12 days of Christmas - The Magic of Christmas

Written by: He Le (24-A2)

Designed by: Xavier Lee (24-O2)

Dear reader: 

They say that, once a year, on Halloween, evil spirits converge to bring damnation to the realm. All that whispered such rumours are no longer of this world. But the evil spirits still linger, digging into the earth like leeching parasites. 

This year, four such spirits gather twice—on Halloween and, for the first time, under the merry wreaths of Christmas Day. 

Vera the Ancient, the spindly elder whose magic eclipses all others. She witnessed the birth of time and harbours knowledge too dangerous for mortal minds to comprehend.

Ysanne the Untamed, the sharp-tongued renegade who wields chaos like a blade. Her chaotic temper has left scars on entire realities.

Nesta the Enthraller, a master of creation. Her works charm even the coldest hearts—none can resist the allure of her sinister craftsmanship.

Penelope the Shadower, the youngest of the coven, cloaked in nervous innocence. But beware — her meekness hides a brewing darkness. 

They plot a feast, their dastardly schemes obscured from the prying eyes of the living. 

They converge. At 32nd Street, Burlington City, Massachusetts. Yes, the apartment down the street from Tesco. #03-247. You can’t miss them. The Halloween decorations are still up. I think they’re up all year round, actually. There’s a sticker of a ghost saying: “A BOO-mer lives here!” stuck to the door. 

How wicked and terrifying. These truly are an evil bunch.

“Oh, look at us!!” Nesta swooned happily. “We’re wonderful and terrific! We’re a truly familial bunch!” 

“That’s… sweet?” Penelope said shyly. 

“I’m utterly disgusted,” deadpanned Ysanne. 

“As am I,” said Vera, the head of the dining table. “Now hush. Before we begin, let us take a moment of silence for our fallen sister, Rosina,” she announced solemnly. “Rosina was slow-roasted to death by two children, who she had lured into her candy house.” 

“...seriously?” 

Vera pursed her lips. “I did tell her that it was a bad idea. She was always a bit kooky. Nevertheless, to respect her, everything we eat will be strictly child-free. Let us begin our first Christmas Potluck.”  

“Wonderful! Allow me…” Nesta took out her twine basket. “I made some ginger-men!” She sang, revealing gingerbread men carefully decorated with icing and gumdrops. 

The gingermen sprung to life, climbing out of the basket. They giggled with childlike wonder, skipping to the witches. Penelope gasped in delight as a gingerman climbed onto her hand, smiling as she scratched its head. 

Vera pinched her temples, swatting the gingermen away. “No children, Nesta.” 

“They’re not children, they’re cookies!” Nesta protested, passing a mini candy cane to a gingerman. “Oh, and watch this!” 

It started tap dancing, clicking its cookie shoes and hitting the cane on the table for ‘thumps’. 

Ysanne groaned, averting her eyes. “You’re doing the thing again, Nesta. You’ve made your stuff too cute. I almost don’t want to eat them. But if I must...” She raised a gingerman to her mouth. 

“NO!!” Cried Nesta and Penelope simultaneously. 

Nesta smacked the gingerman out of Ysanne’s hands. “HOLD YOUR HORSES!! They’re not supposed to be eaten. I didn’t spend a week sifting sacrificed souls into my flour for my efforts to be devoured!” 

Across the table, Penelope looked intensely relieved. 

“...” Vera rubbed her eyes and sighed. “You’re kidding.” 

“For the love of all things unholy, you’ve LITERALLY done the thing again!” Ysanne said, throwing her hands up in the air in aggravation. “Can you stop making your stuff come to life for, like, THREE seconds—”

“Can I keep one as a pet?” Penelope asked, eyes shining like stars. 

“Of course, dear! Feed it two sugar lumps daily. But they’re preservative-free, so they’ll rot in a week.” 

“You’re really dumb,” Ysanne said. “Both of you need mental help.” 

“Enlighten me, what is the point of making gingerbread if it should not be eaten and is furthermore not shelf stable??” Vera asked, concerned. 

“SHH! Penny!” Nesta cheered. “What’ve you got? I’m sure you’ve put your special magic into your dish to WOW us away!!”  

