I may be guilty of many things, but wizardry isn’t one.

If this were Salem, Mass. in the summer of 1692, I certainly would’ve been set ablaze, tossed in the drink, or swung from the gallows. Puritans would’ve found me objectionable, no doubt. Wouldn’t even have passed age 5 or 6. It was then I stubbornly refused to believe a neighborhood friend’s meningitis left her unable to use her legs, the doctor’s diagnosis. I made her get up, & with little support she walked through her house & into her gobsmacked mother’s arms. Like a child Norman Vincent Peale, I suppose my insistence she could walk was a powerful dose of positive thinking. Seen through another lens, an uncanny healing of sorts.

The sorcery allegation came much later, when unemployed & financially forced to take a room in a house share of Cornish College of the Arts students, near Lake Union. At almost 10 yrs their senior, & still retaining the cadaverous pallor of the freshly dope-free, I felt I should protect these youth from my sketchy, harsh life choices. So I kept to myself as much as possible. Which only helped develop the photo of a skulking nosferatu.

Upon moving in my large vivarium housing a barking tree frog, 2 cages of mice (pets, not feeder), an aquarium of crickets (frog food), some band posters, books, art, vintage men’s wear, shredded t-shirts, & a bunch of black jeans, I expect my housemates, all young women, viewed me a pinch more interesting than they’d imagined a near-30 yr old to be. & perhaps a tad morbid. We all had the arty thing in common; I just had more [raunchy] life experiences than them, being older. The one who lived in the attic room made these amazing dolls, also a touch macabre, so I wasn’t that much stranger. However, one among them would find me creepy enough to fuel a delusion.

Since I teetered on that illicit edge, I wasn’t shocked to have confrontation rear its head. Assumed it would be along the lines of ‘You’re too degenerate for this household. You must go.’ Instead it took a bizarre turn into an accusation of practicing black magic, made by the quiet, shy one (I’ll call X) who roomed down the hall.

Had a ton of slurs lobbed my way before: dyke, faggot, deviant, junky, tweaker, weirdo, freak, etc. None particularly untrue. I owned them, minus the malice they were slung with. My reaction always ‘State the obvious much?’ I came from a family steeped in Pentecostal waters; wasn’t remotely interested in the Dark Arts. That’s merely a flip-side of the same coin. Never a subscriber to any organized belief system. To be called out for witchcraft was not only baffling, but downright insulting. Please– I was never that stereotypical. I don’t even like death metal.

The night prior to the besmirching of my character a guy friend was over & we stayed up to the wee hours talking. He crashed in a pile of covers I tossed from my bed, too sleepy to insist he leave even though I’d rather have my solitude after so much socializing. Then…

Once upon a morning bleary / he took his leave, I slumped back weary / in hopes to catch more Zs I scooped his blankets off the floor / came the sonic booms abounding / like a creditor a-hounding / or a SWAT team’s ram a-sounding / pounding on my bedroom door / quoth the knackered “ugh– no more!”

Cracked my door & peeked out squinty-eyed. X barges in ranting fast & furious, lacking cohesion, garbled with fervor. Excerpts of ‘Think I wouldn’t find out? I know what you did!’ Briefly mistaken she referred to having a guy spend the night in my room (was she really that repressed?) I almost said ‘Hello? Gay here,’ then realized it was none of her business whomever I may shag. That’s when I noticed her eyes: cartoon pinwheels of saucer-sized pupils, enraged to the nth degree. I was looking into the face of a nightmare high. Or schizophrenia. Backing away with that patting the air calming gesture, signal for ‘take it down a notch,’ eventually she lost the thread of her diatribe, spun on her heel & left. I wondered if I should remove all the knives from the kitchen. There was no sleep to be had now.

I left the house after checking for other roommates. I was alone, not particularly sanguine about it. Thought of leaving a note for the others, ‘Beware X! She’s off her meds!’ Yet I didn’t want the clearly paranoid one to find it. I didn’t feel comfortable lingering. I was a disturbed-enough individual as is; wasn’t prepared to take on anyone else’s meltdown.

Didn’t return til late, with reluctance. Hoping not to find posed, bloody corpses strewn about. The house was dark. Eerily silent. I didn’t think X capable of violence, but she did spook me. Isn’t it always the ones you don’t suspect? What I discovered inside did not dispel the eldritch aura. In every room on the ground floor burned a single candle next to a goblet of blood (!) with a severed chicken foot balanced on the rim. If this didn’t look like a voodoo ritual, I didn’t know what did. I said (to no one?) “Alright then,” climbed the stairs to my room & shut the door. Which had no lock.

Whilst pondering next steps, I heard the other housemates arrive, sans X. We convened in the front bedroom, the only room with a lock. Discussion unearthed that X thought we’d all cursed her. The display downstairs some kind of counter spell she set up. I was thinking ‘X sees me as matron of a coven? Yep, Queen of the Damned, that’s me.’ The housemate whose room we occupied said she had X’s brother’s phone number. Maybe he could come get her?

“Is she here?” someone asked. “Her bike’s gone,” said another. As we looked out the window she came pedaling up the street. I couldn’t help but softly hum the Wicked Witch theme from The Wizard of Oz. Despite concern for X, we were all on edge. Comic relief helps to deal.

Eventually it all got sorted. X got the medical help she sorely needed. Turned out she’d accidentally ingested morning glory seeds, powerfully hallucinogenic. Mistaken for flax seeds & added to her granola or whatever. In my head I asked ‘What were these seeds even doing in the house? Not to mention unmarked & stored near food! What would I find if I dug through the cupboards? Castor beans? Nightshade berries? Dried white oleander leaves, perhaps?’ I now was leery of the kitchen altogether. Sigh… roommates!

Let this be a warning to the sloppy gardener who blithely leaves LSD-potent seeds lying about:

By the eating of these pips / something witch-ed this way trips.

P.S. No disrespect to the Wiccan community intended. Blessed be.