaga’s Born This Way as the heavy disco beat thumps chest-deep. Dancing feet beat the floor like a drum to the music as hundreds of voices shout out the lyrics.

Larry raises his voice to say, “What would it take to get you to sign?”

“I only answer questions while dancing,” I say and hold out my hand.

His head shakes. He leans back with his hands up.

“Oh, c’mon, Lar-Bear—”

I reach across, grabbing his wrist then yank him out of his seat.

“Don’t be a drag. Be a queen!”

Next thing you know, we’re swallowed by humanity, leaping in the air, arms flung wide like we just don’t care. The jukebox light strobes across beer pitchers and sticky tables, turning the whole place into a budget disco. Strangers clutch us by the shoulders, spinning, shouting, sweat and laughter tangling with the chorus. Larry’s face goes red as a beet, but his feet find the rhythm anyway, pulled into orbit.

In the middle of the bridge, he busts out laughing.

I shout loud enough to hear, “What’s so funny?” A coy smile slips across my face like silk over a knife blade.

“This isn’t what I expected—” he hollers back, then he quickly clarifies. “—in a good way!”

“Good,” I answer with a wink. “I need to keep you on your toes!”

By the time the final “born this way” croons from the speakers, a thin layer of sweat shines across his forehead. The next track, Hot to Go, keeps the party going inside.

“I need some air,” Larry says to me, and we forget about the rest of our drinks to step out into the cool autumn air.

He fans his face between breaths while staring at me.

“What?” I ask, pretending like I don’t know.

“You aren’t what I expected.”

“Based on?”

“According to the internet you’re the head of some sex cult. Then there’s the pronouns.”

I place a hand on his shoulder to steady myself as I burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

I wipe a non-existent tear from my eye as I straighten. “The thought of me as some crazed cult queen presiding over Caligula orgies—it’s priceless.”

“So it’s not true?”

I shake my head, “No, darling, of course not.”

Liar-liar, shame-shame. Cult leader? Check. Caligula orgies? Special occasions only.

“Larry,” I continue, tone soft as sugar, “I’m a wrestler. You know the game. It’s marketing. I go to the ring, step in looking like a nightmare, and call myself We and Us. That’s the gimmick.”

More lies.

This is the act. This is the gimmick. This is me blending in.

I don’t give him the opportunity to question it. I say, “But back to your original question—”

“Which one?” he asks with his hands hooked in his pockets as the wind grabs at his loose shirt.

I repeat the question, “What would it take for me to sign with MWA.”

His eyes open wider. “Yes! So what do you say?”

My lips stretch apart like a smiley face across an inflating balloon.

“The money isn’t important,” I say with my fingers interlinked in front of me. “I have more than I could ever spend. Give me a standard contract with 50% profit sharing on my merchandise.”

He stares at me in disbelief. “That’s it?”

I snap my fingers. “One more thing. I almost forgot.”

I didn’t. I never forget anything.

“I read about the Any Given Gauntlet.”

“Oh,” he says, his body language shifting to something closer to discomfort. “Yes, that’s at Old School Anarchy, our first big show after re-opening.” He knows where I’m going with this and he’s unsure if he can say yes.

“I want in,” I say, flat and final, with no room for negotiation.

This time, I’m the one who holds out a hand first.

He looks at it in thought, then takes it firmly in his grip. He meets my gaze with a slow-forming grin.

“I’ll make it happen,” he says.

We shake. My right hand clasps his, while my left settles on his shoulder—an old-friend gesture, churchy and warm. “Good man. You’ll draw up the papers, I’ll bring my pen, and we’ll see if MWA’s ready for a little dreamwalking.”

“I’m excited,” he says, as if surprised by his own reaction.

“Me, too.” Our hands slip apart. I grip his shoulder once before letting go, a little neighborly squeeze, nothing scandalous.

He starts toward the door but notices I’m not following.

“Not coming back in to finish your drink?”

His disappointment is obvious.

“No,” I say with a pout. “Gotta scoot back to Miami. I’m taking Kat to Disney World tomorrow.”

