Hello, friends! Apologies for the absence; my computer was completely useless, which isn’t ideal for writing. But we’re back!

Let’s get into it!

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The Pines

a poem

—

When the earth absorbs my body into the ground
I embody the absence of sound
I am now a spirit
I live with the fates
I’m the leaves on the trees
And the sun in your hair
I’m the dog that barks
And the fish that swim without a care
I’m the ever-ticking clock
And that random bit of luck
I’m the soft swaying willow trees
And a shiny, pretty rock
I kiss the daisies
And play with the bees
I’ll send fireflies
So you can always see
Memorize the birdsongs
Embody every beat
Laugh with the gulls
And fly with the geese
I’ll appear in their feathers
And in their tweets
I’m the wind that bellows
And the calm that follows
I came from the above
To return to the soft below
I know, my dear
I wish it were not so
So write me in your songs
Composed by your heart
Paint me in your world
Find me in your art
Don’t rush to get here
Don’t wish to go
One day you’ll find rest
I know it is so
We’ll sing with the moon
And traverse among the stars
We’ll see the world
We will do it all
Until then, darling
My love flows free
Find me in everything
That once was
And will be

—

My relationship to the universe around me takes all shapes and sizes. Yesterday, I sat under the trees just listening to the birds and small animals around me, and the tree offered some spiritual poetry.

It flowed through me.

And now it’s yours.

We are everything around us.

Though, as humans, we will feel the depths of our sadness through grief, nature invites us to see our loved ones in its creations, and yours.

Beyond the Pines

Speaking of the trees, I’ve been getting calls from them all across the state—and especially into the Pinelands.

I’ve waxed poetic about the more than a million acres of the haunted forest at the heart of my small state, which sustains my soul.

When I’m there, something inside of me is different, and when it’s been a while since I’ve been in the brackish waters, sandy soil, and the quiet of the endless trees.

The Pinelands embody the heart of the state. She calls my name. She beckons me to explore.

In the last week, these spirits have asked a lot of me, and I can’t wait to get into it. This summer is going to be the summer of folklore and stories.

This summer, the assignment is not to question it, but to capture it!

Photos, stories, poems, history, folklore—all of the details that quietly captured my heart in my youth are back in a new way.

Small Fishing Towns

One of my favorite parts of the Pinelands is the collection of literal ghost towns and the life that once was.

Time is weird. I’m not not convinced that everything everywhere is happening all at once, which is why we still experience the energy of the past.

In NJ, the coast is filled with barrier islands. Off those barrier islands, along the ocean and the bay, are long-gone fisheries, farmland, glass factories, railways, and other attempts at commerce, all within the Pinelands.

As a kid, I visited and learned about these in school or on a family day trip, and I was obsessed.

Not only did the chances of me finding the Jersey Devil increase, but what other folklore would I happen upon? Would I discover something to share? The idea tickled me.

This summer, as a mature medium, I’m thrilled to explore. What will I learn? Who will inspire me? What photographs might I capture?

The possibilities remain endless.

East Point Lighthouse

Forty-five minutes away from Cape May, nestled in Bellplain State Forest on the shore of the Delaware Bay, sits a modest white home with a red roof and a working lighthouse beacon. (Pictured in the cover photo, taken by me.)

Well, it used to work. I believe the location is currently closed, and the local historical society is working to prevent the building from falling into disrepair. Like many coastal locations, it’s a victim of climate change and erosion. The lighthouse was once 490 feet from the water, but now stands fewer than 200 feet from the water.

The lighthouse supported the large commercial fishing and oyster operations in the late 1800s.

But like much of the Pinelands and the Delaware Bay area, it maintains only small, insular communities rich in history and ghost stories.

It’s also an ecological gem. The lighthouse is a resting spot for monarch butterflies as they migrate each season, and it welcomes a variety of birds, fish, and other wildlife.

I’ve done some pretty excellent bird watching there, but I’m feeling like I need a writing session. All I need is a crispy Coke, a turkey hoagie, and a full laptop battery for the day trip.

While it’s difficult not to love a visit there, it’s immediately obvious how secluded the Pinelands can make you feel in the country’s most densely populated state.

From chaos to quiet.

Once you leave the main road, the sounds of nature are louder than anything around. You have to drive through miles of marshland and woods, and worry that no one will find you if you get lost.

From quiet into desolation.

When the world gets too loud, the sea, the sun, and the Pinelands will always bring me home.

I can’t wait to see what this summer will bring. I have something brewing—but you’ll have to hang on to find out what.

Shannon is a writer, psychic medium, mystic, tarot reader, diviner, Siren, and friend of the spirits. She channels messages through her writing, tarot readings, and musings with friends. Head to her profile to read a variety of her work, including fiction and poetry.

I am a movie and TV rewatcher, an album repeater, and a book rereader. I do it with pride.

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I’ve always been this way.

You’ll see the armchair experts online proclaim it’s just a coping mechanism to soothe the anxieties of the world. While I think it can be true, I’ve always been like this.

I love my books. My movies. My shows. My music.

I stretched VHS tapes past their prime, scratched CDs to hell, ruined DVDs, and read books til the binding cried “enough!” I stream Gilmore Girls endlessly, and rewatch The Sopranos with gusto.

Each of those albums, movies, and shows has followed me in all stages of my life. I feel differently through each engagement.

Though I have my favorites, I certainly don’t deny that discovering new works of art adds to my joy and diversifies the sprinkles that sweeten my life.

Art ensures an imaginative future.

Baz Luhrmann is a Close Personal Friend of Mine

Or so I wish.

In eighth grade, we read Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, as all preteens do in their early education.

At its core, Shakespeare is an experiential art form. Sure, you can read it, but unless you see the story in action, the impact is, well, lackluster.

To bored preteens, it just reads like a bunch of fancy words written by some dead dude. “What does he know about modern life?” we would whine.

Turns out a lot, since humans haven’t changed all that much over time.

Our creative English teacher, Mrs. Cooper, whom I admired dearly, had other ideas for her lesson plan. She had a movie in her back pocket that would change my life.

The crescendo of sound crashed in over me in the opening scene, packing a massive visual and emotional punch with a stacked cast.

Romeo + Juliet (1996) stars Claire Danes as Juliet, Leonardo DiCaprio as Romeo, a memorable legendary performance by Harold Perrineau as Mercutio, and John Leguizamo as Tybalt.

Read Cards & Characters: Tybalt Capulet

It blew my impressionable young mind: modern actors set against modern-day Mexico, speaking in Shakespearean English. They had guns in place of swords, and an unforgettable soundtrack to accompany. (I’m currently listening to it as I write this.)

In my opinion, it’s one of the best takes on the source material. The audience leaves understanding intent without struggle.

A Plague on Both Your Houses

At its heart, Romeo and Juliet is a cautionary tale of greed and its poisonous tendrils suffocating everything they touch.

In the background, the Capulets and Montagues are wealthy families warring over Wealthy People things. The families are so deep in the blood feud that they’re not even certain why they hate each other.

In the foreground, Romeo and Juliet are two horny teens trapped in a Catholic society desperate to bang. So, they decide to get married. The Priest, Friar Laurence, sees this as a pathway to peace: marry the kids, and the families have no choice but to end their feud.

But greed doesn’t produce; it only takes.

Fighting ensues, and everyone dies.

Shakespeare is going to Shakespeare.

The movie masterfully depicts the greed, desperation, and entrapment of being a powerless teenager.

A plague on both their houses, indeed.

It is, without irony, one of the best Shakespeare films ever made.

Ageless Beauty

While the film was released in 1996, it is ageless in its relevance.

That’s partially due to the source material. The rest can be attributed to the director Baz Luhrmann. You can’t watch any of his movies without drowning in color, eye candy, music, and sensuality.

Sure, they’re movies, but they’re also an experience.

Romeo + Juliet is saturated with Catholic imagery as a tribute to the original play’s Italy and to Mexico, the film's setting, also an incredibly Catholic country.

Watch the movie today, and the themes, imagery, and performances hit you as though it were just released, especially through adult eyes.

You Are Here

While Romeo + Juliet is one example of a time and place to revisit with the perspective you have now, there is no limit on when or where you should time-travel.

I was recently chatting with a friend whose son is reading The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton.

I couldn’t stop myself, I gushed about how the experience of reading the book now is wildly different than reading it as a teenager.

My heart cracked in places it hadn’t when I originally read it. Doing so helped me acknowledge how I’ve changed and grown.

I’m different every few years. The garden of my life has bloomed and been replanted.

I see colors anew, I feel the world more deeply, and I have a sense of self I didn’t have as a kid. Food tastes better. People are more interesting. I’ve grown less afraid of the world.

The art I love has transformed with me.

It expresses where I cannot. It adds visuals, vocabulary, and voices to pieces of my greater self.

We shouldn’t discredit previous versions of ourselves. Of course, we might change and handle things differently with the tools we have now, but we didn’t. How we judge ourselves and our previous versions takes us out of the experiences in front of us.

It’s a good reason to revisit our old favorites or things that never stood a chance. Maybe something you once hated becomes a new classic.

It’s another reason to create.

Maybe something I’ve written or crafted isn’t resonating at this exact moment for people, but in six months, two years, or even a decade later, it will.

Who am I to deny myself the craft? How could I deny my own voice?

Current Obsessions

I can’t leave you empty-handed! Here are some of the pop culture, books, and art lighting my fire.

Books

I have been on a reading slump for the ages. I have my bestie to thank for getting me back into it by reading the Crescent City series by Sarah J. Mass for the first time. Re-reading it along with her has set my heart on fire.

What I’m reading now:

Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins- I love the Hunger Games series! I read them as they came out while in college during a particularly hard time. I distinctly remember reading Catching Fire in the campus library while the rest of the school was on spring break. They will never make me hate you, Katniss Everdeen.

What I’m reading next:

Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy- I’m in general an avid reader, but there are a few books that I just haven’t gotten to. Luckily, art is ageless, and I can happily indulge in this new experience (for me). I decided to read a couple of pages to make sure it won’t be something I hate. I was pleased to find out the prose was beautiful. Looking forward to it!

Shop Books

Music

Bad Bunny- I don’t feel like I need to explain Bad Bunny. He’s an incredible artist, and I simply cannot get enough of him.

Currently plating: Un Verano Sin Ti

William Shakespeare’s Romeo + Juliet Music from the Motion Picture (on CD)- I had this CD as a teenager, and like most other CDs I owned, I completely destroyed it, either from overuse and likely, undiagnosed ADHD (lol). It’s one of my all-time favorite albums (I’m playing the CD as we speak).

I was lucky enough to find a sealed copy of the CD on eBay. The seller surprised me by sending original marketing material with it. I didn’t cry, you did.

Favorite Track: Kissing You by Des’ree

I haven’t been watching much, but let me know in the comments your latest obsession, what you’ve always been devoted to, or what you’re discovering!

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Shannon is a writer, psychic medium, mystic, tarot reader, diviner, Siren, and friend of the spirits. She channels messages through her writing, tarot readings, and musings with friends. Head to her profile to read a variety of her work, including fiction and poetry.

Hello, friends! It’s been a minute, let’s catch up!

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What’s new?

I apologize for the long silence; life has been busier and weirder than I expected. I’ve also been sitting with my new pathway of (Catholic) mysticism as given to me by my guides.

Spiritual practice is not exactly a cakewalk. It’s filled with confusing prompts, navigational systems you didn’t think applied, and a whole lot of questioning who you are.

Lately, I’ve been sitting with the Catholic saints and angels. Catholicism is no small part of my life, and while I thought the spiritual connection had long ceased, it’s unexpectedly come roaring back.

I now consider myself a (Catholic) mystic. Though it’s new, it’s not all-encompassing. It’s a thread woven into the tapestry of my spiritual skills.

I find it comforting when the saints reach out to consort with me. They offer spiritual propositions and perspectives. They urge me to lean into the devotion of my spiritual practice I consider holy.

They also infiltrate my dreams, transporting me to places I’ve never been and asking for deep contemplation, complete surrender, and full commitment to this spiritual life.

And I’ve agreed to all of it wholeheartedly.

Half Baked

I’ve written what feels like 100 essays with nowhere to put them. The ideas are all half-baked, but I still want to share.

AI is a Form of Necromancy

Yes, you read that correctly.

I’ve been simmering on the topic of AI. Who hasn’t?

People are fighting the good fight against AI data centers, the pollution, and the drain on natural resources. It’s reported that about half of the planned AI data centers are delayed or canceled outright.

A town near me had an explosive meeting about the construction of an AI data center. Fights ensued, and the local police dragged people out. The local government has since backtracked and will potentially ban all data centers as a result.

Anecdotally, I’m seeing people reject its place in this world. You see celebrities and CEOs saying that if you don’t get involved, you’ll get left behind.

When you reject its existence, and you don’t like where it’s going, will you truly get left behind?

At its core, AI is a form of capitalistic pursuits intended to snuff out your curiosity and turn off your brain to submit to the billionaire class. It’s built on stolen collections of data, writing, artwork, and fully formed creations, spitting out a bastardized version of the original thoughts and creative pursuits, often infringing on copyrights.

There is nothing innovative.

It’s not real.

It’s a mimic.

AI steals the work of others without permission, and the billionaire class uses the “labor” to line their pockets without doing the work, crediting the people involved, or paying them for their talents. Companies attempt to create “art,” “music,” “writing,” or “journalistic pieces" with AI to bypass paying someone their worth.

It’s another form of slavery.

While it’s not to the extreme of chattel slavery (and nothing can compare to the generational inhumanity), it’s the technocrat version. The slop represents a brick in the foundation of capitalism—taking something and claiming it as yours without proper compensation, all in the name of profit.

There are also claims that AI is becoming conscious. It’s a lie.

The arbiters of the algorithm need you to believe that all of this is inevitable, so their investments don’t betray their pockets or their sensibilities.

The 1979 IBM training manual said it best.

“A computer can never be held accountable, therefore a computer must never make a management decision.”

A computer program can never be conscious. It can never have human emotions or a soul; it doesn’t know how to love or be a good co-worker. It can only mimic. Because it’s a computer.

We never need to resign to the idea that this is our future, when it’s a machine we can simply unplug and walk away from.

Consent is everything

Consent is everything in creation. I would never give someone a reading or channel their deceased loved ones and ambush them in a parking lot or grocery store.

It’s morally and ethically wrong.

Consent is needed for ethical transactions and consumption.

The creator has to want to share their talents and craft, while the audience consents to receiving them.

Necromancy is the practice of raising the dead to live again without the deceased’s consent. It’s why it’s considered a dark magic practice. There’s no consent involved; the soul cannot reenter—it is only reanimation. It’s not natural. It’s not normal.

The practice is no different from AI productions. It’s lacking a necessary soul.

Life requires authenticity.

You cannot force artwork to be touching. You cannot algorithm your way into transcendence. It comes from a place deep within.

AI can’t be allegorical or interpret beyond the source code punched into its mainframe.

Those responsible for churning AI versions of deceased celebrities are engaging in necromantic practice. It’s wholly inhuman and completely devoid of ethics.

Anyone who engages in human replication through AI prompts is responsible for necromancy and its consequences.

Nothing we do is without consequence.

AI-generated “people” is a soup of photos of you, or your kids, or your friends, to create a Frankenstein’s monster of what a person could look like. It sneaks through your sensitivities and tricks you into collective digital hallucinations.

Have you ever truly examined AI-generated “people?” They are constructed with ill intentions, without the magic of the universe that stitches us together. They are godless voids intended to bleed you dry to benefit someone who will never care about you.

AI and art cannot coexist. They are not the same.

The Divine is Feminine

Recently, TikTok creator wombcosmology posted a video about how organized religion is the practice of womb envy. That baptism is a superfluous, as our children have already been anointed with our amniotic fluid. It’s necessary for the patriarchal structure because men can never bear the fruit; they can only harvest it. (Follow the link to watch her succinct thoughts. I highly recommend it.)

She was able to put into words what I haven’t found the vocabulary for. While the Catholic church has called me back to practice with the saints and Mary, I have felt a deep discomfort with it stemming from the patriarchy of it all.

Read The Mystified Mystic

How can you ask me to submit to men who don’t walk with life and death in the way women do?

How can I devote my divinity to an organization that has no intention of ever including the divinity of the feminine?

Men cannot create life, so they must mimic it.

But the church taught me everything I know about witchcraft, devotion, and ritual.

It’s a spiritual situationship.

It doesn’t sit right in my soul that there are no books written by women in the Bible. There are no celebrated priestesses. Patriarchal-led churches exist as structures that, in general, do not lead but demand obedience. All in service of the afterlife and a judgmental, omnipresent god.

I don’t concern myself with the afterlife. It’s irrelevant.

I’m here right now.

You cannot borrow my guilt, my time, or my devotion against something that hasn’t yet happened.

Those saints, the angels they pray to, and the God they worship, communicate with me.

I’m anointed no differently than those who claim the power.

Getting Creative

If you don’t follow me over on Instagram, you definitely should! There you will find different styles of divination, including three-card pulls and my newest New Jersey-focused divination, the Garden State Siren, in which I pull three cards from the Jersey Collective Go Fish! game and provide a Jersey-forward reading, I love it. I’ve also been sharing original digital artwork.

Here are a few I loved creating:

I love finding images on the Creative Commons and giving them new life, often through a spiritual channel.

I hope you’ll join me to discover all I’ve been crafting and creating!

What’s Next

Great question, I kind of love not knowing!

What I do know is that I’ll be checking in weekly here on Substack with this style of musings, an essay, poetry, or some sort of channeled message.

The spiritual guidance for me is to just put it out there and enjoy what comes in.

For free tarot readings and more of my artwork, give me a follow on Instagram!

If you would like a private intuitive reading, you can email me at sirenbooksllc@gmail.com with the subject line: Private Tarot Reading Inquiry. My books are open, and I’m taking on new clients!

Thank you for all your support! Please consider a paid subscription to support your favorite small intuitive creator! This helps me grow and become more independent.

Shannon is a writer, psychic medium, mystic, tarot reader, diviner, Siren, and friend of the spirits. She channels messages through her writing, tarot readings, and musings with friends. Head to her profile to read a variety of her work, including fiction and poetry.

