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Audible Audio
First published October 6, 2026
Southern women are known for their hospitality and honey-laced words.
Southern witches are not.
Down in the South, where the temperature is closer to that of hell, one would expect the witchcraft to be just as sinister.
Blood bubbled up.
An unusual wind cut through the humidity of the Alabama summer heat.
The cicadas' and bullfrogs' screams screeched louder
A lifeless body lying in my arms, caused by my own hands.
Sharp leaves scraped my skin, making small, bloody cuts as I ran through the rows of corn. I barely felt them against my flesh, toughened over the years, like the hard shell of a boll weevil.
As I burst through the last of the stalks my body collided with another.
I ran at the sound of my name again, heavier, angrier, demanding my presence.
Chipped paint, missing shingles, and half-fallen shutters appeared even more improper when reflected off the carriage's spotless black paint.
Pa hadn't taken well to that either.
She made tea so sweet one could practically taste the Southern hospitality infused within it.