“Oh,” he says real big. “Which wife is that one?” It was half-joke, half-sincere.

“Third. Technically.”

He chuckled.

“Technically?”

My lips coil up the sides of my face. “It’s a long story,” I say as a black car approaches the curb.

“This is me.”

He nods before thumbing toward the door. “I’ll head back inside. Thank you for this. It was… fun.”

He seems genuinely surprised as he turns around to reach for the door. As it shuts behind him, the car rolls to a stop in front of the bar. I move, but not to reach for the door as it opens. I keep walking as two men climb out of the back of the rideshare.

I keep walking, heels clicking past the rideshare and down to the darkened storefront next door. A real estate office, windows papered with smiling headshots and FOR SALE placards. All locked up tight—until the door opens for me and I step through.

The world tilts. Shadows swell. It’s the same hallway again, black velvet air stretched long, but this time the far door doesn’t spill me back into the Vale.

This time it opens to a film set.

Bright lights blind. Cables crawl across the floor. Voices sharpen into panic the moment I appear. A production assistant sees me and nearly trips over his own excitement. His eyes—black as ink.

“Daddy Shadow is here. I repeat—Maraeth has arrived. Wardrobe, now!”

Hands hurry, plucking at jewelry, smoothing curls, fussing with fabric. Black eyes everywhere, glassy and obedient, work with mechanical devotion. I hold my arms out, indulgent as I’m stripped bare, still speaking to you while they scurry about me.

An assistant holds up a mirror and you see Our void-filled eyes staring back, the singularies shrouded in multi-colored coronas.

“Funny little thing, isn’t it?” I ask you, now outloud. “Don’t worry, they aren’t paying attention. I’m not letting them.”

Earrings are unpinned. Rings slid off my fingers. Bracelet unclasped.

“Open a door and everyone’s waiting. Not because they chose it—because I did. They fall over themselves to touch me, polish me, present me. Because they love me. Because they have no other choice.”

Then something stirs. A pressure coils beneath my ribs, rising into my throat. My voice thickens, like molten syrup hardening into glass. A laugh escapes—only it isn’t one note anymore. It doubles, higher and lower all at once, braided together like rope made to hang. My smile stretches wider than it should, teeth pressing against my lips as though there are more of them than before.

The assistants’ hands move faster. Sequins flash like sugar crystals in firelight. The words coming out are all sing-song, like a nursery rhyme starting to fray. But they aren’t mine anymore.

They’re Ours.

“You’re catching on, aren’t you?” The sound that leaves Us is layered, too many voices tucked into one. “Sweet on the outside, sharp beneath. Every treat carries its trick. That’s the fun. That’s the game.”

We giggle into Our hand as the pieces come quick—a ruffled shirt, a velvet tailcoat with seams snug against Our frame, the top hat set just so. Wonka, yes, but sharpened, sexed and sugared, because We decided it would be.

The nursery rhyme unravels fully, candy-coated and cracked.

“We’ll play games, you and We. Sugar on your lips, glass in your teeth. Reach deeper. Lick faster. You’ll keep clawing for the prize until We decide you’ve had enough.”

An assistant offers the cane, and We take it. The crystal orb at the top holds a spiral that seems to turn even when it should be still. We give it a light tap against the floor, and the sound rings out crisp and sweet, like glass striking glass.

“Now, if you’ll excuse Us, We have a promo to film for Old School Anarchy.”

We take one step then stop.

We grab the mirror, pulling it back up so you can see Our face again. The spiral in the cane keeps turning, and in its reflection time swirls, too.

“Out there,” We say, voice a symphony of layered chocolate topped with sprinkled madness, “a month has gone by. Contracts drafted. Rumors spun. People waiting. In here?” A giggle like sugar snapping between teeth. “In here it’s just a door. We step, and We’re where We wish to be. Past, present, future—candy pieces in the same jar, rattling together until We shake one loose.”

We tilt the mirror so the lights streak across Our eyes.

“Now,” We say, teeth glinting, “back to the show.”