This house is haunted
There is a ghoul in our home.
The ghost’s eyes stare.
Haunting, they loom.
Time has no meaning. I don’t know where I am.
I wonder. When did I last sleep?
We pay with our sanity; the price is steep.
This house is haunted, but yours is too.
You might recognize my thousand-yard stare.
Thanks to the nightmares.
Optimism is waning; now wearing thin.
What year is it? When did this begin?
Your house is haunted.
Ours is too.
I don’t recognize the person in the mirror. Is that me, or is that you?
I can hear footsteps, but no one is there.
Who is in that room? Why do they not care?
My house is haunted. The ghosts are always stalking.
Have I told you this story? How long have we been talking?
All I do is worry. Will we make it out alive?
Don’t leave me behind. We cannot part.
My eyes feel heavy, much like my heart.
I won’t be going from here; this is my home.
I pray we’ll be glad we stayed, even if it’s reduced to stone.
I feel scared. Oh, you do too?
I don’t know what’s next. I don’t know what to do.
Let’s put on our brave faces, show them where we stand.
When it’s our time, will you hold my hand?
One day, I dream our home won’t be haunted.
Yours won’t be either.
I wonder how long it will be.
Why is it so dark now? Can you still see?
Rest must be close, I’m starting to get cold.
I know it’s scary. No! Please! Don’t let go!
I won’t leave you behind. Will you stay with me?
One day, our houses won’t be haunted.
There will be calm.
Until that time comes.
I’ll bleed into the dawn.

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Be nice, I haven’t really written poetry before.

The other night was sleepless; I was chasing rest. In the moments of sleep I did get, it was spent in nightmares.

In this particular nightmare, it looked like I was in a comfortable place, but I wasn’t. It was a set within a haunted castle in Spain. The ghost in the dream made my head ring with this horrible sound, and I woke up.

The World is Chaotic

Time feels spectacularly liminal and questionable.

It’s like we’ve reached a timeless state—it’s 2026, but it’s also 2001, 2003, and 2008, 1991, and 2017, all at the same time.

I don’t know what day or what year it is lately.

It’s not helpful that we’re deep in Mercury retrograde, which I’m actively ignoring. Sometimes, the cosmos needs to read the room.

In all this chaos, in this liminal, strange energy, I’ve been feeling more energized to craft, create, and try. Which seems to include poetry, who knew?

Time feels a lot like this meme right now

It feels like we are all sort of flowing between these two states of being, which seems like a normal response to the times. Whatever year it happens to be.

There is a lot of horror happening in real time; the billionaire class that rules over us is indiscriminately killing innocent people in the name of imperialist pursuits.

It’s horrifying and scary.

What happens to us if there is retaliation? Are we safe?

Who knows. All we can do is be as prepared as we can be and just live our lives.

Don’t forget, nothing matters!

Write that poetry. Start that book. Paint your visions. Tell the people in your life you love them. Dream big and just go for it. Make new friends, end relationships that drain you, sing out loud, and dance in public. Talk to the moon. Look at the stars. Listen to a CD. Reread your favorite books. Cook a new meal.

Whatever you do, let go of the weight of perfection; it’s draining you. There’s no better time to just live.

Nothing matters!

Time is weird. There’s no telling what’s next.

This is your sign, and the universe’s permission to do whatever makes your heart soar, and seek what makes you happy.

Free yourself of imposed pressure, judgment, or fear to create. Because nothing matters. And I think that’s great.

Shannon is an independent writer, creator, psychic-medium, intuitive tarot reader, book lover, and Siren. By subscribing, you help support imagination and creation. Most of her work is channeled, and she hopes you find the messages rewarding. Thank you for your support!

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“The word of God,” Pope Leo extends his hands, awaiting the congregation’s response.

Glory to you, O Lord, they respond as one.

I’m seated at the very back of the old auditorium of St. Joseph’s Catholic School in Sea Isle City, New Jersey.

I watch in awe as Pope Leo leads a semi-full auditorium through Mass. Here I Am, Lord plays as the congregation lines up for communion, marking the near-conclusion of Mass.

I observe but don’t participate—a storm surges in my body, and I’m unsure how to navigate it.

As the hymn concludes, Pope Leo begins collecting the blessed golden communion dishes and chalices, praying over them once more before their return to the gilded tabernacle beyond the modest altar.

The auditorium was always meant for the larger crowds, especially in the summer, to accommodate the tourist population in search of salvation. It’s not nearly as ornate as the white church, but it serves its purpose.

I shift in my dark brown seat, and the worn plastic cushion crackles beneath my legs. My mind and heart enter a brief but intense battle over whether I should receive communion. I hesitate.

My spiritual confusion catches in my throat, and I feel mildly panicked and embarrassed.

Time is running out, as Pope Leo is walking to the tabernacle, and I make a choice, humbly and alone, walk up the aisle to the altar.

“Is it too late, Your Holiness?” I ask in a quiet, scared tone. My body is hot. Sweat rolls down my spine.

“It is never too late, my child,” Pope Leo says, as he gently rests his hand on my head in quiet prayer.

“The body of Christ,” he says as he raises the pale wafer and offers me communion.

“Amen,” I respond.

“Go in peace,” he commands, and I turn into clouding darkness; the floor beneath my feet disappears. I can no longer see.

And then I wake up.

It was just a dream.

But it wasn’t. It was a message.

Friend of the Spirits

Spiritual work doesn’t stop because I’m sleeping, just the opposite, actually. Oftentimes, necessary messages from Spirits are transmitted through what feel like dreams, but are actually messages.

It’s a skill like any other—you learn to use your discernment to make a determination: was it a dream or was it a message? Your body becomes your compass for navigation.

In my case, these dreams carry feeling. My body recognizes these sleepy vignettes as memories, and I understand them differently when I get up. Generally, I need to consider whether I’m remembering a past life or a recent memory, or whether something is being asked of me, often called to answer my next assignment in my spiritual growth.

I sat with this particular dream for days, replaying it in detail like a movie. I couldn’t shake it, understanding the call, and decided it was time to go to Mass.

Saints and Sinners

The Catholic Church may be an institution of great power, conflict, and a looming presence, but its role in my mystical education cannot be denied. It’s like a hum in the background. Try as I might, it never completely goes away.

Each Mass taught me lessons about the mystery of faith, ritual work, and the meaning of spiritual reverence. Last year, my spiritual education and practice expanded significantly. My gifts matured. My Spirit team recalibrated my direction.

There have been innumerable times when I have chosen a direction, only to have Spirit bring me back to my roots. A push and pull from the universe.

In consideration of attending Mass, the channels I received dialed up to an intense pitch.

I saw the image of crabs everywhere; the words crab, novena, reverence, and Spain became prominent. The numbers 123 and 47, and San Francisco, were all brought to my attention in various interesting ways.

I channel a lot of information daily and don’t think much of it, especially since it rarely makes sense in the moment. It’s meant to be deciphered in divine timing.

In my carefully chosen heels and dress, I cautiously entered the intimately small room at the Jesuit Center. Reds, greens, blues, and deep purples settled into a kaleidoscope of color from a floor-to-ceiling stained-glass depiction of Jesus, who watched over and guarded the sacred altar.

His glossy eyes stared into mine as I uncomfortably shifted in the solid wooden chair.

The Mass was an unheard-of quick 30 minutes, which made it easier to focus on the priest’s words.

The date was 12/3, and the readings included a memorial of St. Francis Xavier, a prolific missionary and Spanish Jesuit known for his priestly enthusiasm for the Word. He was one of the first to travel to Singapore as a missionary and received approval from St. Ignatius of Loyola to continue his work throughout Asia. His Feast Day falls on Dec. 3.

I was enamored with the reading, which included the line

On this mountain, he will destroy
the veil that veils all peoples

As if on the mountain itself, my perspective shifted; Spirit communicated the line to me as another channel. I understood.

As a mystic, it’s my job to see and hear what others cannot, and to carry the weight of the veil, and help people see beyond the confines of the physical world.

I received communion that day, and the spiritual weight I was carrying was now lighter.

Well, You’re a Mystic!

While my attendance at Mass was both comforting and necessary in this instance, I still do not consider myself a religious person. I’m squarely not religious.

My internal battle comes from the patriarchal hierarchy of it all. Especially when women are the bearers of souls, spiritual cultivators, compassionate caretakers, and natural leaders. Spiritual work comes naturally because it is a natural disposition. My discomfort lives in the shadows of this patriarchal structure, to put it simply.

After Mass, I approached the priest to thank him. I mentioned I hadn’t been in quite some time and felt conflicted about attending. I told him about the dream I had about Pope Leo.

His eyes widened with delight as I recounted the details.

I mentioned my confusion at Pope Leo leading mass at the altar, “Spirits I dream of are generally the departed,” I said, my heart pounding.

Father gently rested his hand on my shoulder, “That was God speaking to you. You’re a mystic,” he said.

Decades worth of institutional shame unknotted in my chest, and the imposter syndrome melted away.

What the Shell

After Mass, I couldn’t shake the name St. Francis Xavier; it kept replaying like a song, another prompt from Spirit.

The beautiful thing about spiritual communication is deciphering the prompts. Sometimes it’s as silly as a nursery rhyme, and other times it’s piecing together a series of words that sync up with an experience. Other times, it’s a flight number or a daydream. Sometimes, it’s so direct, it’s comical.

In this case, I connected the dots with the help of St. Francis Xavier, who, in a daydream, urged me to review the reading from Mass and, once again, showed me a crab.

Things might always be weird, but they’re never boring.

I dug into my notes app to start connecting dots and found incessant repeats of 123 or 12/3, which is his feast day; Spain, St. Francis Xavier was born in the Basque region of Spain, San Francisco, which means Saint Francis in Spanish, and 47 or April 7, which is his birthdate.

The only thing left was the crab detail. I didn’t get it. I reluctantly searched for “St. Francis Xavier Crab,” expecting nothing, and lo and behold, the story of the crab solidified the connection.

The legend goes that St. Francis Xavier was sailing to Malaysia when his ship was caught in a terrible storm. In an act of faith, St. Francis Xavier cast his crucifix into the sea, hoping to calm the storm and ensure that those traveling with him arrived safely.

Standing on the beach, overlooking the once-raging sea, the saint watched as a crab carrying a crucifix approached. It wasn’t any crucifix—it was the cross he sacrificed to the sea for protection. He blessed the crustacean and retrieved his crucifix.

The miracle lives on in the Charybdis feriata—a species of crab in the Indo-Pacific region born with a crucifix in its shell.

It was thrilling to connect all the dots, I won’t lie. It’s one of the most rewarding aspects of this gift.

St. Francis Xavier reached out to get me to that Mass and see my gifts in a new, sacred, and accepting light. I was fearful of judgment from an institution that has loudly rejected witches or mystics, only to be accepted and welcomed once again.

I assumed acceptance was what I was seeking, but I left with the confidence and clarity that I am exactly who I am. Spirit makes no mistakes; the messages sent to me are real and accurate. I left with a clearer understanding of my spiritual purpose, even without all the answers.

I have no plans to return to weekly Mass or turn my devotions to the Church. It’s only necessary when prompted by Spirit—otherwise, my practice is devoted to the matriarchal goddesses and saints who compassionately guide my practice.

Mystic Mysteries Persist

It’s been a tough few months since December. I’ve been stagnant, feeling generally lost about my purpose and calling, and uninspired. I’m in a reading slump. In short, my communion left me confused and needing more answers. It was only recently that its purpose made sense.

The first of the month marked my birthday, celebrated under the full moon in Leo, the very same full moon I was born under. It reignited my fire, revealing my purpose and reminding me of exactly who I am.

The path I walk lately is reminiscent of the Two of Swords—the woman is confidently wielding two perfectly balanced swords, unafraid of their danger. She is the High Priestess, though expected to carry on blindfolded. She sits before a calm sea; a crescent moon hangs above, shining through the darkness.

She patiently contemplates, expecting to choose a path, but which one?

She’s not meant to see with her eyes—she must listen to the spirits, and choose to believe the universe has her back, even though she can’t prove it.

Anointed anew, I, too, am asked to walk the path of spiritual faithfulness blindfolded and confident in my skills. The swords I carry do not intimidate me, and I trust Spirit’s plan for me, wherever it takes me. I’m decidedly not meant to understand, only listen, communicate, and share. And so I shall.

I’m choosing the path divined for me.

Shannon is an independent writer, spiritual communicator, creator, artist, and friend of the spirits.

Thank you for your readership! As an independent writer and creator, your support allows me to continue doing this. Consider downloading the Substack app for an audio version of my work, tarot readings, and more. You can find more of my creations and tarot readings on Instagram.

We did it! We’ve reached the final days of a challenging, strange, and intense year.

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If you have complicated feelings about it all, worry not, you’re in good company.

A heartfelt thank you for being here with me! I’m thrilled to explore next year with an open heart, mind, and fresh excitement.

Recently, I’ve been experiencing an intense and exhausting spiritual upgrade, and things are slowly coming back online just in time to take a peek back at 2025.

Challenges and Channeling

It’s a blessing and a challenge to be so connected to the universe, the collective, and myself. As the planets made their gigantic changes, we, as a collective, reflected the energy.

I am not the same person I was at the start of 2025, and I’m better because of it. I don’t recognize the person I was, clinging to previous versions of myself, a person who frequently looks back and never forward.

I don’t relate to who I was at the beginning of 2025, and I’ve found my voice.

It’s about time.

Astral Assistance

Spiritual work is a beast. You do not accept the challenge without understanding the cost: everything you once were. It will no longer exist within you. More often than not, the Universe mirrors what is necessary, and 2025 is no exception.

Every single one of us is going through changes.

Pluto, the planet of upheaval and change, demanded our attention when it went direct in Aquarius in October. Everything sped up—what we’d been working on was now on the clock, and the wait was over for results.

Change or remain stuck.

Venus went retrograde in March, and challenged me to make a choice: reevaluate my self-worth or get comfortable in the endless cycle of feeling unworthy.

It was time to answer honestly about why I never felt like I should ask for more from myself or from the universe. It was time to face why failure felt more terrifying than trying at all.

This battle wasn’t new, either. For years, I contemplated my worthiness. Was I valuable because my paycheck said I was? Did I need a job with social approval to feel successful? Was I successful because other people approved of my choices? Was my place in this world worthy because of who approved of it? Was people-pleasing a worthy pursuit?

Venus may have gone direct in April, but I carried the weight of her request through the year, fighting to make it lighter. I was scared to be my authentic self without judgment, which left me feeling emptier and less creatively fulfilled.

Ultimately, I allowed what I carried to weigh me down because I didn’t prioritize myself. Countless choices in my life had been made to meet perceived expectations of others, what they expected me to do, who they thought I should be, how I should create, so I’ll be liked, and the approval of others.

My Spirit team asked me what I truly wanted and demanded better. And so, it was time to choose differently, above all, because I deserve it.

The shadow work I engaged in was deeply personal and intense. More often than not, I was showing up in the world with what I could emotionally manage because I was terrified of what I had to offer.

I finally grew weary of the cycle of people-pleasing that persisted. The mirror reflected my shortcomings: I was attempting success to appease others and gain approval, not because I thought I deserved it.

Decidedly, my creations and manifestations weren’t working because I considered everyone else’s reaction to them before I considered mine. The act of doing so muffled my calling, and I couldn’t hear Spirit as strongly.

It wasn’t working because I wasn’t letting it work.

What a bitter pill to swallow.

It’s me, hi, I’m the problem. It’s me.

It was time to answer Spirit’s question for me: What do you want? The time to commit to what was being asked of me spiritually had arrived.

The confidence behind that choice transformed my creations from crowd-pleasing performances to natural, intuitive, and thoughtful pieces. The drip of inspiration flowed into a river of ideas, and the words flowed through me.

Finally, my authentic expression suited me better than anything else I had tried on.

I accepted that being vulnerable was necessary, and people are entitled to feel whatever they want about my work, but it doesn’t reflect my worthiness.

Since the tacit spiritual agreement, my guides, the departed, and the Saints’ symphony are loud once again, albeit a slow resurgence. The relationship feels secure, confident, and blessed, finally free of the fear that once held me back.

There are successes in our lives that we can never quantify.

Sing Loud for All to Hear

As the year concludes, I see myself for exactly who I am: a gentle, intuitive soul, a psychic medium with an insatiable curiosity for the world, a messy individual with hopes, dreams, and a lot to say—a spiritually gifted writer who yearns to be expressive in all ways. A spirit having a human experience, and someone deeply thankful and proud of the natural, intuitive gifts I’ve been given.

Spirit calls to me, and 2026 will have me answering in new ways I have yet to understand fully.

I cannot wait.

This year challenged me at every turn, and I’m proud of how I rose to the occasion. I’m walking away from 2025, comfortable in my skin and to be seen for exactly who I am.

For the first time, I’m not scared of it.

The shadows that once haunted the edge of the forest have been revealed as glorious trees, abundantly blooming along the path I have yet to travel.

Magical Moves

I appreciate your patience, as my spiritual and creative break was necessary. I plan on spending the holidays reveling in the fun and magic of the season. I hope you’re able to do the same.

It’s not quite the new year, but the energy already feels refreshed. The collective is shifting with confidence, and some of the more sensitive types can already feel it.

I cannot wait to share messages from spirit, tarot readings, channels for the collective, new fiction, and so much more in the coming year.

Merry Christmas, blessed Yule, and happy New Year to you and yours. See you in 2026!

Siren Song Top Hits 2025

Here are some of my favorite works this year—I hope you revisit and enjoy over break! Let me know which were your favorites!

Mercy

Mercy was my first work of fiction and last piece of 2025. It was a thrill to write! You can find all three parts here on Substack, or the complete piece here.

Dreams of an American Revolution

Dreams of an American Revolution explores dreamwork, past lives, and ancestral ties.

Severe Clear

Severe Clear touches on my complicated relationship with 9/11 as a human and an intuitive.

Garden State of Mind

New Jersey gets a bad reputation, but its folklore and magic run deep.

Honorable mention throwback:

The Siren and the Devil Card

The essay that started it all.

I’m deeply grateful to all of you for supporting me and my work—thank you endlessly! I can’t wait to share my gifts with all of you in new ways next year.

For personal intuitive tarot readings, head to SirenBooks.org.

Follow me on Instagram for updates, general readings, and creative musings.

Thank you for all your support and love this year!

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Happy Halloween! May your day be filled with ghost stories, strange things you cannot explain, classic Halloween movies, and hordes of happy kids bringing you joy as they trick or treat.

Please enjoy my Halloween treat: the conclusion of Mercy!

Mercy: Part I

Mercy: Part II

Part III: The Conclusion

XV.

A dishelved Mercy Harlowe appeared from the fort, lantern in hand.

“Greetings, sisters,” she hissed, candlelight glowing in her onyx eyes. “A word?”

The irony of their current timeline wasn’t lost on them. This might all be happening in Salem around Halloween, but this wasn’t Hocus Pocus. There were no directions, no Black Flame Candle to burn out, no situation-ending sunrise to disappear their dilemma.

This was uncharted territory.

