Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Blood on the Sill
Silly cowans.
Back around solstice I went over to a friend's house to put her air conditioner in the window. She lives on the first floor of a big, solid old place, built back in the 1890s.
The first item on the agenda was to prop open the big, heavy oaken sash. It has a tendency to crash down unexpectedly when unsupported.
Last summer someone tried to break into her house. When she got back home, she found the air conditioner on the floor and the sash slammed shut.
There was blood on the windowsill.
Ouch.
And so, yet again, yet another learns, the hard way, the unwisdom of crossing a witch.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: witches make good friends and neighbors. We'll help you out when you need it, and if we say we'll do something, we'll do it.
But that doesn't mean you shouldn't be afraid of us.
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