A purple nightgown. That was what Daphne wore. It was so unlike her mother’s: it was short, coming up above her sixteen-year-old docked knees as she walked. Her mother’s had been red. As red as a freshly bloomed rose. And it had flowed as it waved a perfumed goodbye the day she walked out the door and never came back.

The night the whispers of the first witch took her.

Daphne heard them now. The soft language hissed a song in her ear. Gentle tones called to her in words she couldn’t understand.

She had once—only once—doubted magic was real.

Because her father insisted it wasn’t. “Your mother left us,” he had said. “She left us—there were no witches involved, Daphne.”

The moonlit road in front of Daphne tempted to prove him wrong: it wasn’t cool from the night but warm and alive on her bare feet.

She was finally going to see her mother. She knew that the whispers would lead her there.

Crickets chirped their everlasting song as she crossed to the park where she played as a girl. The park that held the witch’s hat: a tall, hanging, metal contraption. It rocked back and forth in the dark, floating all alone.

Memories flooded her mind with each step. Memories of when they would swing and sing as it swayed.

The witch’s hat. The witch’s brew. Spin me, spin me, until I puke.

Daphne missed those days when her mother would watch and smile as Daphne held on for dear life. When the other kids laughed as the metal bars forced them in countless circles, not stopping until someone fell.

The whispers started again. They urged her, pestered her to go for a ride.

But how was she supposed to swing herself?

She gripped the frosted metal bars. She sucked in a breath through her teeth at their cold bite. When she lifted one foot, the cone of metal defiance swayed away from her, pulling her with it. Its outer edge moved down and back to its center where it decided to stay to give her another try.

Regret coiling in her, she looked to the top of the witch’s hat, almost entirely swallowed by the night sky. Doubt filled her heart until the whispers called her again.

Lifting one foot then the other, she set them in place, thinking only of her mother. There was no other choice if she wanted to see her again.

The song they used to sing escaped her lips, but the words changed as the turret began to move.

“Witch’s hat. Witch’s brew. Take me someplace cold and new.”

She was higher now, practically floating. If it wasn’t for the wind snapping at the bottom of her nightgown and the metal bars bracing her feet, she would have thought she was. The caged pyramid continued to spin all on its own as if some invisible force was on the other side pushing her. Creeks echoed through the playground, twisting her whispered songs into thought.

Witch’s hat. Witch’s brew. Take me someplace cold and new.

Over and over again.

Witch’s hat. Witch’s brew. Take me someplace cold and new.

Until everything stopped.

The witch’s hat halted and lowered Daphne to the ground.

She had arrived someplace else.

There was no wind, no songs, no crickets in the air. When she set her feet in the grass, she found that it was sharp. Hay prickled her bare feet.

Silence, darkness, and the metal contraption were the only things left at this playground. The witch’s hat began to sway as if it still wanted to play.

But then she saw it. Movement accompanied by a smile in the shadows. No eyes, no cheeks, just teeth grinning wide.

Daphne realized she never had experienced paralysis until that moment. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t blink. She swore she was going to die.

Limbs stiff, she tried to tear her eyes from that smile. Tried to look back to the playground, to the witch’s hat. But she only saw the smile growing wider, its amusement stretching thin.

Something red flashed at its side. Red like fresh blood.

Red like a freshly bloomed rose.

Daphne’s heart fluttered, her eyes trailing up the red nightgown to her mother, smiling wide. Smiling wrong.

Daphne had found her.

“Witch’s hat, witch’s brew,” her mother sang in a strange, unfamiliar voice.

But Daphne didn’t care. It didn’t register. All she ever wanted was here. All she wanted was her.

“Take me someplace cold and new,” Daphne whispered in return, sauntering toward the person she waited years to see.

Daphne’s mother held out her hand as the creature inside of her smiled even wider almost breaking its teeth.

Without faltering, Daphne took that cold, brittle, polished hand and was wrapped in what she believed was her mother’s arms.

The whispers stopped. Silence engulfed her. She felt her own face contort into a wide grin.