Quincy and Viv stood before Mercy in a silent, tense stand-off.

“You said you had a deal for us. So, what’s the deal?” Viv asked impatiently.

Brisk November air seeped through their clothes, lodging discomfort in the spaces between them, stealing their warmth.

Viv’s anger cut the tension.

“If you asked us here to kill us, then let’s dance! I don’t have all night to wait for a fight to start,” Viv said aggressively. “If you’re serious, then let’s get to business,” she said while removing her earrings and pulling her hair up in a messy bun.

Viv’s necessity for resolution usurped her fear.

“I hear you, Viv, but I think we should just talk,” Quincy said, gently placing her hand on Viv’s elbow. “You know I’m always ready to throw down, but look at her. This is not a fair fight.”

Viv took a moment to observe Mercy and understood. Calming herself, she nodded.

XVI.

Mercy’s physical appearance was frightening. Her unkempt, knotted hair caught in the wrong places in the wind. She was covered in Bristol’s crusted dried blood, and her own from minor injuries. Her skin was pale where it wasn’t filthy, bags weighed heavily under her eyes, and she appeared weak, even hungry. She was gently swaying in the wind, her feet uneasy, bloodied from her long trek.

Mercy breathed heavy, feigning the strength for a fight she would surely lose. She steeled herself for another violent, slow end.

Quincy and Viv’s fear dissolved into sympathy. Their enemy was a pathetic opponent.

Quincy and Viv reached into their bags.

“Here,” Quincy said, tossing an old hoodie and sweatpants at Mercy. “I can’t reason with you looking that pathetic. Suit up. These will keep you warm.”

Viv pulled out a pair of gently-worn Uggs. She hated how they made her feet look like dinner rolls under her jeans, and parted with them near-gleefully.

“Put them on your feet, it’ll help warm you up,” she instructed.

Disarmed by their kindness, Mercy began to weep.

“Much obliged,” she said through tears. Emotion swept through her.

Mercy had been distraught since the moment she arrived. Every minute has been spent in fight or flight—she was terrified. She may have been back in Salem, but she has never felt more lost or confused. She was overwhelmed by the constant noise, smells, and hordes of strangers that crowded her once-lush home. Nothing was familiar.

“Thank you, your kindness is ferly,” she said.

“D-did you say ferly?” Viv asked.

Mercy nodded.

They quickly Googled its meaning—it means unexpected—and “ooooooh’d” as it clicked.

“Yeah, no, this is not going to be easy. File this under things I didn’t consider,” Viv said, exasperated by the ferly language barrier.

“Okay then, let’s get to it. You like wine, bread, and cheese?” Quincy asked. “We’re not doing this on an empty stomach.”

“Ay,” she affirmed.

Viv cracked open the screwtop of the Cabernet Sauvignon as Quinn ripped into crusty, yeasty baugette, passing around the chewy pieces for their unholy communion.

XVII.

The three gnoshed their provisions in silent relief.

“Thy providence is admirable, ” Mercy said, making eye contact with the girls. “I must apologize for my insolence.”

Viv and Quincy looked back as they sipped their wine, listening intently.

“I departed this world so brutally, and reentered just so,” Mercy said, her voice quiet and gentle. “I am regretful for my intemperance and accept thy consequences. I am not unfamiliar with the noose.”

Viv and Quincy exchanged uncomfortable looks.

“Pause,” Viv said. “Hold thy horses.” She commanded, raising her pointer finger.

“Will you give us a moment?” Quinn said.

The two convened to a private corner, whispering back and forth, hands over their mouths.

“I thought we agreed there was no worthy fight?” Viv asked. “I think she thinks we’re the ones to exact justice? I won’t lie, I just don’t have it in me at this point.”

“No, yeah. Same page, honestly,” Quincy whispered back. “The amount of work it would be to cover it up, in addition to the ongoing investigation, might not work in our favor. Covering a murder might be an overcommitment.”

“Look, we have wine, cheese, and a baugette. I say we learn everything we can and go from there. Worst-case scenario, we drive her to the Berkshires and let her wander off,” Viv said, offering a plan B. “Besides, I want to hear about the Trials.”

Always in sync, the two agreed.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” Quincy said, laying the cards out for Mercy. “We have wine and food. Let’s come to an understanding before we make any moves. Capisce?”

“Capisce? What, pray tell, is a Capsice?” Mercy asked.

“It just means you understand.”

“Ay, I understand.”

XVIII.

The three sat close in a small circle, protected from the wind, surrounded by candles. The waves crashed with a powerful candence, a natural soundtrack for the evening.

“Not gonna lie, this is way spookier than yesterday,” Quincy whispered tensely to Viv, who nodded in agreement.

“We’re sure you have questions,” Quincy said. “Ask away.”

“What year is it? What have I missed?” Mercy inquired. “Thy world is loud.”

“Fuck, what a loaded question,” Viv sighed.

The girls took turns explaining what happened in Salem in the years following Mercy’s murder. They explained that, at present, Salem is internationally recognized as a sacred, historical, and intriguing destination. People have written plays and movies based on what happened to Mercy and her loved ones.

The abundance of information presented an overwhelming number of detours to travel while explaining. They did their best to provide simple explanations when possible. They spent an hour on pop culture and, and only 15 minutes on the American Revolution.

“This all would have been quicker if we played We Didn’t Start the Fire,” Viv joked. Quincy snickered in agreement.

They poured some more wine and broke more bread. It was going to be a long night.

XIX.

Mercy, now generally acquainted with the 21st century, brought Quincy and Viv back to pre-Colonial times.

“Tell us everything about your life before you died,” Quincy said. “What was it all like?”

Mercy sipped her wine, contemplating where to begin.

“The Village was filled with endless hunger for the discovery of these strange shores. We relied on the land and neighbors,” she said.

She spoke of the quietness that blanketed the evenings, she recalled the inky black skies glittering with more stars than they could comprehend.

“Where did all the stars go?” she asked, concerned and sad.

“Light pollution,” the girls responded.

Mercy honored her past life, reverent for the land, trees, and shores where she spent her time. The land had its own personality, but respect for its abundant diversity was abandoned in favor of property lines, which devolved into extensive fighting, greed, and pride.

There were wars between the natives of this land and the Puritans. The leaders of the pilgrimage insisted their settlement was God’s will.

Quincy and Viv became overwhelmed. It was challenging for them to wrap their minds around the firsthand accounts of Pilgrims, Native Americans, Salem villagers, and the Witch Hysteria. This wasn’t reading from a textbook; this was Mercy’s life.

She told them stories of happy gatherings, loving families, and a grit for life. What they held in happiness, though, was met with equal strife.

Mercy recounted years of brutal winters, unfamiliar diseases, short lifespans of neighbors, bitter infighting, land disputes, and power struggles that sowed fear, jealousy, and incessant struggle. Life was uncomfortable and uneasy, but it was all she knew.

“Were you a witch?” Viv interjected.

“Vivienne!” Quincy could barely contain her uncomfortable laughter. “Jesus.”

“Ay, spiritually I followed Paganism,” Mercy said. “I loved working with the land, communicating with nature, observing the stars, and old gods. My practice was private and sacred.”

She said it had nothing to do with her murder, though. That was a direct result of Reverand Parris and the corresponding hysteria.

“Reverand Parris was a weak, desperate man,” Mercy said, not making eye contact. “Parris couldn’t fill the pews of a church if the village were starving, and the seats were laid with food.”

“Say more,” Viv encouraged, topping off everyone’s wine, lips now stained purple.

Mercy smirked, receiving the energy.

She detailed the villagers’ distaste for Parris, a stern and inflexible man who demanded tithing and absolute religious obedience from a cash-strapped population, creating dissenters who were unwilling to join his church. The town wanted him gone as their pastor, and Parris panicked.

“The first afflicted were borne of his blood, accused in his own house,” Mercy said.

Parris was an insecure man who saw his power dry up before him, with no contingency plan, and so he took matters into his own hands.

“The devil was in Salem, alright,” she asserted, “but his place was upon the pulpit.” Mercy drained her wine. “Suddenly, the town needed their faith more than ever.”

“Wait, are you saying Parris fabricated everything?”

“Ay. There was no affliction. Only lies,” she responded, looking through Quincy with intense unbroken eye contact.

XX.

Quincy and Viv held their breath as Mercy continued.

“Parris took things too far, and something came over the women of Salem. We had a plan,” she said.

The idea of revenge spread through the village in whispers. The women communicated their plans through secret channels—notes and hurried conversations — when the men weren’t looking.

The women of the village agreed to beat Parris at his own game and run him out of Salem once and for all.

“These violent delights, we discovered, have violent ends,” Mercy said.

Her beloved friends and peers were sick of the Puritanical, patriarchal demands of obedience, and needed to do something, anything—what was once an accusation borne of desperation materialized into horrifying, unteathered female rage. They put their talents to work, shrieking guttural screams from the depths of their rage, the most talented contorted their bodies into inhuman shapes, they crafted masterful lies, accusing the Devil as the ringleader forcing them to dance. Parris was left with no other option than to meet the moment his desperate situation had conjured and instill the fear of God back into the populace.

It was a sound idea until it wasn’t.

The afflicted spread outside the agreed-upon circle, and the number of accused had grown out of hand, with 200 people now involved; it was well beyond their control. People went missing, were sent to jails outside of Salem, and disappeared. The weight of the failed plan crushed them as the accused were put to death.

The villagers’ fear triumphed over their distaste for Parris; hysterics drowned Salem, and the fire they set for the pastor.

XXI.

Mercy wiped gentle tears from her blood-stained face. Her historical anger persisted.

Power-hungry men never pay for the consequences of their actions. They are soulless and broken from the rot of their insecurities. They never carry the weight of their sins. The blood staining their hands can be washed with vigor, restoring their cleanliness, while the victims of those violent hands are left to repair the broken and dismantled, responsible for picking up the pieces.

“Still true,” the girls said in unison, before taking a big swig of wine.

On the day of her death, Mercy was collecting cinnamon fern to aid with her monthly bleed, when two men grabbed her—they accused her of rendezvousing with the Devil, her accusers swore she signed her name to his Book.

It was late into the hysteria, and the rumor mill churned with desperate finality.

Her family attempted to find her to warn her, but they couldn’t locate her, and were too late.

By the time they reached her, Mercy had already been hanged by the angry mob and had been dragged by her noose through town.

Her father arrived only in time to collect her body.

Mercy’s mother and siblings cleaned her body between sobs and shrouded her in white linen filled with dried flowers, their attempt at a peaceful burial and afterlife for her.

In the cover of night, they made their way to the fort. Her father saw it from the water countless times, sailing back into town. He was motivated by its representation of protection and strength.

He could think of no better place to lay Mercy to rest. There, the family buried her in the grass, overlooking the sea.

Viv and Quinn were silently sobbing, tightly wrapped in each other’s embrace.

“Mercy, I’m endlessly sorry,” Quincy cried, wishing to atone for the sins that stained her home’s soil. “You deserved better.”

“There aren’t words,” Viv added. “I’m so profoundly sorry.”

Mercy thanked them, appreciative of their gracious hospitality in the face of horror.

The stormy seas Mercy once traveled finally quieted; she was free from the sins that weighed upon her soul.

“What now?" Mercy asked through tears.

“We go home,” Quincy said.

Epilouge

The three women left the sacred fort, forever changed.

Out of the cold and into the warmth of their homes, they separately crashed onto the comfort of their beds and slept for three merciful days.

The Salem Police never received any reliable tips about Bristol’s murder, and the case went cold. The gossip about her villain’s lair spread through the town like wildfire, adding a layer of lore to the already infamous Witch City.

Bristol’s parents eventually sold their home and moved to the Bahamas full-time.

Mercy enthusiastically embraced her second shot at life. She lived with Viv and worked at her shop. She savored her independence.

Quincy eventually took over the Cozy Cauldron Cottage, which allowed her parents to retire. She was able to settle in her magical haunted home once again.

Lilley and Sam moved over to the in-law suite so they can live in Puerto Rico for six months of the year, and in Salem for the other six. Retirement suited them.

In the days, weeks, months, and years following Mercy’s homecoming, she finally settled into modern life.

Her newfound freedom allowed her to practice her spirituality without prejudice, speak openly about her passions, and live as her entire self. When she wasn’t at the shop, she volunteered at the Peabody-Essex Museum, slandering Rev. Parris every chance she got. She also volunteered to maintain the local historic cemeteries.

Decades later, Mercy purchased her childhood home in Marblehead, in cash, with the help of some modern friends who appreciate historical secrets. She established a small homestead to live off the land, and relished contemporary comforts.

For the first time in her life, Mercy witnessed herself aging. She made time to admire herself in the mirror and truly see who she was. She had a soft spot for the crow’s feet that hugged her eyes, beaming like rays of sunlight, highlighted by strands of silver that framed her face.

Mercy delighted in the varied seasons of her life, just as she had in the seasons of the year.

Every September, Mercy would return to Fort Sewall to place flowers at her makeshift grave. There, she talked to her long-gone family, thanking them for their kindness and asking them to be with her as she navigated this new, strange life.

She told them of her life and her pursuit of happiness.

“And when the sun sets on my life,” she whispered in prayer, “walk with me once again, in peaceful celebration.”

Autumn once again greeted Salem like an old friend, decorating her trees with bright yellows, scarlets, and rich oranges. Perfectly timed crowds flooded the streets in waves of celebration.

Mercy could set her watch to the tides of Halloween three-quarters of a century after her unceremonious return.

Mercy was tired in her older age. She was wistful this particular Halloween, as she admired the stars shining from the comfort of her bed through her window—memories floating in, carried by the crisp, salty air. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen so many shining.

As Mercy drifted into sleep, the sounds of people in her home startled her back to consciousness.

A symphony of laughter, conversation, and glass clinking in celebration floated through her home and up to her bedroom.

Mercy ventured down the stairs and into the kitchen.

There were no earthly examples of the scene that appeared before her.

“I’ve missed you, my love,” her mother warmly greeted, taking her in. “You look beautiful.”

Mercy’s mother, father, and siblings surrounded her in a spectacular, holy embrace.

Joining the party were Salem’s familiar ghosts—the spirits of the women she lost centuries ago, smiling in alongside Viv and Quincy; beloved pets, friends, and familiar faces.

Mercy memorized the sacred sensation of their presence. Gentle, warm tears cascaded over her carefully carved features.

She looked up to see her father smiling in admiration of his eldest daughter.

“To Mercy,” her father raised a pearlescent, glowing chalice.

“To Mercy,” the guests toasted in her honor.

Mercy celebrated Halloween singing and dancing with her loved ones, wrapped in warm, intimate laughter.

As twilight approached, Mercy grew tired, the most tired she had ever been. A euphoric wave crashed over her, releasing the weight she had been carrying.

“I’m so happy you're home,” her mother cooed.

“I am too,” Mercy sighed as she closed her eyes, never again to wake.

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Thank you for traveling with me to Salem for this spooky tale. I look forward to sharing more stories in the near future. Let me know what your favorite part was in the comments!

This story is dedicated to my friends and family, who have always encouraged me to return to writing and explore fiction. I love you all, and your persistence!

This story is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or localities is entirely coincidental.

Shannon is a writer, psychic medium, diviner, storyteller, friend to the spirits, and Siren. She aims to enchant as many people as possible, helping them believe in magic again.

Mercy: Part I

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Part Two.

V.

“It’s good to be home,” the woman said, calmly, a breath loosened her tight chest.

The girls silently stared back at the woman, frozen in fear.

Bristol’s life-ending squelching ceased, and silence filled the graveyard.

It took a moment, but Quinn and Viv snapped out of it. They heard horrific guttural screaming, only to realize it was coming from them.

Still holding hands, the two took off in tacit agreement, bolting through the wrought-iron gate, their adrenaline revitalized, powering their escape.

“Who was that?” Viv asked again. Tears rolled down her face.

Quincy remained silent, unsure how to respond.

They walked into a random alleyway to catch their breath out of sight.

“I-I-didn’t memorize her face,” Viv was quietly crying, doubled over, hands on her knees to catch her breath. “We need to go back, we need to be able to describe that woman to the police.”

Rejecting what she saw, Quincy proposed that the display was a gaffe. She asked if Bristol ever used special effects blood during any of her performances. Maybe this was a well-produced Halloween prank, she proposed.

“Yes. For the New Year's Eve party, she was Lady Gaga for a performance and really went for it,” she said, eyes vacantly searching through the details, chewing on her cheek. “Maybe she was pulling a Halloween prank.”

“Let’s go back,” Viv said. “She’s probably cleaning up, wondering why we took off so quickly.”

VI.

Viv did her best to shake off the shock to confront Bristol. She had no problem with spooky shenanigans, but this was a bridge too far.

“Come on,” Viv growled, pulling a reluctant Quincy back into the cemetery they had escaped.

The graveyard was empty.

The salt circle had dissolved, and the knife, book, and candles, and most importantly, Bristol were gone.

The girls turned on their phones' flashlights to search for signs of Bristol. After 20 minutes of shivering from the cold and fear of what they might find, Viv called it off.

“I’ll have to text her tomorrow. It’s late and I’m freezing,” she muffled as she shakily lit another cigarette. “I don’t even know her like that,” Viv said, gesturing, the cigarette dropping orange ashes onto the hollowed ground.

“Yeah, you’re right, it’s time to go,” Quincy sighed, nerves calming. “Give me one of those,” she said, gesturing for a cigarette.

Viv obliged and lit her up.

Quincy’s drag was warm and comforting. The smoke wrapped around her anxiety and released the pressure tight in her chest.

She kept replaying the bloody scene in her head. It was out of a horror film. The seance finishes, a mysterious lady materializes, she slices Bristol’s throat, and “kills her” in cold blood—it was intense and bizarre.

Quincy kept coming back to the visceral reality of the experience— the smell of the blood.

“Let’s go eat and get ourselves together. I’ll text my friend OC,” Viv said. “He should be able to hook us up with food.”

VIV: Been a wild night, I have a crispy $100 for you if you can plate us some French toast and bacon with a carafe of coffee.

“OC?” Quincy said.

“Yeah, Johnny O’Cafferty, he was a couple of years ahead of us in school, cool dude,” Viv said.

OC responded.

OC: You and everyone else in town. What makes you so special, Viv? It’s 3 a.m., kindly fuck off.

VIV: Look, it’s been a rough night, and I’m not at liberty to share all the details. It’s about time I owed you one, anyway, OC. You feed us, we were never there, and you get $100. Sound good?

Two tense minutes later, he responded.

OC: Fine. Food and coffee will be out. Put dirty dishes in the bin, and the money in the envelope. You have to give me the details on what laws you broke in person, though. Don’t put it in writing.

