They rise again when the air turns metallic and the moon glows over exhausted towns. You can sense them at the beginning of October, a discordant hum behind the noise, a racing pulse beneath the grind. Circe walks the shoreline once again, her hair smelling of salt, her breath exhaling defiance. Tituba laughs a melody in the wind that weaves through the pines. La Voisin stirs her cauldron in a Parisian graveyard, cologne, herbs, and poison mixing in the heavy air. Morticia sharpens her rapier wit. Stevie tunes her chords to longing and heartache. The witches wake, not from breathless slumber, but from airlessness and patience. They never go, only watch, waiting for the universe to honor power when it is whispering, prodding, and certain. Many called them monsters, sirens, sinners, sluts, whores, vixens, crones, anything to keep from admitting their survival. But they were resilient and kept the fire smoldering in kitchens and back bedrooms, in girls who refused to shrink. Through the c...