Chapter 3
Gwen
City yielded to suburbs, which yielded to sprawling summertime greenery. We drove for what felt like hours through lush forest, and by the time we turned onto an overgrown gravel road with a wooden sign that read SCUW, I was certain that I was going to be murdered in the woods by a cult.
I sat up in the passenger seat of our beat-up Toyota. “What in the Midsommar . . .”
Mom let out a wistful sigh. “Ah, I remember this place like it was yesterday.”
“Funny how you never remembered to mention it to me until last week,” I groused. “Or the fact that you’re a witch and grew up in a quaint magical Halloween town that you never once bothered bringing me to visit.”
“I chose to leave.” Mom’s voice drifted off, her words saddening. “I needed to protect you and your father, and I needed to protect what I’d left behind too. Outsiders can’t know the town is actually magic.”
“And I—your daughter—am an outsider?”
“We weren’t a part of the town anymore,” Mom said simply, still dancing around the truth with the skill of a Juilliard-trained ballerina.
“Why did you choose to leave, then?”
It was a question that had been hopping around my mind since I’d turned Brayden into a toad. But I knew my mom. She shied away from talking about it because the answer was an open wound for her.
But still, I had to ask.
“Your father,” she supplied as we drove under a banner that read, "Summer Camp for Upstanding Witches.”
I gaped at the sign.
The word “man-hating” had been X-ed out, though it was still legible and “upstanding” had replaced it. It looked hastily done, as if put there to appease someone and then never given another thought.
“Dad?” I frowned at the word “man-hating” again. “Because he wasn’t a witch?”
Mom shrugged. “Because he was a man.”
“I mean, I’m not particularly fond of them myself right now.” I snorted. “But surely all witches don’t hate men. How would there be any more witches without them?”
I frowned down at the phone in my hands, the little bubble of unread message notifications lighting up the screen. I knew what Brayden’s texts said without opening them because we’d discussed everything we had left to say during our last conversation—before he’d blocked me on all socials.
brAYDEN
A frog, Gwen!! You turned me into a damn frog!
GWEN
Technically, it was a toad. And you turned back. Move on.
brAYDEN
Stop gaslighting me! I can’t get the taste of slug out of my mouth!
Chicken will never be the same!
He’d gone to one therapy session, and all it did was help him become an expert in weaponizing clinical terms. He wasn’t beating the toxic ex-boyfriend allegations anytime soon.
GWEN
Tell Jackie I said hey.
brAYDEN
She DOESN’T say hi back!
You’ve ruined The pond for me!
My skin is so dry! I’m flaking everywhere. What did you do to me!
That last one wasn’t my fault. He’d always been a typical crusty dude. To the point that his name in my small, barely active group chat was “Bichon.”
“Sorry, I should’ve clarified,” Mom said, waving her hands over the dashboard and regaining my attention.
“About what?”
“About witches hating men,” she replied. “It’s human men who are the problem.”
“Okay . . .” I blanched. “So witches get with . . . ?”
“Other witches, usually. But on occasion, vampires, werewolves, demons, monsters . . . you know, the usual paranormal fare. You have a great uncle who’s a nymph.”
“Right, the usual paranormal fare,” I said with a chuckle. “That’s totally what I was thinking too.”
Mom looked at me sideways before training her eyes back on the empty road. “I know it sounds crazy.”
“Honestly, the fact that witches don’t like human men is the sanest thing you’ve said all day.” I guffawed. “But Dad is a total butterball. He dresses the dogs up for Halloween and cries at Christmas movies.”
“I know,” Mom said in a tone that suggested she’d had this conversation many times.
“He was never going to be what my family wanted for me, so I left, started a new life—a happy life. We found jobs we loved, ones that meant we could travel the world and see more than my little town could offer. But I’ll admit, I miss this place and I kind of wish I’d tried harder not to sever all ties with it.
” She shook her head as if she could dislodge the thought from her mind. “Oh well, it’s too late now.”
“So this sudden change of heart is why you sent me to a summer camp for man-hating witches?”
“It’s upstanding witches now.” Mom laughed.
“They had to change it for legal reasons. Apparently, men don’t find the humor in it when we call ourselves man-hating witches, but they think it’s ‘just a joke’ when they call us that.
Talk about irony. But it isn’t as scary as it sounds. You’ll have fun, hon, I promise.”
We rounded a corner, and the forest parted to reveal the campsite.
I didn’t know what to expect, but this wasn’t it.
It looked like the quintessential summer camp taken straight out of a movie: a giant crystalline lake with a dock in the middle, canoes lining the shore, and ringed-in stretches of teeming deciduous forest. A giant stretch of yellowing grass with a kickball field, a rock-climbing wall, and a giant mess hall and rec center made up the hub of the camp.
Down by the beach at the lake’s edge was a giant firepit surrounded by bench seating, and I was already imagining a perky camp counselor whipping out a guitar and leading us in a group sing-along.
And all around the clearing was an expanse of lush New England forest dotted with little cabins that stretched through the swampland toward Maple Hollow.
Apparently, there were also two other paranormal summer camps out to the west.
As we kept driving into the open expanse, I shook my head in awe. The entire place was an odd combination of Wet Hot American Summer and The Parent Trap with a dash of Practical Magic. It was as if nothing had been touched in decades.
Distracted as we took in the sight, we were surprised when a perky blonde girl jogged out in front of the car.
Mom slammed on the brakes.
The girl slapped a hand on Mom’s hood, and shadows swirled around her as she scowled. “Watch it!”
She blinked and the shadows disappeared as if she’d commanded them to do so. Then the scowling blonde turned up her nose and carried on running, her tits bouncing in a distracting way that I was one-hundred percent certain she was doing on purpose.
Mom’s face pinched as the girl crossed the field.
“Do you know her?” I asked.
“She looks like Susie Cunningham’s daughter,” Mom said.
“She’s the spitting image. I heard she had a daughter around the same time as I did.
Susie’s mother is the coven leader,” she added in a whisper, as if the car were eavesdropping on her.
“I’d steer clear of Blondie if I were you.
The Cunninghams are not the biggest fans of our family. ”
“Avoid Blondie. Got it,” I said with a dutiful nod. “Any other mortal enemies I need to know about before entering the lion’s den?”
“I promise, it’s just like any other summer camp, hon,” Mom said as she pulled up to the rec center and put the car in park.
A handwritten sign was taped to the screen door that read, “Welcome, New Campers!”
I pointedly eyed a mousy brunette walking up the steps with a black cat under one arm and a broomstick under the other. My gaze slid to the crystals hanging in the cabin windows and the driftwood placards above the thresholds that named each of the cabins after different moons.
I let out a long sigh as I opened the door and let the humidity in. It smelled far too much like nature out here.
“Yep,” I grumbled. “Just another camp.”