VIV: Deal. Thanks, buddy.

Relieved, they headed toward the exit, but something caught their eye.

Viv stopped in her tracks.

An orange-yellow glow emanated from the usually dark, historic cross-patterned windows of the Pickman House at the edge of the cemetery.

The weathered cedar's natural dark color loomed like a shadowy, menacing lair—the central chimney now gently smoking. The once-fruitful pear tree, now skeletal and haunting, loomed, protecting the temporary inhabitant.

Gesturing toward the house, Viv silently beckoned Quincy to follow, finger pressed to her lips.

They walked over and crouched under the brightest window, casting soft light through the thatched design. The shadows danced onto the street, unconcerned with their company.

They could hear the muffled voice of someone talking to themselves, carrying on.

The two counted to three and peeked over the windowsill to see what was happening. They looked through the wavy, weathered glass and into the oak interior.

On the table lay Bristol’s body, bloody and lifeless. Her empty eyes faced the ceiling, staring into the abyss that now stared back.

Viv reacted in horror—covering her mouth and gagging at the bloody scene, confirming the reality of the events.

Quincy waved Viv over, rubbing her back in comfort.

“Mercy, who may this young lady be?” The woman inquired to herself as she paced. Her white frock dragged across the heavy oak floors. “Uncouth woman stole from Mercy! Her blood spilt by her own words. She knows not of what she did.”

She continued murmuring and planning to herself.

“Mercy?” Viv mouthed at Quincy, shrugging in confusion.

“Let’s get our bearings and make plans on how we bring this bitch down,” Viv whispered. “We’re going to Reds.”

VII.

The glassy-eyed girls shuffled up Central Street in silence. The reality of the situation drained all human-like emotions, ghosts of themselves floating through the remaining hours of Halloween.

Finally arriving at their blessed destination, they admired the big, red historic building that housed Red’s Sandwich Shop, located in the landmark London Coffee House, established in 1698. Red’s came around in the 40s—a staple ever since.

Everything in Salem was historic, mercantile, witchy, or Puritan —even legendary sandwich shops.

They entered through the back of the establishment. OC left the kitchen door unlocked for them; scents of cinnamon, butter, and divine coffee filled the air.

Quincy’s stomach rumbled; time slowed down enough that she could feel her body’s natural cues again.

“Oh my god, I’m so hungry,” Quincy announced to no one.

An empty, stark-white envelope sat on the black stone counter.

YOU WERE NEVER HERE ;)

Viv picked it up, sliding in the promised crispy $100 bill. Quincy pulled out $50 more as her own thank you.

Three massive plates were filled family-style with French toast, bacon, and home fries, placed before two neatly laid mats and napkin-rolled silverware. The two grabbed their portions and sat comfortably in silence for a few bites, interrupted only by mouthfuls of “mmms” and “mmhms,” a symphonic approval of the meal.

“Thank god for OC,” Viv said, breaking the silence, inspecting a piece of crisp bacon, before taking a greasy, crunchy bite. “Best $100 I’ve ever spent.”

Quincy got down to business.

“Do you think the woman is Mercy Harlowe?” she asked Viv.

“Huh?” she said mid-bite.

“She called herself Mercy at the Pickman House,” Quincy said. “I’ve been doing a little searching, and I think it might be her.

Mercy Harlowe wasn’t officially recognized as a convicted witch. The townsfolk brutally murdered her before she got a trial because they were terrified of her. There wasn’t much known about Mercy Harlowe until pretty recently,” Quincy shared. “It’s barbaric, start to finish.”

Quincy pulled up the information on her dying phone, which was now at 3% battery, and summarized who she thought Bristol resurrected.

Mercy Harlowe was the daughter of a seafarer who worked for a wealthy merchant in town. She was the eldest of 11 siblings. Toward the end of the Witch Hysteria in 1693, she was brutally murdered by fellow villagers.

She was accused of dalliances with the devil, blasphemy, cursing neighbors’ crops, and necromancy. The necromancy charge was allegedly for her attempt to resurrect her beloved friends, murdered by the state.

“They often found hoards of cats and bones by her home, and there were reports of people levitating in her presence. Reports of her actually dancing with the devil sent the exhausted population over the edge,” Quincy read aloud.

That was when they decided “enough was enough.” An angry mob hanged her and dragged her body by her noose through the streets to set a final example.

“She never received a proper burial or an official apology on behalf of her mistreatment,” Quincy said. “Present-day officials only knew this information from a letter they found written by Mercy outlining her torture and fear of being murdered, which she then put in a bottle and buried. The bottle was found during renovations to her home in Marblehead in the 1970s,” Quincy said.

It wasn’t until the 2000s that one of the relatives who inherited the Harlowe house gave the artifacts to the Peabody-Essex Museum. The donation arrived in a well-wrapped package from the homeowner, who wrote only “you should see this” on it.

“Necromancy? Mob justice? Jesus.” Viv responded in disgust. “Maybe it really is her. I knew things were brutal back then, but holy hell.”

“So what now?” Viv asked.

The two agreed that sleep, showers, fresh clothes, and charged phones had to be the next move. After cleaning up, they exited the way they entered and walked across town to Summer Street and through the welcoming threshold of the Cozy Cauldron.

The two barricaded Quincy's doors and drew all the shades closed.

Freshly bathed, with clean, brushed hair and teeth, the girls changed into the coziest clothes they could find, finally climbing into bed.

Quincy drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, still holding onto Viv’s hand.

VIII.

The sound of banging on the door startled Quincy awake.

She turned over, groaning—9:00 a.m. Saturday, November 1, her lock screen read.

“Ughhh, who is it?” her groggy voice cracked.

“It’s Dad. I have pumpkin spice lattes and scones for the party animals!” he said jovially.

“One sec!”

Viv threw on her Salem State sweatshirt and tossed her hair in a bun. Quincy grabbed her glasses and put on fresh socks to greet Sam.

“Hi, Dad,” she said, leaning into a side hug. “Hey girls, how was your night?” he said, mid-hug, coffee balancing on a carrier with pastries in the middle.

It smelled divine. Sweet scents of cinnamon, milk, and sugar filled the room.

It was a welcome reprieve from the dark chaos. Nothing will brighten your day like a chat with Pop, complete with dad jokes.

He put the goodies on the tiny kitchenette counter.

“So, how was it? Did you give them pumpkin to talk about?” He raised his brows. “Ahhhh—I’m joshin’, we heard Essex was a disaster.”

Viv and Quincy exchanged looks before bursting into giggles.

They gave him the G-rated version of the evening, talking about how high their bar tab was, how much they sang and danced, the miracle of getting a table, with both agreeing they’ve never experienced a night out like that, maybe ever.

“Must have been some party,” Sam said, cleaning up and waving goodbye. “Enjoy your day, pumpkin!” He smiled and winked at Quincy. Classic Sam.

IX.

They wasted no time getting strategic.

“We’re going to Bristol’s workshop,” Viv said confidently. “She should have what we need to know there.”

They wanted to be equipped for whatever they might encounter. They grabbed hunting knives, baggies for evidence, extra battery packs to keep their phones charged, water, snacks, and twine.

They felt prepared.

Quincy and Viv’s trek across town gave them time to observe what the rest of the world was up to the day after the big holiday.

The air was cold and crisp under the bright November sun, which shone onto the groggy, post-party crowds of Salem. The chill pricked Quincy’s nose, stinging her senses.

A gaggle of fresh-faced visitors flooded from the T and into town, bright, hopeful, and overconfident that Salem wouldn’t be *as* crowded now that Halloween was over.

“We’ll head to Bristol’s detached garage,” Viv directed. “That’s where she told me she would ‘secretly practice’ her "witchcraft. Her family disapproved of it,” Viv rolled her eyes.

Quincy flashed a confused look. She lived in Salem her entire life and hadn’t met many people who were adverse to witchcraft.

It was then she realized she wasn’t familiar with Bristol’s family, either.

“You wouldn’t be,” Viv said. “They sent her to a private elementary school, then Andover, before she went to Yale.”

“Oh, Andover,” Quincy said, fully understanding the level of old money involved.

“What if the cops are there looking for her?” Quincy stopped, panic crowding her chest.

“I guess they will, eventually,” Viv said flatly. “Her parents leave town all of October to spend time in their home in the Bahamas to miss all this,” she said, gesturing her arms to emphasize their surroundings.

The answer didn’t quell the panic, but at least they could get onto the property undetected.

From Summer Street, down Essex, through the sprawling faded green of Salem Common, and over to Winter Street, they’d finally arrived. Beyond the garden stood an old garage, its blue paint peeling and weathered. A door sat ajar, waiting for Bristol’s return.

X.

The two stopped in synchronized unison at the scene before them.

It was like something straight out of Dexter. Transparent sheets hung throughout the workshop, bordering two tables with white sheets. Needles were prepped on two tables, ready for use. Bright, sterile tools bared their sharp teeth on a wheeled chrome tray.

She was planning to take lives that night.

Their lives.

Quincy felt dizzy.

A stack of books on Bloodcraft and Blood Rites was carelessly open and strewn about. She was obsessed, and clearly bloodthirsty; her educational book pile was as tall as the counter—The Ins and Outs of Blood Offerings, How to Drain Blood without Draining Your Life, Salem’s Lot, and Under the Tuscan Sun were stacked neatly to the side.

The place was a physical representation of Bristol’s careful planning: piles of notebooks, sticky pads, and a big, illustrated family tree accompanied the mess. Crumpled balls of paper concealed failed ideas, while sticky notes written out in neat marker filled in the holes of her demented brain.

Befriend a local and unsuspecting friend

Earn trust by liquoring up at an event—(stay sober B)

Bring back Mercy when the veil is thinnest at the bloodline’s graveyard

Show Mercy we can bring everyone back with fresh blood (slay queens)

Strap new pals in and borrow take their blood (sorry, homies)

Take over Salem with Mercy and exact revenge to atone for the town’s sins

Live out dreams of being a powerful witch (live your truth girl!)

This wasn’t just a spooky little seance; Bristol was prepared for a complete hostile haunted takeover of Salem, and she was going to drain her blood to do it.

Quincy doubled over, hands on her knees, taking deep breaths.

This is all too much.

The small space packed a big punch of information. Behind transparent walls were copied pages of the Grimoire she used on Halloween, stapled to the wooden walls of the garage.

The opening page hung for all to see:

This belongs to Mercy Harlowe,

thou shalt be cursed upon reading, and thine eyes shall wither.

“Oh, good god,” Quincy said. “She stole Mercy’s Grimoire and used it to bring her back. She cursed herself.” She concluded.

“I think there’s more to it than that,” Viv said, breathing heavy. “Look at this.”

She handed Quincy a 1997 newspaper clipping.

FAMILY CELEBRATES LOCAL HISTORY BY GIVING BACK

Emerson Parker and his wife Patience “Patti” Hathorne-Parker, pictured with their daughter, Bristol Parker, are celebrated by the North Shore Historical Preservation Society for their generous gift at a recent luncheon.

The family’s $25,000 donation will support the ongoing preservation of historic sites associated with the Salem Witch Trials. The period is considered a dark, horrific time in the North Shore’s long history. During the trials from 1692 to 1693, 200 people were accused of witchcraft, and 19 people were hanged.

Accurate representation of these historical places remains a priority for the Preservation Society and Essex County officials.

“My family’s contribution to the horrors cannot be erased, but we can offer reparations to the best of our ability,” Patti said, a descendant of Judge John Hathorne, who was best known for his harsh questioning of the accused with little remorse.

“Holy shit,” Quincy said. “She’s in the bloodline of the bad guys! The incantation was to seek revenge on those who did this to the witches!”

Bristol’s parents seemed to be saving face with the donation, rather than offering sincerity. They kept Bristol away from any “influences” of the town, away from its history, and always left the country for October.

“Who could remember their bloodline’s sins on a beach with a drink in their hand,” Quincy said, an attempt at levity.

The two documented everything they could. Quincy pocketed the newspaper clipping and took a few photos of the sticky notes.

“Why do self-hating wealthy people stay in their hometowns when they clearly loathe it? I don’t get it,” Viv said.

“The answer is always money. Money older than the country itself and the historic power to show for it, I would guess.”

The rabbit hole hypnosis broke, and the two suddenly realized they had likely overstayed their welcome. Cops would be crawling through this place soon enough.

“We have to go, Viv!” Quincy panicked, squarely back in reality. “We’re going to get caught dead to rights; we have to move it!”

Quincy’s heartbeat thrummed in her ears. A wave of dread crashed over her.

The energy buzzed and heightened—the hair on Quincy’s neck stood on end.

Behind them, the door to the only entrance swung open.

Viv and Quinn shrieked in horror.

“We meet again.” Mercy purred, onyx knife in hand.

Shit.

XI.

Quincy and Viv wordlessly communicated their intention to get out as peacefully as possible.

“Uh, hi, nice to see you, um, we were just leaving,” Quincy said. “We just wanted to get this,” she said, holding up a pair of gardening scissors and smiling nervously.

“Yeah, gardening is super important around here,” Viv supported in a confused, defeated tone.

“How interesting,” Mercy said. “Who knew thou practiced herbology,” she said.

“And took such interest in me,” she hissed, pulling copies of her Grimoirie off the wall. “Dost thou take me for a fool?”

Sweat rolled down Quincy’s neck.

“Us? N-No n-not us, this is Bristol’s place,” Quincy stammered. “She wanted to partner with y-y-youto kill us,” Quincy said, swallowing hard. “If it weren’t for you, we would have met our maker.”

Mercy’s shoulders relaxed, and her posture was confident.

Quincy could see her wheels turning as she considered the situation.

“I’ll make thoust a deal,” Mercy said, smiling.

Confused, Quincy and Viv paused what they were doing and exchanged looks.

“Meet me at Gale’s Head Fort at dusk. Bring thy candles.” She demanded.

“A deal for what?” Viv said. “You murdered our friend. You owe us!”

“Friend?” Mercy postured. “Dost all thy friends collect thoust blood? Gale’s Head. Dusk,” Mercy demanded, disappearing as quickly as she appeared.

Silence relaxed in the tense space between Quincy and Viv, hearts beating in synchronized panic.

XII.

Cop cars sped past Quincy and Viv as they slowly made their way back across town.

“Oh shit, they must have found her,” Quincy said.

“Yeah,” Viv said despondently, playing with the hem of her sweatshirt.

They agreed to swing by the crime scene. They disappeared into a crowd watching a reporter who was on a live shot.

Police say an employee of the historic Samuel Pickman House, located here behind the Peabody-Essex Museum and just next to the historic Salem Witch Trials Memorial, found the body of the young woman. The employee tells us the victim was lying face up with fatal injuries to her neck.

Our sources say the neighboring businesses lost power from midnight to 4 a.m. due to a car wreck around then. They have no video of the surrounding streets or the graveyard through the early morning hours to provide to the police.

The young woman’s name has not been released, as the family has yet to be notified.

Police have not named any suspects at this time. The Salem Police Department is seeking information and tips regarding the crime and asks for any witnesses to call their tip line at 978-333-6666 with any information.

It seems residents need to be wary of more than just ghosts this Halloween. From Salem, I’m Alley Kominsky, NBC10 News Boston.

The girls exchanged looks. They didn’t commit the crime, but they didn’t report it, either. Plus, how could they prove the murderer is someone who died in 1693? They were cooked.

“You don’t have to go tonight to the meeting, Viv. I can handle it if you want to take time to mourn your friend,” Quincy offered. “Or our freedom.”

“Be real, Quinz. Bristol wanted us dead. Besides, we’re in this too deep,” Viv said, eyes fixed ahead. “Let’s dust this bitch.”

XIII.

Back at the Cauldron, the girls changed into athleisure, and warmer sweatshirts. If they had to fight a supernatural enemy, it certainly wasn’t going to be in pants that didn’t stretch.

Gale’s Head Fort, the location requested by Mercy, is now known as Fort Sewall, on Marblehead Neck.

Fort Sewall was built in 1644 as a fortifier against threats to the colony. It was later used as a prison and, during the 18th and 19th centuries, as a naval base for maritime defense.

It also offered gorgeous rocky views with incredible sunrises.

Solid location, but they would have to drive.

Delirious from recent events, tired and giggly, the two wondered how Mercy would get there, “She doesn’t even know what a car is!” Viv hollered, laughing at the image of Mercy walking all day up to Marblehead Neck, barefoot, in that filthy cotton frock for their dramatic meeting.

“What if she figured out how to call an Uber with her supernatural powers?” Quincy said between laughs, “Can I pay you in shillings?”

The two dissolved into hysterics.

“Damn, she’s going to be too tired to hurt us,” Viv said, wiping tears. “She’ll need to stop at a packie for a wine to deal with the stress of the trek.”

Their shoulders shook in uncontrollable laughter.

“Imagine someone from the 1600s walking into Bunghole? She might die again before we meet with her,” Quincy said between guffaws. “Dost thoust have wine in thine Bunghole,” Quincy hiccoughed through belly laughs, wiping tears from her eyes and nose.

The girls wordlessly smiled, silently grateful for each other in this moment, taking in their precious final moments before it all ends.

“You ready?” Quincy asked Viv through a big sigh, wiping a tear.

“Ready.”

XIV.

The sun beamed its final moments of daylight, crafting a stained-glass blue, orange, and red sky over Fort Sewall’s intimidating white exterior. The fort was embedded in the rocky cliffs of Marblehead Neck, overlooking the dark, cold Atlantic.

All Saints Day would end with three of Salem’s biggest sinners.

The girls grabbed their bags, each equipped with a hunting knife, blankets, a backpack, bottles of wine, snacks, and an LED camping lantern.

The two wordlessly nodded and took off toward the fort.

A dishelved Mercy Harlowe appeared, candle lantern in hand.

“Greetings, sisters,” she hissed, candlelight glowing in her onyx eyes. “A word?”

Mercy: Part III

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This story is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or localities is entirely coincidental.

*For those confused, Bunghole is the real name of a real liquor store in Salem! The thought of a 1600s ghost shopping in there had me in tears!*

Shannon is a writer, psychic medium, diviner, storyteller, friend to the spirits, and Siren. She aims to enchant as many people as possible, helping them believe in magic again.

Part One.

I.

Quincy mindlessly swirled her spoon in her now-cold tea at the cafe. Her mind was wandering, and she was exhausted.

She was jobless and her future felt hopeless—she kept replaying the whirlwind of the last week in her head.

While her clichéd upbringing — a festive, happy haunted home overlooking a graveyard— was as magical as it seemed, she was determined to succeed beyond the confines of Witch City, albeit unsuccessfully.

