[A repost from tumblr: How My Youngest Brother Learned I’m A Witch. Early May, 2013]

Today I went over to see my father the Warlord and returned some of the books I borrowed. He decided he needed to feed me and served up some lasagna while I visited. As he’s setting up to make dinner (which I wouldn’t be around for) he asks me what the rest of my plans for the day were.

“I’ve a shit-ton of asks to answer on my blog.”

“Asks?”

I shifted how my head laid on my upturned hand. “Yeah. People send me asks about things. Witchy things usually but all sorts of shit sometimes.”

“Like what?”

I tap open the tumblr app and summarize a few public ones. We get to talking a bit about one of them before he turns from cutting potatoes and said, “There’s a lot of spirit ones there.”

“Well, yeah. It’s something I specialize in, I suppose.”

“Have you ever tried talking to your great grandmother?”

I shake my head without moving it from my hand. “I don’t tend to work with ghosts. Non-human spirits. I already don’t like people. Why would I hang out with dead ones?”

He turned and points the knife at me. I don’t bother to take offense. We tend to direct each other with pointy objects on a daily basis. “Your great grandmother’s a ghost. Your great grandfather said that if anyone would come back, it would be her. She haunted the [house both he and I grew up in]. Your uncle and aunt saw her too. She’d come out from the door as if there was still a wall there, go around the table, and come down the hallway to stare into the kid’s rooms.”

I only nod. I’ve heard this story before many times. “I remember you telling the story. I saw her too. Or, well, I saw something. It was when I was in that front bedroom. I saw something huge – taller than you Dad – and white block out the light in front of that door. You know how that light always emitted a yellow color right? Whatever it was was brighter than that.”

“It couldn’t have been your great grandmother. She was a tiny thing. Smaller than you. Could have been my grandfather though.”

“Ah. Well, I don’t know what it was, but it block out the light. I was so surprised I just pulled the sheets up over my head.” I laugh. I remember being no more than eight when the sighting took place and being more startled than scared. It was always something I believed had happened and could never disprove. I never bothered telling anyone about it usually. It was a ghost. It happened. I saw it. End of story.

B.A.D, my little five year old brother comes in, holding a worn, dilapidated checkers box. “You saw a ghost?”

“Yes. At least I think it was a ghost.”

“Oh. You should ask brother. He’ll be able to tell you whether or not it’s still there.”

I hide it well but I’m surprised as fuck and impressed. Yes, my brother the Necromancer could very well tell whether or not the rumored ghosts are still there. I could too, if I bothered to. However, no one in the family owns the house any longer and thus there was no point. But how the fuck did a five year old know about my brother? He rarely ever speaks of it. I don’t even think my father knows about my brother’s abilities.

B.A.D however continuous as if he didn’t just drop a fucking bomb of information on me. “I’m not afraid of ghosts!”

I laughed. “You’re afraid of dogs, bees, and wary of girls but not of ghosts?” (When the Redhead disowned herself it caused emotional trauma for my youngest brother, already there from my step mother’s less-than-stellar parenting. The boy just didn’t understand that not all of his sisters or girls will abandon him.)

“Nope!” He said quite loudly, proud of himself. He flashes a smile. “I see them all the time.”

I’m not sure whether he meant on the TV or in real life. Either way, it doesn’t matter. He babbles on for a few more minutes and has me laughing.

“How about witches?” I ask him. I keep my smile easy, not teasing but friendly. While the question seems innocent, I don’t want to scare him off.

He blinks slowly, processing the question and for a moment I worry he didn’t hear me. He has hearing issues sometimes and I am about to voice the question again when he shakes his head. “No, I’m not afraid of witches.”

“Oh good. Because I’m a witch.”

I watch his eyes grow fearful for a moment then doubtful. I know I don’t look like any witch shown on Scooby-Doo.

I continue, “I really am. It’s my job. It’s what I do.”

My father comes around to the table and readies the chicken and rice for my brother’s dinner. He doesn’t look at me but instead makes eye contact with my brother. “She is.” He confirms.

That’s enough for my brother. He thinks on it for a few more moments before nodding, “I’m not scared of you either.”

I smile. “Good. I’m nothing to be scared of.”