Maven’s Story

I think I always knew I was a born witch, even before I had words for it. 

When I was three, the girl next door babysat me and brought over her treasured bubble‑gum Hammer Films Monster Cards. I was obsessed. I begged for them every visit, hungry for anything eerie, gothic, or strange. Saturday nights meant Chiller Theater with Bill Cardille — double‑feature horror movies that lit up my imagination. My parents never questioned my fascination with witches, ghosts, and the occult. If it was fantastical, mythical, or spooky, they let me have it: Kiddle Lockets, Rust Craft haunted houses, goblins, the Green Ghost game, Eeks creature makers. I devoured it all. 

I slept in pitch‑black darkness, something that baffled my aunt whenever I stayed with her. She couldn’t understand why I loved the dark — why it comforted me. Babysitters would comment on how unusual it was that a child adored Chiller Theater. My bookshelves overflowed with witch stories and anthologies like Alfred Hitchcock’s Haunted Houseful and The Witch Family. Gothic, horror, witchcraft — these weren’t interests. They were magnets. Catholicism, on the other hand, never fit. I went through the motions, but something felt off, hollow. I couldn’t understand why my Protestant friends couldn’t take the Eucharist with me, yet I was allowed to join their rituals. The imbalance felt wrong. Even then, I sensed that the spiritual world was bigger, stranger, and far more inclusive than the one I was raised in. 

When I was sixteen, I visited my aunt and uncle in East Liverpool, Ohio. In their bathroom, I suddenly felt watched — not by a presence of light, but something leering, like a dirty old man. Later, I learned my younger cousin had been stared at by an aggressive male ghost that followed the family when they moved to Springfield. They never told me how they finally broke contact. They were too afraid to discuss their psychic experiences with me, even though I begged to learn. Fear never touched me the way it touched them. 

Still, they trusted me. They asked me to read cards, to scry, to help when things felt out of control. Once, my aunt’s sister was trapped in a violent marriage. Out of desperation, they asked what could be done. I told them to wrap his photo in aluminum foil and freeze it — a symbolic “chilling” of his aggression. Months later, they told me he vanished from their lives entirely. That was the moment they became believers in the Arcane. 

As I grew older, I sought answers. I visited Neo-Pagan and New Age shops in Cleveland, and later in Columbus — Salem West, Fly‑By‑Night, Pearls of Wisdom, The Shadow Realm. I bought books, studied witchcraft, and met members of the Pagan community. I didn’t have a single moment of “realization.” It was more like finding my tribe — people whose beliefs felt like home, whose practices echoed the instincts I’d carried since childhood. 

I never “became” a witch. I simply recognized what I had always been. Walking the path is a responsibility. It requires discipline, humility, and constant learning. Life gets in the way sometimes, but as I grow older, I hope to guide younger seekers — those who feel confused, dissatisfied with their religion, or simply curious about the Craft. We never stop learning. I intend to keep absorbing, keep growing, and keep contributing to the Pagan community. 

My path is one of darkness and love — and I walk it with purpose.