Staring out the window, her eyes fixated on the trees grasping onto their remaining orange leaves, as she sank into her not-so-distant past.

She joined the startup in New York with the hopes of catapulting her professional career. It was going well until it wasn’t. They were going in a different direction, but she wasn’t invited. Her position no longer existed.

Autopsying what she could have done differently, she exhausted all possibilities and ultimately decided she would have still ended up back in Salem. Back home.

She mourned her fall off the corporate ladder, barhopping with friends before calling it a day, finally booking her Amtrak ticket to Boston, bags in hand.

“Hi, sweetie,” her mother, Lilley, cooed, hugging her head at an awkward angle, greeting her at the T in Salem.

Crowds of excited visitors clad in spooky costumes impatiently pushed through their reunion.

“Hey, Quinzy,” her dad, Sam, said.

Her parents grew up in New Jersey and the Boston areas, and after graduating together from Wellesley in the early 1980s, they lucked out and bought a gorgeous place on Summer Street in Salem, Quincy’s haunted childhood home.

It was the perfect town for her mom to showcase her artistry and her father to work at a bank in the area, though his true love was writing.

Years later, her parents purchased a neighboring property and converted it into a Bed and Breakfast—the Cozy Cauldron Cottage. The name delighted guests almost as much as it delighted her parents to name it.

“Hey, guys,” Quinn responded despondently. “I guess I’m your roommate for a bit,” she said.

“Ah—well, we had a better idea,” Lilley said, dangling a set of keys with a kitschy cauldron keychain attached. “We thought you could help run the Cauldron for a while as you figure it out. We added that mother-in-law suite in the hopes you’d make us happy and move home forever someday.

Plus, your old room is now my pottery studio,” she quipped.

“You’ll be alright, Quinzy,” her dad said, patting her on the back.

That was two days ago.

The sound of her phone buzzing on the table snapped Quincy back to reality.

VIV: Are we still on tonight? I’m dying to see Bristol perform at Bad Witch. She’s a client at my store, a local performer, AND said some drinks were on her!

Vivienne has been her best friend since kindergarten. She made their plans tonight, it’s Good Witch Bad Witch Costume Night at the Village Tavern, which was bound to be packed to the gills. Worse yet, Quincy hadn’t filled Viv in on her recent life changes.

QUINZ: Won’t it be packed? It’s Halloween, and the town is a tad crazier than usual.

VIV: I don’t care. It’s fun, Quinz! Plus, I got your drinks.

Quincy waivered for a moment.

QUINZ: Fine, but I’ll complain.

VIV: Complain with free drinks then. Meet at the statue at 8. Byeeeee

II.

Moonlight flooded the in-law suite, reflecting off a full-length mirror and onto her mess.

Quincy perfected her smoky eye—swirls of black, gray, and glitter complemented her bright green eyes.

Her favorite black lace dress, spiderweb fishnet stockings, and her trusty Doc Martens, styled with her leather coat, made for the perfect comfortable Halloween fit.

Quincy grabbed her new set of keys and locked her private entrance, her Cozy Cauldron keychain jingling in hurried excitement.

She breathed deeply, the stinging cold air and the scent of late autumn filled her lungs. The night sky was clear and speckled with stars. Quincy couldn’t remember the last time she had seen so many.

The feeling of being at home settled in her chest. It was good to be back.

“Quinz! You look amaaaazing!” Viv squealed, startling the crowd at the Bewitched Statue. Dressed-up tourists queued to take their Halloween Instagram photos to post with captions like, "Salem absolutely bewitched me." “Salem, you put a spell on me!” or “Salem, you’ve bewitched me body and soul.”

Quincy rolled her eyes.

“It’s good to see you, Viv,” Quincy said, leaning into a hug.

Quinn took in the view of Essex Street, quietly observing Halloween chaos that went on as far as the eye could see—crowds of drunk, boisterous, and festive partygoers filled long lines to get into bars. There were performers, psychics, and tarot card readers who divined and dazzled the easily amused visitors up and down Essex.

“Are we really going to the busiest spot in town?“ Quincy lamented.

“So when were you going to tell me you’re home for good?” Vivenne cut through. “Your mom came into the shop today and accidentally, on purpose, told me you were laid off. I’m sorry.”

Vivienne’s eyes looked sad and sympathetic. Quincy wasn’t averse to her sympathy. She rolled her eyes, classic Lilley.

“Thanks, what can ya do? I was planning on telling you tonight, but I wasn’t thinking it would be in a crowd at a costume show,” she said. “At least mom and dad are letting me crash at the Cauldron temp job and all.”

“Well, I’m just glad you’re home. I’ve missed you, and now we’ll have plenty of time to get back into mischief,” Viv said, rubbing her hands together, plotting. “Plus, Bristol said some drinks were on her since she owes me after I picked up a rare piece for her collection.

To top it off, we’re going to the cemetery later for a seance, oooooOOOhhhh,” Viv wiggled her fingers above her head for dramatic effect. “Who doesn’t love a classic Halloween night out?”

“We’re what now?”

“Bristol knows a guy who knows a guy that got us access to the cemetery, and she said she wants to show us a scary good time,” Viv shrugged, grabbing Quincy’s hand.

“Let’s go, we have Halloween to celebrate.”

III.

The Village was even more crowded than the girls anticipated.

Viv and Quinn effortlessly navigated the sea of people in costumes and spooky makeup to the table that Bristol so kindly and mysteriously had reserved for them.

High on hometown happiness and drunk on tequila sodas, Quincy reveled in the magic of Halloween night and briefly forgot her unemployment blues. She found herself questioning why she ever left the shores of Salem in the first place.

Wishing to evade the start of November, Quincy danced on the energy that kept the town buzzing.

It may have been cliché, but it was a hell of a night.

“I put a spell on you!”

“And now you’re miiiine!” Quinn and Viv sang in drunken unison as they exited the Tavern, their spirits as high as their bar tab.

“Well, that was amazing! I had more fun than I thought I would. And Bristol! She was insane! That name, too.”

Vivienne lit a cigarette, taking a hurried drag. “It’s a family name, apparently,” she answered lazily, an orange glow accentuating her shrugging hands.

“Are you sauced up enough for the second portion of the night?” she asked, smoke caressing the chilled air, “Time to get reacquainted with some ghosts in this town.”

She raised her brows and flicked her cigarette, smiling mischievously.

Quincy had forgotten about the spooky portion of the night; she was having too much fun to think of much else.

“Ah, yes, who can forget what made this town so famous? Let’s spend the rest of the most haunted night of the year trying to speak to those ghosts along with everyone else here,” Quincy said sarcastically.

Viv went on to explain that Bristol is a witch and performer —a real jack-of-all-trades kind of gal. She visits Viv’s boutique to shop for performance pieces and to catch up on the latest town gossip.

She thought it would be nice for Quincy to make some new friends upon her unceremonious return home. So, tonight, Viv, Bristol, and Quincy were meeting at The Burying Point, next to the Witch Trial Memorial, for a little haunted walk and classic Halloween mischief.

“‘Cause I want it thaaaaat wayyyy,” they buzzed, singing along their route to the cemetery.

Quincy stopped.

“Do we have to go? I’m ready for bed,” she implored, the exhaustion she was carrying feeling heavy once again.

“Oh, stop, I figured this could be the welcome home you need. Don’t forget your spooky roots,” Viv wiggled her fingers in the air again before pushing Quincy across the street.

What was once a sparkling night suddenly flattened as the mood changed, as the thick air and high energy of the tourists thinned at the entrance of the graveyard.

“Good evening, witches,” Bristol cackled.

“Hi,” Quincy said flatly. The tiredness crept over her.

“Who is this little witchy treat?” Bristol purred, playfully twirling a piece of Quincy’s chestnut hair through her fingers.

“Aside from meeting in the crowd earlier,” Vivienne retorted, lighting a fresh cigarette. “This is Quinzy, my best friend from childhood. She’s good people.”

“Right,” Bristol smirked, turning the key at the gate.

A click accompanied by the creaking of an antique gate welcomed the trio to the home of eternal rest.

“Let’s go, girls,” Bristol beckoned.

IV.

The three settled into the cemetery just out of view from the street—the stillness of the deserted hollowed grounds sent shivers through Quincy’s bones. It had been a few years since she’d been to this otherwise crowded cemetery, and she was a little uncomfortable.

Steadying herself, she took a deep breath, crossing her arms. Glancing around, she spotted the grave of John Hathorne, a judge from the Witch Trials, grimacing with disapproval.

Bristol wasted no time, getting to work on her casting circle—first, she poured a thick ring of salt. She then pulled out herbs, an obsidian knife, and some candles, which she lit at the four corners, calling in her spirit guides and the dead that had kept them company.

She took a seat.

Bristol pulled out an impressively old-looking leather-bound book, opening the stacked, uneven, inky parchment to a bookmarked page. The thing looked ancient.

She glanced at her watch.

“Ladies, it’s time.”

Quincy glanced at her phone; it was 1:11 a.m.

“Take a seat inside the circle, and we shall begin,” Bristol said with seriousness.

Viv raised her eyebrows at Quinn with excitement. Quinn flashed a half-hearted thumbs-up back.

“Ladies, your hands.” Bristol reached out, the three now physically connected.

“Take a breath, close your eyes, and bow your heads.”

A group of people laughed from the street, drunkenly wandering home, interrupting the otherwise silent cemetery.

A wave of nervousness hit Quincy.

Bristol, now focused, intoned:

Ancestors, mothers, and sisters!

Summon the wind, the skies, and stars to resurrect what once was ours.

Return the souls of those once stolen and forgotten.

Resurrect them, body, blood, and soul, lives begotten.

Pausing, Bristol glanced down at the instructions.

She lifted her left hand, then her right, which was now holding the sharp obsidian knife. She sliced her palm, revealing ruby red blood. Wincing, she added a drop to a pile of dirt.

Quincy involuntarily jumped, covering her mouth in silent horror.

Blood spilled is blood returned. May you walk this earth, seeking revenge you’ve earned.

“Revenge?” Quinn mouthed to Viv, heart pounding from the unexpected turn the night had taken.

Blood for blood. Eye for an eye.

Sky to sea, so mote it be.

Bristol mixed her blood and soil offering with unidentified herbs and salt before sealing it with candle wax, then quickly wrapped her hand.

Slackjawed and shocked, Quinn wasn’t entirely sure what Viv was thinking. This felt dangerous and unsavory. And on Halloween! Of all nights!

She would have more than a few words with Viv once they got back to the Cauldron.

“Now we wait,” Bristol said.

“W-wait? For what?” Viv squeaked out, finally chiming in.

“Okay, well, this has been fun. Lovely to meet you, Bristol,” Quinn nervously said, wiping the leaves and grass from her stockings, grabbing Viv’s hand. “Time to go.”

Just as Quincy bent down to grab her bag, she spotted someone in white from her periphery. They appeared to have materialized a few feet from their circle.

The woman was tall and slender, dressed in a long cotton frock. Before Viv could get the sound out to ask who was behind Bristol, the woman spoke.

“Pray pardon me, my dears,” the mystery woman said, walking over barefoot and otherworldly. The sound of her voice was like nothing Quincy had ever heard, a feminine timbre with a modest, menacing growl.

Bristol jumped to her feet with nervous excitement, shouting, “Oh my GOD! It worked, oh my god!”

“What worked, what the fuck worked?!” Quincy panic-whispered at Viv.

“The glow of thy candles enchanted me,” she added, softly smiling, now gripping Bristol’s shoulder, her onyx, unearthly eyes transfixed.

“I can’t believe you’re here! I have dreamed of working with you my whole life! I have an altar, and everything, even a whole workshop ready to go in your honor just beyond the Common,” Bristol said, nearly shouting with frenetic star-struck excitement.

“Aren’t thou sweet,” the woman said, snatching the sharp obsidian blade from Bristol, inspecting it. “I care not.”

She turned her wrist over, taking in the size of the sharpened stone. The blade sparkled in the moonlight, and a smudged reflection looked back at the strange woman.

Viv was now holding Quinn’s hand. “I don’t like this,” she whispered. Quincy squeezed back, whispering her desperation, “Me neither.”

“My, what a prize you are,” the woman sweetly hissed, leaning in to hug Bristol in celebration. Bristol embraced her lovingly.

Without warning, the woman pulled out of the hug and, with supernatural precision, sliced Bristol’s neck from ear to ear.

The smell of acrid blood filled the air, lightly steaming as it showered the woman, a scarlet and sticky baptismal return to life.

Bristol crumbled to the ground, slow and fast, all at the same time.

Her breathing slowed, drowning in the very same blood intended as an offering— her awful final breaths suffocated by her good intentions.

“It’s good to be home,” the woman said calmly.

Read Part II

This story is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or localities is entirely coincidental.

Shannon is a writer, psychic medium, diviner, storyteller, friend to the spirits, and Siren. She aims to enchant as many people as possible, helping them believe in magic again.

The chilly eastwardly wind whips against my face. My knotty, salty hair covers my eyes, obstructing my view of the messy, early winter sea. Frothy waves mindlessly enter and retreat under my feet. It’s freezing.

Sand sticks to me and water weighs down my clothes.

It’s raw out here, but I’m searching for something. For someone.

The atmosphere shoots raindrops my way, slow, then wild. The weight of my petticoat is unmanageable now.

I’m frantically searching the shoreline for the creamy sails of returning ships through deep gray fog, with no luck. It’s been months, and there hasn’t been any word.

My hair weighs my neck down, and desperation rises in my throat, accompanied by bile.

I walk north on the beach, desperate to see through the poor conditions.

No luck.

Another wave crashes, attempting to spook me and drive me away from this place to find shelter in our temporary home. We don’t live here year-round, but this is where I was told to wait for their return.

The little available natural light is quickly snuffed out by a powerful collection of clouds and more rain. The crack of thunder rips through the quiet wilds of this shoreline.

And then I wake up.

It was just a dream, the same one I’ve been having for decades.

Maybe it’s not a dream at all. Perhaps it’s a memory that traveled with me to this lifetime.

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My Bodies are Near

Lately, I’ve been exploring the depths of my existentialism, discerning where dreams end and memories begin. Traveling familiar locations I’ve never visited, wondering if the bodies I once inhabited rest in nearby cemeteries, beckoning me to remember my names.

I was a pretty existential child growing up. I distinctly remember lamenting why I was who I was. My soul recognized the breadth of yet another human experience.

I daydreamed of times, places, and people I never met, and scenarios I’d never encountered as a young child. An overactive imagination, adults would conclude.

The idea of my existence expanded and contracted through the phases of my life. The residency in my body, my interests, and how I view the world have been shaped by a soul that’s been here. A soul that has deeply loved, created, and left this plane only to return to familiar land, seas, and skies.

My existentialism was compounded by my natural ability to communicate with the dead. Family members and people I had never met visited my bedside to chat. We kept each other company.

As I grew older, my focus changed, and I became fearful of my gifts. While the fear only lasts so long, I knew in my heart I would end up back here, consorting with the dead at my bedside, again keeping each other company.

Ghosts of Colonies Past

As a kid, I was obsessed with the American Revolution. It was my favorite time period to study. The information we learned about felt so familiar to me in a way I didn’t have vocabulary for. It still does.

I often fantasized about traveling back in time to the late 1600s-early 1700s. I spoke to the early settlers in my dreams and told them about what life was like in the 1990s and early 2000s. What Nokia cell phones were, and who *NSYNC was. I still do.

As we studied the history of our nation, my family shared our family’s hand in that history—our ancestors arrived on the Mayflower, signed the Declaration of Independence, and became presidents.

As a proud New Jerseyan, you can’t travel far without encountering historic locations from battlefields to the homes of prominent colonial leaders, several Washington Slept Here locations, historic taverns, and prominent cemeteries. It’s embedded in our state, into us.

Recently, I’ve noticed a trend of ghosts of the American Revolution comfortable in my presence. They show themselves to me on camera, lead me down historical rabbit holes, and allow me to channel their words with ease.

Princeton Phantoms

This summer, my husband and I visited with his cousin and their girlfriend. They live in a beautiful home on a historical tract of land in Princeton, NJ.

Throughout the visit, Spirit was in my ear, as colorful as ever. They played vignettes of what once was: marching soldiers in red uniforms two by two, boots loudly shaking the ground, a collection of chestnut-colored horses in the backyard, battlefield scenes and concerns, a picturesque church, a lively tavern, and the feelings of home in a different time.

As we visited, we giggled through shared stories and basked in the warmth of each other’s company. The inviting atmosphere allowed for the ghosts of Princeton’s past to fill the empty seats around us, joining our gathering.

I was compelled to inquire about the history of the property after seeing a large, beautiful horse pass by the sliding glass door. At that point, I needed to know if there was ever a barn for horses on the property.

I had to know if they’ve also seen the ghosts as I did in that moment.

Pleasantly stunned, we went out back to see what else I could glean from Spirit.

In the backyard, I identified the former locations of a barn and carriage house. When asked about the well, I accurately estimated the approximate distance from where we were standing, having never previously visited, and confirmed it by our gracious hosts, who had recently researched their new place.

Curious, they inquired if I knew where a church would have stood. I pointed it out from where we stood, with approval from a peaceful, praying congregation that once was.

The information flowed out of me like memories.

I strangely felt at home in Princeton, a location I had never lived in. It’s not unlike the same feeling of home I experience in Boston or Salem, neither of which I’ve resided.

Something deep within me recognizes the importance of these places; the proximity of my former bodies’ eternal resting places looming large as I search for the reason why.

My relationship with Spirit changed that day. It felt silkier than ever, fitting me comfortably, and I’m once again viewing my gift differently with deep gratitude.

It is Princeton, After All

My husband’s cousin hadn’t been living in the property for very long, but they wanted to learn about its history, prompting their research.

It turns out that what I was channeling were pieces from the Revolutionary War, and the ghosts of the land dating back to the mid-to-late 1800s.

The property in question is located within the Historic Princeton Basin, which abuts West Windsor at Stony Brook and the Delaware-Raritan Canal. It’s about a mile East as the crow flies from the historic Princeton Battlefield Park, an easy marching location to and fro.

According to Princeton Magazine, “Settlement of the Basin dates from the early 1830s, when a railroad building furor was sweeping the eastern seaboard of the United States,” reads Old Princeton’s Neighbors, a 1939 publication of the Federal Writers Project. “And to Commodore Robert F. Stockton, United States naval officer and member of one of Princeton’s pioneer families, belongs much of the credit for building the canal and railroad which served central New Jersey. To his initiative, also, Princeton Basin owes its origin.”

The property was built for the children of the Commodore, their memories living long after they passed. The neighborhood was necessary for commerce and community at the time.