Penelope startled and nearly dropped her gingerman, looking briefly panicked. “Uhh. I… I didn’t…” She trailed off, glancing between the coven. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Oh, right…” Penelope muttered. “This is a witches' potluck… Uh.” 

She cleared her throat. “I… I made eggnog that… uh… is witchy..” She picked up the handmade bottle from the table, staring at it in contemplation, before turning it back to the coven. “Witchy eggnog. It’s… a potion of, um, euphoria?” 

Nesta let out a trill of interest. “Euphoria! Any side effects?” 

“Um… Lowered inhibitions, aggression, fatigue…” Penelope glanced nervously at the other witches. “L–Liver cirrhosis…” 

“A poison in exchange for a soul’s brief comfort?” Vera asked, thoroughly engrossed. “Intriguing. Allow me to guess: the secret ingredient is poison hemlock?” 

“...vodka…” Penelope mumbled. Ysanne, sitting closest to her, choked on her water. 

“Come again?” 

“A–and Veratum!” She forced out hastily, conjuring a Veratum flower into existence with shaky hands and passing it to an interested Nesta. “It’s a— natural insecticide. And a, um, numbing agent…” 

Ysanne made a sound adjacent to a kettle, fighting for her life to keep her mouth shut. 

“Well, I will abstain,” Vera said. “I mean no offence, Penelope, but liver cirrhosis doesn’t sound ideal.” 

“Th–That’s alright!!” Penelope squeaked, clutching the bottle closely. “I think it’s not really appropriate for t–the occasion, anyway, hahaha…” 

“—Hah,” Ysanne finally swallowed, gasping for breath. “Penn. Pentagon. Panta Claus. Look,” she said, gripping the younger witch’s shoulder tightly in exuberance. “One, you don’t gotta puff yourself up, okay? You’re as much of a witch as the rest of us. Two, bring it to my place later. For… studying the ingredients.” 

“O… kay…?” Penelope said meekly, shrinking onto herself. “M-Moving on… Um, what did you make, Vera?” 

Vera rolled her eyes. “Unlike everyone else here, apparently, I’m semi-competent.” She draped her cloak over the table and created a plate of… something. It was patchy brown. It was a log. It was reminiscent of things that you, the reader, should be able to piece together. Vera stepped backwards, looking pleased. 

“...”

The oldest witch looked affronted. “What’s wrong with all of you? Aren’t you impressed?” 

“W-Wow…?” Penelope said quietly.

“Thank you, Penelope,” Vera sniffed. 

Nesta laughed nervously. “Well, um, Verns, it looks a little… Well, not doubting you, but—”

Ysanne pushed Nesta away flatly. “Stop sucking up to V, Ness. Hag, it looks like a roll of dung.

To this, Vera looked genuinely offended. “Oh, put a sock in it, Ysanne. It’s a fruit cake. With raisins, walnuts and wolfberries.

“Well, it still looks—”

“—Moreover,” she interjected smugly, slicing a piece of ‘cake’. Between one blink and the next, the cake regenerated entirely. “It’s infinitely regenerative,” she said, placing a large slice onto Penelope’s plate. “I’ve effectively solved world hunger!”

Penelope’s face visibly crumpled. “...Delightful.” 

Vera distributed slices. The log remained on the dining table, functionally untouched. “Well? Go on, try it.” 

Since Vera was The Big Boss Witch and no one disobeys The Big Boss Witch, they did. 

“You know what,” Nesta said after a moment, chewing. “I’m not offended by it. Right, Penny?” 

Penelope did not respond. Her eyes were glazed with tears as she held a bitten piece of ‘fruitcake’ between her hands. It was like she was mildly dissociating from the situation. 

“—Wait, no, I’m tasting it now. I am offended by it,” Nesta said, making a face. “It’s the texture of meat and the taste of fruity cardboard,” she said miserably. 

“And we get to eat an infinite amount of it,” Ysanne muttered. “Joy.” 

Vera pursed her lips into a frown. “I mean… I had to use a few pints of geriatric blood to enchant it, but I thought the pineapple would mask it. Did I add too little?” 

“Vera, Vera, dear. This is an incredible feat of magic,” Nesta placated with a stiff smile. “But why did you choose fruitcake for this?” 

