In The Hour of the Moon, on The Night of Astaroth, the Moon a Crescent:

In defeat I slumped back to my witch’s cottage in the woods and fumbled with the keys until I found the right one to open the front door. From the window, Artie’s little muppet face poked out to greet me. Her outstretched furry head was transfixed on the fidgeting of my fingers. I opened the door to an outpouring of my familiar’s accolades of affectionate rubbing and meowing and set upon the task of leaving out her dinner, which she graciously devoured.

With the cat fed I hit the Mr. Coffee machine again and collapsed into the armchair I had arranged facing my workbench. There was an incredible silence that held over the cottage. I loved the way that whenever I would move around the cabin that the wood beneath me would creek and the way that specks of dust would float across the sunlight that flooded in through the screen windows. It was like debris floating on the ocean floor. The cabin was my sanctuary in the woods, from all the assholes in town and all over the world that wanted to hurt me, but it was also my cage.

I hated living out here as a kid. It was very isolating out here with no friends at any reasonable distance without a car ride and nothing faster than dial-up until I was well towards college. Now it was the only reminder of more innocent times, and I felt like, no matter what happened, a part of me would always dwell within these walls. The old books that populated the wall like the leaves of great trees was all that I felt was left of my dad.

I poured myself a hot mug of joe and scanned the length of my workbench as I blew the stream from the rim. I smiled with pride as I marveled at the conjuring wand I had made for myself that morning. I inspected the deep carvings that I had cut to render the seal of Lord Frimost and smiled in private satisfaction at my own craft.

Arranged beside the wand were many of the other tools and instruments I had already consecrated the previous week: There was the fine parchment I had bought from the art store. There was the lancet, a little plastic-handled diabetic’s prick I had painted with the proper symbols along the plastic handle.

Next to that sat the inkwell, again painted on its label with the proper figures as the Verum prescribes, and the ink itself, purified by reciting the proper prayer in which rested a red feather quill pen. Finally there was the aspergillius, the concoction resting in a wide brass bowl onto which I had painted the proscribed magic words and seeped a salve of mint, rosemary, and marjoram, all purified again by the indicated incantations.

Of course all of these things had been properly fumigated by the essential mixture of burnt aloe wood, frankincense, and mace, shipped from India through the vast infernal trade networks of global capitalist imperialism at exorbitant price, all gathered and assembled at the prescribed day of Wednesday, at the prescribed hour of Dawn. In spite of myself and all my inadequacies, I took pride that it was all coming together, just like the old book said.

I’d hardly had time to dote on the fruits of my labor when my phone started to ring.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Hi Honey! How was work?” Mom asked.

It was unusual for her to be calling me and not the other way around.

“Um… It was fine…” I lied. “You know, just another weekday at the coffee shop. How was school?”

“…It was fine. My students are a pretty good bunch this semester so…”

“Ah…”

“So…” She began.

There was a long pause on my mom’s end.

“I called the bank today to see if they had made a decision about refinancing the mortgage yet.” She said.

I swallowed a lump down my throat “…and?”

“They still haven’t gotten around to the case but… I think you should start packing stuff to come live out here with me.”

I sighed and held silent with the phone.

“Honey?”

“I just want to wait until we know…” I said, starting to cry. “I just feel like… I feel like whatever’s left of dad is still here. I just miss him so much.”

“Oh honey…”

“Just give it a few more days…” I whimpered. “I just want to believe something will come through…”

My mom didn’t speak for a little while. “Okay. I love you honey, get some rest.”

“I love you too, mom.”

I hung up and started to cry in my chair. Artie crawled into my lap, kneading at my knees to comfort me, and soon we fell asleep together.