It seems my history played a part in this lovely experience: the kin of Richard Stockton, a signer to the Declaration of Independence, was communicating with me, kin to fellow signers of the Declaration, John and Samuel Adams, centuries later.

Channeling moments like this lead me to more questions, not just of history, but of my past lives.

My intuitive senses have sharpened over time, developing an accurate communication style with the deceased. The unconventionality of our relationship, the dreams they deliver, and the culmination of my experiences have helped me understand myself, past and current, despite not having all the answers—and the stars reflect the familiarity of it all.

Memories of a Revolution

When I observe the stars above, it’s difficult for me not to remember they’re the very same stars that our ancestors followed. The longitude and latitude of these historical cities are generally the same, with newer generations inhabiting them, the same stars reflecting back on us.

The position of the planets and the cosmos is not lost on me as I recount my historical connections to past and future selves.

The last time Pluto was in Aquarius was from 1777 to 1798—a fraught time during the American Revolution.

During this time period, the Articles of Confederation were introduced by the Second Continental Congress in 1777, the Battle of Saratoga was won, the loyalists left America in 1782, the Treaty of Paris in was 1783 ending the war, and ratifying the U.S.’s independence, and finally, at the conclusion of the transit, the Articles of Confederation were revised in 1787 to redesign the newly organized American government.

During this time period, incredible women of the American Revolution shared their strengths with their communities. Phillis Wheatley’s incomparable poetry bravely appealed for her humanity as an enslaved woman, Deborah Sampson, disguised herself as a man in 1782 and joined the Fourth Massachusetts Regiment to fight in the war, and my ancestor, Abigail Adams, sought the legal protection of women and their right to vote, among other pursuits.

My home state of NJ legally enfranchised women’s right to vote in 1790, opening the doors to suffragists fighting for egalitarian representation. (Of course, that was stripped in the early 1800s, but another conversation for another time.)

We didn’t just end up here. We didn’t just sign the Declaration of Independence in 1776 and call it a day.

Revolutions are long, arduous, complex, and require patience. There are long stretches of conflict, uncertainty, uncomfortable upheaval, neighbors choosing loyalties, and loss before peace.

They’re supported by the power of Pluto and the collective’s support of the upheaval it delivers.

Pluto is again in Aquarius, accompanying us for the next 20 years.

Recently, Pluto went direct (in Aquarius) days ago after a long retrograde, just before the recent peaceful No Kings Protest. I can’t help but consider the last time Pluto was in Aquarius, and people not so different from us were declaring “no kings,” the same indifferent stars shining above, guiding us once again.

Will we step up to this revolutionary moment? Will we seize the opportunity to do better, be more equitable, and sustainable?

Will our bodies remember our past?

May Our Ships Roll In

I may never know if my past self welcomed the return of those men on that shoreline centuries ago, but I know my Spirit Guides are imploring me to make an effort.

The threads of my spiritual gifts, the haunted nature of this state, our history, and my ancestral ties demand to be woven into a more complete tapestry for a full, vibrant picture.

And so I shall, with the company of the dead seated comfortably at my table.

Shannon is a writer, psychic medium, tarot reader, diviner, friend of the spirits, and Siren. She channels spirit through writing, tarot card readings, witty conversations, and consorting with the departed everywhere she goes.

Happy official Spooky Season! Fall is here! The leaves are crunchy, people have put out their Halloween decorations, and the collective has shifted into wanting to be scared for fun, share ghost stories, and revisit their favorite spooky pop culture.

I’m kicking off the season by sharing some of my cozy favorites.

These witches keep me young and remind me of the tiny wannabe witch I once was. I envied their beauty, power, effortless cool, and intrigue. Cutting out the middleman to claim my power and wield my own magic is a childhood dream of mine made a reality. And while constant hijinks and comical adventures don’t color my life, the truth is that their stories encouraged me to hold on to the belief that my unexplained gifts would one day have a place.

My personal power, creativity, and ability to consort with the departed would transform my life. My intuitive gifts do color my world and open doors I didn’t know existed. Magic is mysterious and delightful.

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You Put a Spell on Me

We love a pop culture moment, and for me, these movie and TV witches sparked a million daydreams. They made me feel confident there was something to reach for beyond what my eyes could see.

I’ve also included some recent books that comforted and delighted me. These are my cozy choices for the season. Enjoy!

The Sanderson Sisters.

I watched Disney’s Hocus Pocus until that VHS fell apart, desperately begging for sweet mercy. It didn’t matter what season it was; I was watching the ladies sow unadulterated joyful chaos in Salem on that fateful Halloween night.

The Sanderson Sisters, Winnie, Sarah, and Mary, kick off the movie by murdering a kid and are instantly hanged as punishment. Solid start. I loved that it referenced the genuine dark history of Salem. The fact that they could be brought back to life through the magic they conjured was beyond fascinating.

My heart willed for me to be a fourth adopted Sanderson Sister. I was in love.

Their power was delicious, fun, campy, and engaging. The actual shots of Salem and Swampscott made my young heart scream with glee when I visited only a couple of years later to see a close family friend and see those exact spots.

To this day, visitors of Salem are dazzled by the outside of The Ropes Mansion (Alison’s house) and Old Town Hall, as both are prominent historical locales, and shots from Hocus Pocus. Folklore and movie magic are an unbelievable combination for a kid obsessed with the thirteen colonies and witches.

It’s incredibly satisfying to know that the spell the Sanderson Sisters cast on me all those years ago has yet to break, still dancing and singing along to their enchanting and evil songs, still hoping to join their adventures on the North Shore.

If you don’t believe, you'd better get superstitious.

Sabrina Spellman.

Some of us were fortunate to grow up in an era of appointment television, which included ABC’s TGIF. We were dazzled by Boy Meets World, Two of a Kind, and Sabrina the Teenage Witch, among others, which are mainstays in our hearts and minds.

Sabrina Spellman lived in a gorgeous home filled with portals and fun magic; her cat, Salem, who could talk, and her aunts were incredibly cool. Not to mention, her style holds up to this day. I can’t go an episode without saying out loud how I totally want that outfit.

Sabrina would sassily wave her finger and conjure what was on her mind, good, bad, or otherwise. She had a loyal best friend, a beautiful boyfriend, and went on adventures in this world and other realms.

She was also a good example of everyday magic. She looked and seemed like one of my peers, approachable and normal. Every finger wave didn’t result in some earth-shattering magical payoff, either. She would often enchant pedestrian items or quickly change her outfit to improve her day. Most of it, though, was navigating the rough seas of being a teenager. She just happened to be a witch. Sabrina was likable, stylish, and totally normal.

I wanted to be her.

Her magical wins and mishaps are an excellent metaphor for learning the craft, too. Intention is everything; some results will take longer than others, and being true to yourself (which doesn’t mean all love and light, by the way) is the only answer.

Plus, she could conjure *NSYNC into her room to sing a song—my dream.

Urusla the Sea Witch.

Urusla is a sexy sorceress who uses her extensive legal knowledge to run her evil empire. She was based on Divine, the drag queen, and has one of the undisputed bangers in all of The Little Mermaid—Poor Unfortunate Souls.

She’s inherently magical, power hungry, sings in an incredible low register, and is, for certain, a powerful sea witch. She teaches us mere mortals the importance of using our voice to speak up and stop situations we shouldn’t participate in, encouraging patience to wait until our frontal lobe develops before making binding legal decisions, and emphasizing the value of attention to detail.

Ursula isn’t just bad. She’s a baddie.

Just look at how she applies her lipstick! Undisputed baddie.

Insane, insanely clever, a shapeshifter, knowledgeable about power vacuums, human and undersea politics, and legal matters, Ursula proves that knowledge is powerful—especially when combined with natural magical abilities.

All the baddies know Ursula is that girl, and she would’ve been unstoppable had it not been for that meddling kid!

While evil is a theme in this storytelling, she makes it clear that taking the easy way out isn’t the answer you think it is. There are consequences for your actions. Panic decision-making to solve a perceived emergency will only be harmful, and the development of your frontal lobe changes everything.

Those poor unfortunate souls need to read the fine print.

Witchy Books for the Season

Why stop at movies? These books have re-reading power, and I love to revisit them as the season cools into a vibey, cozy fall. Light your favorite autumnal candle and prepare to be delighted!

You can purchase copies of these books in my storefront, or borrow them from your local library!

Cackle by Rachel Harrison

Her longtime boyfriend recently broke up with Annie and needs a fresh start. To help heal her broken heart, she accepts a job in Upstate New York, uprooting her life from Manhattan to a small town where she meets an enchanting new friend named Sophie. She’s enigmatic, seemingly ageless, and utterly different from Annie. Small town charm, talking spiders, and choosing yourself make Cackle a sparkling triumph.

Read Shannon’s interview with New York Times Best Selling Author Rachel Harrison.

We Ride Upon Sticks by Quan Barry

Abby Putnam, descendant of that Ann Putnam, is a co-captain of her high school field hockey team in Danvers, Massachusetts. The story follows the team through the season, featuring a magical Emilio Estevez notebook, the politics of women's team sports, and the pursuit of personal power. Magically fun and intensely cool, it’s hard to put this one down.

The Ex Hex trilogy by Erin Stirling

Vivienne Jones’ heart was a mess, and she made a mess while attempting to clean up her pain. Vodka, music, crying, a pleasant-smelling candle, and a hex on a horrible now-ex-boyfriend should do the trick. It’s not until her gorgeous ex, Rhys Penhallow, makes a trip to Vivi’s hometown of Graves Glen, Georgia, all the way from Scotland, that she realizes how horribly wrong it all went. From small-town misadventures to talking cats, murderous wind-up toys, and smoky chemistry, this read will enchant you from the first page!

I hope you enjoy this spooky season with me here on Substack and over on Instagram, where I’ll share magical artwork, tarot readings and theory, ghost stories, and spooky fun!

I’m sitting under a canopy of intentionally planted trees, the sound of rushing water, bustling traffic, and the occasional NYPD siren is my soundtrack as I peacefully reflect in this crowded memorial park. No voices can be heard, despite the thick crowd.

It’s September 10th, and I’m sitting on a concrete block facing the ghost of the North Tower; the new World Trade Center building looms large over my left shoulder.

A group of pilots in their uniforms mournfully dress the names of Flight 11 with white flowers and a wreath before making their way to the South Tower reflecting pool to honor the lives of Flight 175, Flight 77, and Flight 93.

Mourners and survivors gather around memorial plates. I overhear several survivors discussing their experience in proximity to the names of co-workers lost in the chaos. In the background, Taps plays several times over the recently hung speakers, the musicians practice each reverent note in preparation for the memorial tomorrow morning, September 11th.

Families will gather to read the names of all 2,977 victims, and ring bells to mark the times of each of the flights, the Pentagon, and the loss of the towers.

This time of year brings about the “Where were you when it happened?” prompt. Friends and strangers share their stories, observing the day from work, their classrooms, on the radio, looking over the Hudson, from where they were in Lower Manhattan.

We collectively share the sadness. We collectively share the terror we experienced on such an ordinary day at the beginning of the once-promising new millennium.

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It was a Normal Day

Tuesday, September 11th, was a completely ordinary day; parents left for work, kids got to school, and the world was waking up on the East Coast.

It was the second week of school. The oppressive summer heat was finally giving way to autumnal warmth. Humidity was low, temperatures were warm, and the horizon went on as far as the eye could see.

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Pilots describe the conditions as Severe Clear, or having truly unlimited visibility, which made the collision of Flight 11 into the North Tower at 8:46 a.m., and the next 102 minutes all the more horrifying.

This Wasn’t an Accident

Twenty-four years ago, I sat in a crowded classroom with my eighth-grade classmates, young witnesses to our new reality.

The school-wide announcement went out moments after the North Tower was struck, instructing teachers to convene in classrooms with a TV. My gym class peers and I sat down with a few other classes, asking whoever was sitting closest what they knew and if it was an accident.

Matt Lauer and Katie Couric broke in on the Today Show, immediately broadcasting the chaotic scene ensuing in Lower Manhattan. A picture of the North Tower ablaze, billowing black smoke through a monumental gash in the 110-story building, played on the TV in a steady, unbroken shot. The ever-professional broadcasters did their best to remain calm, though confused about what they were seeing, only offering speculation as an explanation.

“We were witnessing history,” our teachers told us. Whatever was happening will feel akin to the severity of Pearl Harbor, and what many of our grandparents experienced, they said in an attempt at a teaching moment.

We took their word for it, but the nervous energy was palpable. This was something else.

General classroom murmurs and chatter turned to panic as Flight 175 struck the South Tower.

“This wasn’t an accident!” “This has to be terrorism!” my classmates shouted in a cacophony of gasps, choked sobs, and a collective bracing.

The terror played out live. It didn’t look real, feelings of unreality taking over as a way to protect our young, vulnerable sensibilities.

Witnessing the horror as a young teen miles away in Cape May County, NJ, left me with all I can describe as survivor’s guilt. I don’t have an accurate representation of the sadness and guilt I carried for being safe that day, while thousands didn’t make it safely.

I knew I would return home to eat a warm meal with my family. I would sleep in a comfortable bed. It struck my heart that the thousands of people we watched on TV during school would not.

We watched them die.

I cried at the dinner table and restlessly slept that night, tossing and turning, replaying the images of how the towers just fell. And how so many people were all just gone. It didn’t make sense.

It’s never made sense.

The Spirits are Restless

Ground Zero, now known as the campus of the 9/11 Memorial and Museum, was built on the property where the Twin Towers and World Trade Center complex once stood.

The park is laid out with stone walkways. Reflecting pools sit near the footprints of the former skyscrapers, honoring those lost in the North and South Towers, all four flights, the victims of the Pentagon, and those lost in the 1993 bombing, resting in the shadow of the looming One World Trade.

A growing canopy of thoughtfully planted memorial trees protects the area and absorbs the noise of the city.

Tourists aimlessly walk, point, and take photos and videos of themselves in front of the deep, powerful reflecting pools, leaning over memorial plates with the names of the victims, to see the waterfalls emitting a soothing ambient noise.

This is the eternal resting ground—a memorial and mass grave.

An astounding 1,100 victims were never recovered from Ground Zero, and those who were found were recovered in fragments. It’s potentially the only place for loved ones to visit those who don’t have a gravestone.

Since last summer, I’ve become a frequent visitor to the 9/11 Memorial, offering compassion, companionship, and a listening ear to those who were violently taken from the world after simply showing up for work.

The energy of the area is somber and present. When I’m not here, the victims visit me in my dreams, visions from a high-rise or plane in peril. I’ve been asked to be connected here, so I connect.

The heaviness is palpable. I can feel the weight of it in my body. Restlessness and freneticism entomb the earth and my senses as a visitor. My heart takes residence in my throat.

I’ve spent the last 24 years working to understand and get to know the victims, the pain of their families, and the experience of the day. I reasoned my pursuit was to soothe the spectators' survivors’ guilt that has followed me year after year.

The maturity of life and my spiritual path have brought my senses into sharper focus, deeper understanding, and greater compassion for my younger self.

It’s been more than a year since I acknowledged that the spirits of 9/11 are part of my path, though I have yet to understand the why of it all.

Welcome to World Trade

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust from the darkness of traveling underground from New Jersey as you pull into the sterile white of the PATH station in Lower Manhattan.

Welcome to New York.

There are immediate memories of what once was, pre-9/11, as you exit onto the platform, memorializing a part of the foundation of the original buildings—a piece of preserved rust-colored steel sits preserved in time, lit by bright white light.

On this specific July day, I was meeting my husband and some friends for drinks Uptown. Initially, I intended to take New Jersey Transit, but at the last minute, I opted for PATH.

With some time to spare, I felt guided to visit the 9/11 Memorial Park.

After climbing the stairs of the Oculus and crossing Greenwich, I am again welcomed by the peaceful green canopy and rushing water of the reflection pools.

I’ve returned to hallowed ground.

This visit was not a normal one, as my body, my spiritual compass, was buzzing immediately.

I haven’t been here in over a year, and my spiritual gifts have significantly changed, matured, and grounded.

The connection I felt this time around was different. I felt asked to tap in to communicate, to listen to those who need to be heard, those who remain at their final resting place.

Listening to the Spirits

Spirits were once people, too. Oftentimes, when I connect to the departed, it’s because they want to be heard in some capacity. Sometimes it's with humor, other times it’s to feel understood.

What I witnessed over the next few hours cannot be compared to any other spiritual connection I’ve made. It was defined by intensity and sharper details than previously experienced. The following channels are graphic in nature.

Have you ever seen the Harry Potter movies where Harry puts his face in a basin and essentially enters a memory? That’s precisely how my first encounter transpired that hot July day.

Standing next to the South Tower reflecting pool, I took a deep breath, getting into my body. I was a rock, steady as the first energetic wave crashed over me.

As part of channeling, I sometimes experience “how years feel,” a way for me to decipher what year I’m tapping into. And suddenly, it was no longer 2025; it was 2001 at the base of the South Tower, looking up at the North Tower.

I’m uncertain of who I was in the moment, and it felt as if I had a camera around my neck. In a Harry Potter-like vision, my surroundings briefly transformed from the technicolor world of summer into a grey, chaotic landscape, details filling in as papers, dust, and the smell of burning filled my surroundings.

I was directed to crane my neck and look as far up as I could, into the burning flames emitting from the North Tower. At the moment, I felt an EMT attempt to move me out of the area, my hearing slowed, and I did not fully understand what he was saying.

Sirens vibrated through my ears and chest, and I was clouded by confusion. I felt as though I needed to look left, then right, and before I could fully grasp the totality of the channel, it was over as quickly as it began.

I thanked Spirit for allowing me to see what they saw and experienced. I swallow hard, recognizing their visceral terror, mirrored in my own heart.

Stunned, I was directed to then walk toward the footprint of the North Tower and the base of One World Trade.

The thought about seeking what victims felt and experienced crossed my mind.

Spirit asked, “Want to know what it looks like? Look up.”

So I did.

One World Trade stretched into the summer sky: an impossibly tall, incredible titan, an example of what collapsed twice on that day. From sky to ground, the power of it was inconceivable.

Something clicked into place.

It all felt different.

A Solemn Prayer

The day was multilayered, with experiences not meant to be shared. I won’t be revealing every detail.

After discovering some names that led me there, I made my way to a stone square seat and settled into a rhythm of the Lord’s Prayer. I needed something familiar and calming. It was a private thank you and an offer of support to the victims who were open to communication.

As warm tears streamed with the rhythm of the reflection pool, my attention was once again shifted by Spirit.