“I don’t think the problem lies in the choice of cake,” Ysanne muttered, holding her half-eaten disc against the light. “I think I tasted durian or something in here too, which is positively disgusting. Do better.” 

Vera frowned. She picked up her piece and slowly bit into it while maintaining eye contact with Ysanne. Then her face soured. 

Every piece of fruitcake in the room spontaneously combusted into incendiary flames. 

“Good call,” Nesta whispered. 

The room was silent (and smoky) for a bit, then Ysanne slammed her hands against the table. “Okay. Clearly, it’s up to me to save this crapshow,” she declared, standing up for dramatic flair. “Y’all ain’t ready for this.” 

“I truly don’t think I am,” Nesta grumbled. “Remember that time you burnt down my Salem house cooking rice?” 

“Yeah, well, people just chalked that up to a Witch Burning,” she waved off. “It was fine. We slaughtered the whole town after, anyway. Alright, prepare yourselves.” 

Vera raised a single, angular eyebrow. Nesta looked apprehensive. Penelope leaned forward. 

“I brought,” Ysanne paused for dramatic tension, reaching behind her back, “mashed potatoes.” 

She produced a paper plate of mashed potatoes. Not particularly well-mashed, mind you. Chunks of skin and unmelted bits of butter specked the room-temperature mash. Pepper was conspicuously absent.

Nesta gasped in delight, leaning across the table. “Mashed potatoes!!”

“Are you seriously impressed by this?” Vera asked, flabbergasted. She eyed the plate in stunned suspicion. “Is that all it takes? Pureed spuds?” 

“What was I supposed to do?” Ysanne complained loudly. “You told me to bring a carb. There are no interesting carbs. PLUS,” she jerked a thumb downward at her dish, subtly giving everyone a thumbs down. “This is the only thing remotely edible here.” 

“Speaking of, even if everything was edible, our potluck consists ONLY of mashed potatoes, two desserts, and a drink??? Make it make sense—”

“Silence!” Vera snapped. Her booming voice sent quakes into the earth, making lights flicker. She twitched. “Ysanne. Let us try some of your potato mash.” 

“Chill,” Ysanne muttered. With a flick of her fingers, the mashed potatoes were split into four portions and delivered to each plate. “Bon appetites or whatever.” 

Slow scraping of reluctant forks. There weren’t any chewing noises, because they were eating mashed potatoes. 

A bout of silence. 

“...It’s good,” Penelope admitted. Whether this appraisal was attributable to her hunger or the dish itself was vague.

Vera groaned, setting down her fork. “I can’t believe Ysanne made the best thing here.” 

Nesta beamed through a mouthful of potatoes. “Thank you, Ysanne! With you around, truly, It’s A Wonderful Life!” 

Ysanne pinched her eyebrows together. “Why are you saying it like that?” 

“Give Nesta a break,” Vera said, sipping water. “It could just be witcherly Love, Actually.” 

“No, seriously, why are you saying it like that? Is it just me??” 

Penelope glanced at her cue card. “It’s, um, a Miracle on 34th Street?” 

Vera looked at her weirdly. “We’re on the 32nd street, what are you talking about?” 

“Yeah, Penny. You’re WAY too young for dementia! Everything okay?” Nesta asked with genuine worry.  

“Oh,” Penelope said faintly. 

“...Okay, this is a Nightmare Before Christmas. Whatever.” Ysanne fake-bowed. “I enjoyed the compliments. I would like to thank myself, and no one else. Merry Christmas, or something, weirdos.” 

And then they finished the mashed potatoes and did customary witchy things like laugh at Harry Potter’s inaccuracies and make elixirs and summon fairies. And under Ysanne’s convincing, polished off Penelope’s eggnog.

Dear reader: 

Did you smile? No—did you laugh? Don’t let their merriment deceive you. They’re Witches. You see only a superficial facade. They’re wicked servants of Hallow’s Eve. They’re—

…

You’re not convinced, are you? That’s just how it looked from a distance. But look at them: a  truly familial bunch. 

Is there a moral? That even wicked witches have a family to return to? Or that anyone can enjoy a magical Christmas? 

…Maybe. Look, I don’t know man, they’re witches. The number one character archetype for imparting morals to children like they’re candy. There’s probably something to sift from this.

The end. Have a magical Christmas.