The Cat and the Broomstick
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Esme Hexroot had always been an oddity in Matlock. While most witches prided themselves on precision and control, Esme reveled in the unpredictable nature of her craft. Her potions bubbled over, her charms twisted fate in unexpected ways, and her incantations often worked—but never quite as intended. The elders whispered that she was too reckless, that her magic was too alive, too unpredictable. But Esme cared little for their judgment. She had her broomstick, her cat, and the moonlit sky. That was all she needed.
Nocturne, her sleek black cat, was more than a pet. He was her shadow, her second soul. They shared an unspoken bond, a connection that surpassed the limits of life and death. He rode on her broomstick as they soared above the twisted forest outside Ravenwood Manor, their laughter and purring blending with the rustling leaves. Esme would whisper ancient words, and Nocturne's eyes would glow, turning golden against the night. Magic always felt stronger with him by her side.
But power is a fickle thing. One fateful evening, as Esme experimented with a spell said to unlock the doors between worlds, something went wrong. The air crackled with energy, the walls of her small cabin shook, and a swirling rift opened before her. Nocturne hissed and leapt onto her shoulder, but it was too late. The pull was too strong. With a last, startled cry, Esme and her feline companion were swallowed by the void.
The following day, her cabin was silent. The vines crept through the broken windows, reclaiming what was left. The elders whispered of her folly, shaking their heads. But the manor itself seemed to remember her. The sound of a sweeping broomstick echoed through the halls at night, though no hand could be seen wielding it. Like fireflies caught in the dusk, a green shimmer flickered along the staircases. And most unsettling of all—Nocturne was still there.
Recent visitors to the woods have reported seeing his spectral form slinking through the trees, his glowing amber eyes watching from darkened corners. Some swore they felt his tail brush against their legs, though nothing was there. A few campers have even claimed they woke to the sound of a purring presence curling up at their feet, weightless but undeniably real.
Esme, it seemed, had not truly gone. She existed between places, between moments, her soul neither entirely departed nor fully present. Perhaps the spell had worked in a way she had not foreseen. Maybe she had become what she always was—something untamed, something bound to magic itself.
And so, on quiet nights, when the wind rustles the trees, and the Matlock settles into silence, listen closely. You might hear a soft cackle, a whispered spell. You might feel the brush of unseen fur against your ankle. And if you're lucky—or unlucky, depending on the night—you might glimpse Esme Hexroot, her broom flying over the sky near the woods, her cat riding along.