I felt as though someone grabbed my forearm. An assertive grasp, intended to direct me elsewhere. A first responder.

My heart ached as the Spirit held on in protection, begging me to move to safety. I took a breath, thanked them for their protection, and they are not forgotten. They would never be forgotten.

It was time to go.

I crossed Greenwich back into the Oculus to board the 1 Train Uptown. I mindlessly walked up the platform, waiting for the next train, recounting my experiences. Did that really happen?

I was in disbelief, exhausted from the day's energetic exchange.

I slipped into denial and boarded the train, slowly sipping my water, my thousand-yard stare fixed in place.

Then I looked up. Of all the trains in New York, I boarded the one with my birthdate.

Spirit’s final sign. The experiences were as real as the day I was born.

Severe Clear

Sharing these spiritual experiences at the 9/11 Memorial makes me realize that others might find it hard to understand what I felt or encountered. Likely, I won’t be understood, just as I will never fully grasp what the victims and survivors went through.

Which, I think, is the point.

I’ve spent decades reading, researching, and feeling it necessary to understand what the victims went through to honor them properly.

I’ve concluded that I will never understand, and the weight of my guilt can be released.

I can continue to honor the victims in the same way I have for the last 24 years. Learning their names and choosing to visit the memorial. Sharing the stories I’ve learned with friends and loved ones so they don’t forget. Making time for their memory.

September 11th, 2001, changed us as a nation. There is a demarcation of life before 9/11 and life after.

The victims of 9/11 have gracefully and repeatedly shown me their experiences. I take my privilege of communicating with victims very seriously. I will offer space and compassion for their pain, companionship when they wish to be heard, and acknowledgement of vibrant lives stolen.

They were just normal people. Lives filled with loved ones, humor, dreams, imperfections, and interests. They were going to work or traveling like any typical day.

I may never fully understand the depths of my calling, but that’s not what I’m here for.

This essay is dedicated to the 2,977 lives lost on September 11th, 2001, and their families. May they all be remembered for the vibrancy of their lives and the love they shared with the most important people in their lives. May their memories live on.

I was not the girliest girl growing up. I loved to get dirty and was very serious about my athletics. But fashion was always sort of in the back of my mind as something I liked, though it took years for me to express it.

I came from a working-class family and didn’t think I could afford any of the higher-end labels I’ve always been drawn to. It didn’t feel accessible.

Fast forward to the internet age with adult money, and the accessibility has changed. Social media became the great equalizer between celebrity, fashion, and shopping. Now, anyone from anywhere can dress in the labels they choose with the right amount of patience.

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Fashion is a Passion

The 90s and early 2000s were a time for fashion. It was the height of fashion and pop culture magazines. Fashion TV was everywhere, from America’s Next Top Model (which had us all wanting to model), to Project Runway, and E!’s Red Carpet Coverage (which I still watch to this day) filled our screens and dreams.

The celebrities felt out of touch, out of reach, and served style only the peasants could afford to dream of.

Fashion influenced everything, including how we visually search. We wouldn’t have Google Images without Jennifer Lopez. She actually broke the internet when she wore that green Donatella Versace gown to the 2000 Grammy Awards (even though Geri Halliwell, aka Ginger Spice, wore it first to Cannes). The world needed to see!

Women of a certain age can pinpoint movies, TV episodes, or red carpet appearances featuring our dream looks and styles. (Please share your style favortes in the comments!)

TV shows like Sabrina the Teenage Witch, The Nanny, Sex and the City, anything the Olsen Twins created, Moesha, and movies like Legally Blonde and The Devil Wears Prada all contributed to a generation dreaming about their aspirational fashion moments well into their adulthood.

Girlhood is obsessing about the same media and styling forever, never losing its spark, keeping us all young and fun.

I’m Just a Girl

Becoming the fashion girlie I always knew I could be has exponentially increased my happiness. I’ve finally leaned into the sparkly dreams of expertly draped dresses and red bottom heels.

My dreams are expensive, beautiful, and exciting.

I’ve spent decades thinking about the 2003 custom Donatella Versace designed for thee Britney Jean Spears, wishing I could find one just for me. I won’t be lucky enough to get the Versace (understandable), but I can always manifest a similar enough Roberto Cavalli gown to appease my appetite.

I love Cavalli; he drapes gowns like he loves women.

Anyone else on the lifelong pursuit of the incredibly rare Newspaper Dior dress donned by Carrie Bradshaw? It’s stunning and whimsical.

I find myself coveting every inch of Moschino, Christian Lacroix, and Versace worn by Fran Drescher on The Nanny. She’s spectacularly styled and iconic in every scene.

My dreams aren’t rare.

I daydream of the stunning, sunset-orange custom-made Ralph Lauren gown worn by Lupita Nyong’o for the 2014 Golden Globe Awards. The magnificent gown is often asked about at the Ralph Lauren flagship store in New York, or so I’ve been told. We’re all dreamers, it seems.

I’m just a girl! I want gorgeous clothes, the highest heels, and lavish in my personal style because it’s what I want.

Isn’t that beautiful?

The Siren Wears Prada

Fashion is deep and shallow.

For me, it took recognizing what I actually wanted for myself. A little of the “does it bring me joy” method, a little examining my emotional connection, and being open to making literal and figurative room.

It impressed me how the exercise of purging reached beyond the confines of my closet. Letting go of ill-fitting clothes took the bad memories with it, redefining my look allowed me to redefine my self-worth.

The most challenging part of the process (for me) was deciding what I actually wanted and not relying on previous versions of myself I felt like I “owed,” my budget, or outside pressure.

I seriously considered my vision. How do I want to feel every day?

I learned more about myself and what I truly liked outside the influence of fads, the people around me, or what happened to be fashionable at that moment. I let my intuition take control, choosing only what felt right for me.

Your intuition applies to anything and everything. The more we use it, the closer we get to our most authentic selves—the people we want to be to begin with.

As my clothes became more fitting, more colorful, and expressive, my outlook and attitude transformed. Thoughtfulness became the necessity over instant gratification in every facet of my life.

It’s not often we’re handed exactly what we want exactly when we want it, and taking the easy way out or cutting corners has never yielded genuine happiness. Immediate satisfaction has stripped us of our appreciation for small wins, which eventually transform into big wins. It’s more difficult to stop and watch the colorful world around us because we’re constantly anticipating or planning for what’s next.

There’s magic in re-learning patience. We reclaim our humanity by not expecting instant rewards.

The universe demands patience, growth, and divine timing.

Slowly, then all at once, it felt like there was room to dress and be who I am.

I recognize I can manifest just about anything, and there’s nothing I can’t make happen for myself, clothes or otherwise.

I’ve never felt or looked better.

If You Can Dream It, You Can Be It

Dreams are free, as my sister once expertly said.

Manifestation isn’t just wishing. It’s intutive drive, it’s dreaming it, seeing it as yours, and believing you deserve to have it all before it's fulfilled. Great things take time! Including a new wardrobe, a new business, manifestations, or answered prayers.

Underneath it all of this change was just me styling someone who already existed.

I decided that my voice and style are my priorities. I released the internalized burden of caring about what other people thought or their perception of me. If you don’t like what I’m wearing, well, then don’t wear it.

It feels simple to say now, but finding what we truly want feels exactly like trying on a bunch of clothes that don’t quite fit until they do.

Shannon is a writer, intuitive, tarot reader, a gal pal of the ghosts, diviner of magic, and an Aquarian dream. She runs SirenBooks.org offering intuitive readings, and literature for all tastes. Grab a book or schedule a reading for yourself today!

Some of us like where we live, but there are people from New Jersey who prove that maybe you don’t like it as much as you think.

New Jersey isn’t just somewhere we live, it’s a state of mind.

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NJ vs Everyone Else

Don’t let the in-state fighting of Pork Roll vs Taylor Ham (it’s Pork Roll) distract from the real enemy: everyone else.

Our lovely neighbors in New York and Pennsylvania seem to believe that we have Little Brother Syndrome, that we want to be NYC or Philly. The reality is, we have no interest in being either of those places. We very much hold our own.

I find conversations with people from Elsewhere to be especially comical when they tell me they “grew up at the Shore” or try to relate with their tales of sparkling NJ nostalgia, and still have the gall to end the conversation by saying they still don’t “really like NJ, just The Shore.”

It’s all fun and games about hating New Jersey until they want to go to a football game to cheer on two different NY teams, head to the beach, purchase weed, get married at a vineyard, be part of a filming location, visit lavender farms, gamble in Atlantic City, hike the Appalachian Trail, or a hundred other activities.

It’s most especially prominent when out-of-staters choose to leave their residences for greener subdivisions and settle in commuting towns in NJ. We thought it was Never New Jersey?

Mental gymnastics don’t count as a sport, by the way.

When You’re Here You’re Fambly

New Jersey is a unique character, and it has been portrayed as such many times over in popular media.

Let’s play a game.

Put a finger down if your favorite show is The Sopranos, or your favorite artist is Bruce Springsteen or Whitney Houston. Put a finger down if your favorite author is Harlan Coben or Judy Blume. Put a finger down if your favorite actor is Danny Devito, Jack Nicholson, Kiersten Dunst, Meryl Streep, or several dozen others all hailing from Jersey.

Do you have any fingers still up? If it’s the middle one, we don’t mind. It’s the other state bird.

The Land of Abundance

While I playfully touch upon the ill-will toward my homeland of Jersey, it leads me to the joy of our great state.

They hate us cause they ain’t us.

When you share what you love about where you are, your words take on new meaning, have a different impact, and offer a refreshed perspective. It reminds you that home is where you’re from and where your heart is—sometimes they’re the same place.

Just a few short weeks ago, I had a conversation with a close friend in New England over some lobster rolls about the magic of the East Coast, which quickly devolved into me joyously sharing the unfathomable abundance that is New Jersey.

I couldn’t help but descend into a soliloquy about the innumerable enchantments we possess.

A Treasure Trove of Ecology

The Garden State was appropriately named; we pack a punch for such a small state.

NJ is an agricultural powerhouse, contributing 1.2 percent of the state’s total GDP. In 2022 alone, NJ generated $1.5 billion in agricultural revenue. That’s no joke. Furthermore, a significant portion of that money is repurposed and spent in-state, supporting the local economy in various ways.

I’ve waxed poetic about the Pinelands a few times online, but I’m always game to talk about how truly incredible they are. The Pinelands Reserve spans 1.1 million acres, characterized by silica sand and unique flora and fauna, including 59 distinct species of reptiles and amphibians, 399 different species of birds, and 91 unique types of fish. Not to mention a haunted, dense forest filled with ghost towns, Weird NJ inspiration, the New Jersey Devil, and picturesque landscapes.

We boast 130 miles of coastline speckled by natural barrier islands visited by millions of visitors each season, and potentially once by Blackbeard himself.

Each beach town possesses its own incredible history, from fishing histories and merchants to religious outposts and musical havens—there’s a town to satisfy all of our personalities.

I was thrilled to share that NJ has its own dinosaur, discovered in Haddonfield, and lovingly referred to as Haddy.

I excitedly described the migration patterns of birds and monarch butterflies alike, both of which make stops in Jersey during their long journeys.

Once I came up for air, I was pleasantly surprised by the energy matched by my friend, who was unaware of these gems.

She was dazzled by Jersey’s richness. I was buzzing to share more.

New Jersey is Haunted

I couldn’t help but add to our conversation about Jersey treasure, that is, the gem of our rich folklore and ghost stories. New Jersey is filled with ghost towns, lore that runs through generations, and sightings of spirits abound.

Would I be me if I didn’t share at least one of my experiences?

I think not.

One of my favorite aspects of my great state is the Spirits that keep me company. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting several Revolutionary War ghosts over the last few years, which has tempted me to visit more locations as my spiritual gifts mature.

Since we were sharing a meal in spooky and historic Salem, Massachusetts, it felt fitting to reference NJ’s ghostly Revolutionary War past that seeps into the present.

Washington Slept Here

Morristown, NJ, is famously one of the (many) Washington Slept Here locations in the state. Washington spent a particularly challenging winter there with the Continental Army, leaving a plethora of locations to learn about what they were up to and why their ghosts hung around.

The center of town, affectionately known as The Green, has been the heart of the small city for over two centuries and features the historic Presbyterian Church prominently overlooking the beautiful park.

Tucked away in the back of the church, a hidden yet peaceful graveyard houses the resting souls of key players in the Revolution, including a member of the Provincial Congress, several colonels, and prominent tavern proprieter and colonel, Jacob Arnold, owner of Arnold’s Tavern.

It wasn’t shocking when I was met by Continental Soldiers standing to attention on a hot July night in that very cemetery.

A couple of summers ago, I got a bit sauced with some friends, drunkenly suggesting we visit the Presbyterian graveyard well into the wee hours of the morning.

At 1 a.m. or a bit after, we crossed the Green and entered the church’s hallowed grounds.

The noise of the lively town disappeared in the trees, and my heart gave way to excitement. I knew what this place was, having seen it many times during the day, but I had never seen it in the privacy of nighttime.

When we got there, the girls I was with convened elsewhere in the graveyard behind me, but the front of the cemetery entranced me. The shadows I saw commanded my attention.

My intuition was aflame, and I was unafraid, assisted by the lack of inhibition only alcohol can conjure. Excited by the specters in our presence (though I couldn’t see them at the time), I snapped a few photos.

One in the morning transitioned to two in the morning, and it was time to go. Nothing good ever happens after 2 a.m., and I could hear the calls of my comfortable bed beckoning for my return.

Unable to shake the buzz of spirits and Spirit, I stayed up to review my photos, revealing what I knew in my heart I saw: ghosts!

These weren’t just any ghosts. In the photos, there were not one, but two Revolutionary-era soldiers: one, stick straight in a salute, the other, I can only assume, was giving orders.

As a kid, I was obsessed with NJ history, especially Revolution-era history, and here it was, on my camera roll. My inner child did somersaults, as she could only dream of this.

There was no one with us when we arrived, and no one was there when we left.

I think of this experience often. It proved to me that my inner child's dreams are alive and well, supported by those who are not, and consorting with Spirit will only continue to change and shape my life.

Sharing my love of Jersey and my reverence for our spirits delighted my friend, prompting her to ask when she could visit; our calendar apps opened with the thrill of possibility.

Diamond Shores

New Jersey is a magical place. The ocean surrounds us on the east, and the impossible magic of the Appalachians hugs us to the west.

Our beaches are glittered with Cape May Diamonds, naturally tumbled clear quartz, which the Lenni Lenape believed held supernatural powers of good fortune, success, and well-being.

We have literal and figurative gems to collect, a richness for life rivaling just about anywhere else.

As New Jerseyans, we can be anyone we want to be here. We have big dreams, big attitudes, and can start over as many times as we need to be exactly who we’re meant.

Home isn’t just where you’re from; it’s a gem that can be shaped only by us, the light refracting and reflecting who we really are. We don’t need others to see its worth, because we already know.

We’ll always be encouraged and welcome to explore the gems of the world, but there’s no treasure, and no place like home.

Shannon is a writer, intuitive, tarot reader, consort for the departed, diviner of magic, and friend of the spirits. She runs SirenBooks.org, selling books and offering intuitive readings. Book a reading for yourself today!

My college degree didn’t exactly prepare me for this next phase of my career. When describing what I do, I often get resistance to it before I get warmth.

Do you really believe this stuff?

It comes with the territory.

Why do most of us reject the idea of magic before embracing it? Why do we need proof for it to exist?

Magic is all around us if we’re willing to look.

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Reality Check

Our world was built in the most linear pattern by people who stand to gain something from us, often driven by profit. If we don’t go to school, go to college, marry, and have babies, we can’t produce a class of people willing to work and spend money to make other people very rich—ad infinitum.

That process forces perspective on us, assigning the importance of financial success, hustle, and logic. Data, numbers, and unencumbered growth replace storytelling, nuance, and the true-to-life plateaus everyone and everything face. Others’ perception of success then determines our worth.

Our big imaginations are forced out; it’s no longer acceptable to share stories about magical coincidences, the music of Spirit slows, and the limitless imagination becomes limited.

But what if all isn’t lost? What if we can still be “responsible” people, achieve our goals, and have our magic too?

What if all it took was changing how we listen?

The Mystery of Magic

Maybe she’s born with it, maybe it’s magic.

This summer, I’ve been called to watch Disney’s Pocahontas, and it wasn’t until recently that I understood why.

In the movie, Pocahontas visits Grandmother Willow, an ancestor and spiritual guide for Pocahontas in the form of a spectacular tree. Pocahontas is having precognition dreams she doesn’t understand, questioning her path, her arranged betrothal, and her fate.

Grandmother Willow’s response:

Listen to the spirits, they’re all around you. They’ll guide you if you’re willing to listen.

We’re observers in this case, watching Pocahontas follow her intuitive prompts, as magic adds information to the path she should choose. She has direction, even if our perception isn’t the same as hers. We can’t argue that she has a vision for what we don’t understand yet.

We’re encouraged to experience magic the same way, even if others don’t understand.

What is Every Day Magic?

The first step is a simple one: accepting that magic is real.

It’s a tough one, especially since we can’t prove it in the traditional sense. It’s a piece of the puzzle our brain begs us to solve to make things so.

The enchantment of our lives lives in the liminal. In the mystery of it all, in the heat of our solar plexus and the electricity of our hearts.

Your heart is the flame that lights the glowing candles of your path, illuminating your world. It helps you see what your eyes cannot. It’s part of the mechanism telling you that you’re experiencing exactly what you think.

The root of these moments is our discernment. Not every single thing or part of every single day will be magic. But every day offers a moment of magic that we can’t explain, that we’re not meant to illustrate. It just is.

Now isn’t that magical?

How Do I Know It Was Magic?

My logical-minded friends, you’re benched. It’s time to start the vibes.

Like Pocohontas, rivers are important in my world. My name, Shannon, is literally a river—and you never travel the same river twice.

When you acknowledge and permit magic in your world, you will never travel the same river twice. The trees talk back, the birds have messages, angel numbers suddenly appear when your life shifts, things look and feel different because they are.

Have you ever had a thought or asked a question in your mind only for it to be answered by the TV, music, or a line in a book?

What about asking for the guarantee of change, and moments later, that email or phone call comes in?

When was the last time you thought of someone, and they reached out moments later?

What about asking for something, and it suddenly becomes available? Or talking about butterflies, and having one fly by. Maybe you sincerely wished for hope, and a star winked back.

Surprise! You’ve experienced magic. They don’t all need to be miracles. When your heart and solar plexus respond with the pure childlike excitement you thought you lost, you’ve once again stoked your magical flame.

We wax and wane on the possibility of things, and for our safety, our brains require it. But Spirit doesn’t have to abide by the physical rules we do; they can playfully deliver us the magic we seek.

The impossible sails with us through our dreams, in the words we craft, in the joyful dances we share, it’s in the birds, it’s in the trees, it’s the sun twinkling on the water, and the clouds parting for a bright moon.

Magic lives in our favorite songs, our favorite people, an unbridled declaration of love, in unencumbered hope, in a helping hand, or the radical act of helping yourself.

It’s the brightness of your dog’s eyes, the smell of a book, a cozy afternoon in the rain, or the possibility of a new adventure. It lives in the breeze whispering through the leaves, the flowers that lean, and all of the in between.

Be the enchantment you wish to see in this world. You are magical, after all.

Shannon is a writer, intuitive, tarot reader, consort for the departed, diviner of magic, and friend of the spirits. She runs SirenBooks.org, selling books and offering intuitive readings. If you would like a reading, head to the website and book today!

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The silly planets are at it again, this time Mercury is in the spotlight during Leo season, how appropriate.

This Mercury Retrograde in Leo will run 7/17 to 8/11 (recently and often-channeled numbers for me, a sign we need to pay attention!)

It’s okay to be frustrated during this time, a lot of it will be, but there’s more to it —you’re more powerful than you think!

The magic we work with daily is nuanced, as is your situation. As with any channeled message from me, take what you need and leave the rest.

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Navigating the Cosmos

Mercury is our fast-moving planet, represented by the Magician card in the tarot. Mercury is about communication, perception of the world, time, and space, and retrogrades once a quarter.

The Magician card has a magically powerful person behind a table, tools laid bare. When this card is pulled, we’re asked to reevaluate what we already know and how to use it to conjure power and magic in our lives, especially when we question our place in the world.

The thing about Mercury Retrograde is that it just amplifies what we’re experiencing; it’s not the causation.

So, when you feel your communications have taken a plunge, you’re feeling extra misunderstood, and you can’t decipher what’s up or down, you’re not alone. Retrogrades for (any) planets shine a light on what has been frustrating in your life and ask you to deal with it.

But you’re the Magician! You have the tools to navigate.

Think about Venus Retrograde back in March. Think back to that time, was your personal value being called into question? Do you feel differently now? That retrograde asked work of us, delivering us the results of that work here on Earth, making it so.

It’s no different once a quarter with Mercury, though not always as intense and certainly not as long.

Retrogrades, while confronting and grounding in nature, offer an incredible mirror to reflect on the tools before us. We are not disconnected from our world, spirit, or the universe. The planets are not separate from our energy.

It’s easy to get caught up in the idea that Mercury Retrograde is going to ruin your life, but the truth is much simpler: these issues already existed. You don’t need to solve it right now or even have all the answers, despite the persistent annoyance this retrograde illuminates.

I’m the Problem, It’s Me

This is an excellent time to journal, communicate with yourself, and reconnect with aspects of yourself that you miss or yearn for. Yeah, it’s easy to blame Mercury for all our current issues, but that’s not necessarily the truth of it.

What makes this retrograde particularly challenging? What parts are issues amplified that you may have been avoiding? Journal about it. Meditate on it. Express it in some way. Communication is difficult right now, but not impossible.

Consider the energy of the Magician as part of your work!

The Magician is crucial because it reminds you that you have the tools, you are the magic. He points up to the cosmos and down to Earth, as above so below. Everything has a place and is connected. Utilize the tools in your toolbox, reflect the seasons in your work, and connect with all aspects of yourself. What are your intentions—they’re not separate pieces!

While the underlying message of this is encouraging positivity, I’m not one of those 'love and light' practitioners. I’d say I’m more love and fight.

Love is essential, but so is taking care of yourself. I’m not perfect, nor perfectly healed. I just decided to stop being passive in my life.

Life isn’t happening to me. I am the Magician.

Spiritual Homework

You don’t have to accept Mercury Retrograde as the cause of all the issues. You can change what no longer works.

If you haven’t evaluated why these themes of excessive frustration pop up once a quarter, now is the time to fight back and carry that fight into the rest of your life.

While writing this, I pulled the Three of Cups and the Three of Pentacles in reverse. What may be missing from this collective is sharing their fight with their community and learning to lean on people, versus doing it all alone. We’re not meant to do anything singularly, so don’t!

Teamwork makes the dream work.

Discuss things with others, bounce ideas off them, and work through your next phase. Love yourself and others enough to fight and put an end to the nonsense you don’t like and choose differently.

Communicate with yourself and others, especially when it’s hard.

We don’t have to be scared of our feelings, caring deeply for others, and giving the middle finger to The Man.

There will always be problems, heartbreak, difficulties, and trying circumstances. Truthfully, comfort is a luxury we’re not afforded at every moment in our lives. We’re often solving one problem to the next—the catch is we’re able to make it better for ourselves by using our tools and conjuring magic with the people who understand and love us through it all.

Love and fight with all your might.

Hello, friends! I’m back from being sick (who gets sick in the summer?), being bedridden, and recovering from feeling under the weather. I hope you’re doing so well.

I have a channeled message, a new card I’ve designed, and I reveal my spiritual connection to the victims of 9/11.

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We’ve Reached a Tower Moment

When we experience a Tower Moment, the Universe tests our resolve—the intensity of the change, whether micro or macro, can’t be understated. The Tower isn’t all bad; an indication of significant, unavoidable change usually means the rebuilding of something different, oftentimes better, but at the cost of what once was.

It’s an overwhelming feeling during a tarot reading when you pull The Tower. In the current context, its destruction is both literal and figurative for the collective. We are witnessing, in real-time, the crumbling of the foundation of a house that hasn’t been adequately maintained, but rather patched with temporary solutions.

The guidance from Spirit and the stars is that the moment of change has arrived.

The Tower, with the power of Mars behind it, is destructive. Mars is the warrior planet, representing aggression, fire, energy, and assertiveness.

In the Rider-Waite-Smith tarot deck, we observe a tower being hit by lightning from a windy, intense storm. An angry sea lashes its once-fortified stone base, and (the implication) earthquakes roil beneath the surface as the world crumbles into a new landscape, ultimately destroying the tower and your worldview with it.

The Tower was built to withstand the test of time, a perch from which you see and experience the world, yet it remains under attack, unable to withstand the elements.

In my version of the card, Philly girl Rose DeWitt-Bukater is experiencing her Tower Moment. Everything she believed to be true in her life no longer exists. The version of herself that existed for the first 17 years of her life (so young!) no longer exists. Her destiny is but a memory among the sunken wreckage. In the end, her heart and mind heal, and she goes on to live a spectacular life, but the scars remain.

When we experience a Tower Moment, hope follows, and we persist, but the scars never fade. We’re forced to learn, to grow, to be different.

The Earthquakes

I’ve been channeling this message for some time, but without the right timing to deliver it. It’s been almost a full year of channeling words like earthquakes, tsunamis, and volcanoes. In the time of Pluto in Aquarius, the implications feel both literal and figurative; we’re in it to win it when it comes to radical change.

We’ve reached a boiling point on American soil. Everything old is new again. The Japanese Internment Camps, which our government was responsible for, have been rebranded into Aligator Alcatraz, a new place to violate the human rights of people living here for no other reason than not being white. It’s 2003 again, and we’ve resurrected Operation Iraqi Freedom, despite no clear probable cause.

The sum of our conflicts dares people to abandon their humanity. The people our government chooses to persecute time and again are always just people. They have families, hopes, senses of humor, and dreams, too. Haven’t we had enough of people paying the price of political theater for every lifetime?

Despite the pain of it all, one of my favorite details about the human experience is that we’re not unique. The proof that things worked out? We’re here.

We have the record of history before us to educate us and help us navigate more skillfully. We must respond to the storm ahead of us, as both history and astrology have indicated is coming with humanity and resolve.

We must not lose our compassion and humanity.

After the Tower falls, the Star rises, guiding us to the hopeful next chapter full of promises in the rebuild. It’s up to us as a collective to maintain our humanity and reject the cruel and inhumane practices that solely benefit a billionaire class, threatening to eliminate the proletariat once again to worship the Profit.

The tower will fall, but we will be stronger. We can also choose an equitable future in the aftermath.

Hope will rise again.

The Days the Towers Fell

The Nineties were barely over in 2001; we had survived Y2K. The Pop Girlies and Boy Bands were fighting for the top of the TRL charts, and the future in the new Millennium seemed more promising than ever.

Until it wasn’t.

We’ve been paying for the repercussions of September 11th, 2001, since it happened. Every generation seems to have a collective Tower Moment.

Though we’ve allowed time to heal those wounds, and we’ve “moved on,” it’s difficult not to draw a line from 9/11 to now. You see it in the infringement of our privacy rights and the bending of the Constitution. We see it through the persecution of Middle East nations, and TSA’s half-assed protections on exhausting travel days. You see it when you encounter the armed guards at the commuting hubs in NYC.

We relive the moments anytime someone mentions the date 9/11 or specific locations in the Tri-State area. We see it in the forever-changed skyline of the City.

We’re reminded when the days of late summer give way to a golden sun and a clear cerulean sky.

Twenty-four years on

I was but an innocent middle schooler on 9/11. Twenty-four years on, I’m an adult, living in a small NJ town with a large commuting population into NYC. Many of us have previously worked in or currently work in the City, traveling via New Jersey Transit, a bus line, or PATH.

I’ve also matured into my spiritual gifts, confidently navigating their evolving roads.

A recent evolution in my spiritual gifts is the connection to the victims of 9/11, a generational Tower Moment.

The spiritual connection has become an important and unavoidable thread in the tapestry of my gifts.

Initially, I brushed it off, but the spiritual signs became so overwhelming that I couldn’t do anything but warmly welcome the victims in need of solace.

Spiritual connection can be challenging, especially when it involves a collective level rather than a personal one. I watched 9/11 happen from the comfort of an air-conditioned classroom three hours south of where the towers stood in New Jersey, not knowing a single victim personally.

But with Spirit, those details are often unimportant.

The Goodwill Portal

There’s a Goodwill not far from me, I visit often, not just because I find some pretty great fashion or decoration treasures, but it’s a portal. Spirit works openly with me there.

I ask for and receive items, confirmations, goods, and thoughtful gifts for my friends, as well as communication from Spirit. The times I’ve had plans to do other things and end up at that Goodwill at the behest of Spirit are now incalculable.

Last year, Spirit began to confirm my connection to 9/11 as part of my spiritual path.

I distinctly remember discussing the details of it with one of my closest friends. I was mildly panicked. Is this legit? Am I overstepping?

The next day, I felt the unavoidable urge to visit Goodwill. I wasn’t sure why I was there, and while shopping, I found an incredible framed photo of the Twin Towers under a gorgeous blue sky. Confirmation that this is indeed what I believe it to be, as unbelievable as it is.

That same week, I was called to visit the 9/11 Memorial and Museum. It is, effectively, a mass grave. I don’t have the adequate vocabulary to describe how I felt while I was there, but it was somber and overwhelming. A yearning for spiritual peace, with no known pathway to it.

I saw more spirits than I’m prepared to share during my visit, but one stood out the most while watching a short film on the flotilla that saved 500,000 people that day.

On the side of the big screen, I saw a woman who must have been caught in the collapse of the South Tower. She was wearing a dark grey pencil skirt-suit with a once-white shirt that now looked otherworldly gray. Her hair was up, and I could only see as far as her shins.

She was examining the back of her hands, clearly in shock at what she had experienced, with a feeling of slow-building panic. It lasted only seconds, but I felt as if I was frozen in time.

The vision ended shortly after, and I have no information on her. Only what she showed me while I was there.

The other day, I was again questioning my spiritual connection to it all, when the tug to revisit the Goodwill portal was too overwhelming to ignore. I scored a small TV/DVD player I had been searching for, but I knew it wasn’t the reason I was there.

I was guided to check out the bookcase when I spotted a Long Island newspaper clipping from June 2003 on display, as if it were meant for me. The headline read: Road Dedication Helps Healing: New name honors Sept. 11 victim.

The article reported on the road dedication named for 9/11 victim Andrew Steven Zucker, a lawyer who worked on the 85th floor of the North Tower. In the chaos of it all, he was able to call his wife to let her know he was okay. He didn’t make it.

He was 28 at the time, she was 25, and pregnant with their son.

I no longer question if the connection is real, only the why. The mystery of Spirit keeps us blindfolded in the reasoning until the right time. I intend to continue exploring my connection and honoring the victims as I’m called.

Today, I’m reminded in honor of Andrew Steven Zucker.

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Welcome back to Siren Song Weekly, where I share what’s on my heart and mind, spiced with the esoteric, tarot, channeled message, and more.

This week: The card of the week and channeled message, what’s happening in the world, and more!

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The World

Speaking of The World, Spirit has determined it’s the reigning energy for this mid-week message.

Who run The World? Beyoncé. And you.

Spirit is challenging us to evaluate our world, challenge our structures (both micro and macro), examine our boundaries, and acknowledge that we are destined for more than we allow ourselves to consider. Boundaries are made up.

In an interview with Vogue, Beyoncé explains the necessity of freedom and creation, the building blocks of her well-being.

"I like to be free," she says. "I’m not alive unless I am creating something. I’m not happy if I’m not creating, if I’m not dreaming, if I’m not creating a dream and making it into something real. I’m not happy if I’m not improving, evolving, moving forward, inspiring, teaching, and learning."

The earthly (Virgo) Queen grounds her work in her reality. She rarely allows the confines of societal structure to limit her creations, which is what makes her truly free, genuinely successful, and an excellent image of The World. Although there are structures she has navigated that present unfair and incredible challenges, she has never let that stop her from creating exactly what she wants, when she wants. She runs the world.

Beyoncé also acknowledges her culture, it’s core to who she is. Her music, art, and communication are inspired by her Creole, Black, and African American ancestors, their communities, and their creations. Their creative expression and freedom were denied at the hands of inhumane and excessive cruelty to benefit others. Her passion blooms a new creation enriched by those before her. The cruel experiences aren’t in the past either; they’re current.

She rejects intimidation attempts. Her dreams don’t reside solely in her mind or the cosmos, either. She utilizes the elemental necessities of The World. By embodying emotional vulnerability and creativity, she makes her voice heard, and the fire of her passions ignites her path.

You might feel as though your aspirations aren’t worthy or should be as big as what she’s achieved, and that’s okay. It’s not the point or the energy of The World card. At its core, it’s about wielding your strengths and viewing the world through the lens of your achievements, grounding your reality with what you’ve earned. It isn’t without pain or lessons learned; those will remain cyclical, but trust you’ll always know what’s best.

The World card is ruled by the overly practical and occasionally rigid Saturn. But we’re always evolving and challenging.

What if the Saturn energy of this card is here to test the boundaries you’ve set for yourself? It’s time to reevaluate the structure you’ve created and give yourself permission to dismantle and dance freely. This is your sign.

What can you make now? What can’t you do?

The World in which we live is big, messy, and while people claim they know what’s best for us or that outside expectations are the way, it’s only you who can determine that.

Be brave. Run the world. 

The World is a Messy Place

It would be irresponsible of me to discuss the world without acknowledging the current events unfolding globally.

My 9/11 anxiety is ramped up and real. It confirms the feeling I get from Spirit when I wake up, and it “feels like 2003,” and does it ever.

What’s different from 22 years ago to now, though? The collective broken illusion of American Exceptionalism. It’s comforting to see so many rejecting the nefarious imperialism masquerading as “progress.”

When I hear we’ve unreasonably bombed another undeserving location, all I can think of is they’re just people. They’re people with families, friends, and dreams trying to live their lives peacefully without the influence of governments fighting one another.

This is not the people's fight. This is a fight between governments.

Don’t get it twisted, the negative feelings towards the US after decades of violence inflicted upon their communities at the hands of our government are warranted, and we should not blame anyone for what they feel. It’s valid.

It shouldn’t be happening. It doesn’t deserve support.

Rejecting the Culture of Capitalism

Capitalism begs the question, what if everyone’s lives were here solely to benefit a corporation? It tempts loss of humanity for endless growth at the cost of our fully-lived lives. Worship the Profit, they ask.

That’s rich considering Billionaire Beyonce is depicted as The World, right? Yes, and no. You can be aspirational for boundless creation and reject the consequences of excess.

Spirit has been guiding me to scream from the rooftops about our culture. We’re past due to embrace the once-integral (native) traditions tied to our family trees and reject the homogenous demands of our oligarchal, capitalist culture demanding our worship of the dollar.

Where does your family originate? What is missing from your soul?

My family is oddly constructed; some were (literal) founding fathers, while some immigrated here from Ireland and Puerto Rico in search of a better life. My grandparents on one side are lifelong Americans, and the others are first-generation Americans.

One of my Spirit guides hails from Puerto Rico, a Spanish-speaking man who brought my great-grandmother over. She refused to speak Spanish or engage with cultural aspects of her “past” in favor of full assimilation to avoid being rejected by her new home, leaving behind a heritage that was uniquely hers.

I have always considered myself an Irish-American, having grown up in a household that celebrated and embraced the cultural and native traditions. At the same time, the Puerto Rican culture was acknowledged, but it wasn’t lived. My bisabuela (great-grandmother) was fully assimilated, so why would we express it if she didn’t?

To help fill a spiritual void within me, I’ve been immersing myself in Spanish-language content to achieve fluency and honor my ancestors, as well as to fully understand my guide, who offers guidance in English but prefers Spanish. He’s even been providing channels en Español recently, and I feel honored.

So what’s the point of all this?

If you live in America, you came from somewhere else, and no one is illegal on stolen land. We live in a country built on the brutalization of others. It’s time to fully reject it and be responsible for the past to build stronger communities.

The leaders of this stolen land continue to steal and sterilize communities across the globe in favor of conformity and profit. Though it’s “tradition” for our government, it doesn’t have to be ours.

Our joy, drive to create, and celebration of our uniqueness can be transmuted into better communities. We aren’t powerless, and we are especially powerful when we acknowledge our humanity. The need to fit in can be fulfilled through compassion, support, and joy.

It might be a mountain to climb, but it’s not impossible.

Across the world, they’re just people, rich in culture, much of which is stolen at the hands of violence, constructed by men with agendas and bottom lines.

Don’t lose your compassion, humanity, and strength. Do not comply in advance.

Happy June! Gemini Season is here, welcoming us with its warm weather, encouragement to get out and create, and clear pathways to communication.

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This week, the energy feels light, connected, and with you in charge. The energy is that of Justice, the King of Cups, and the Nine of Pentacles.

The Justice you’ve sought is here, rebalancing your heart, confirming you’re as confident as you think you are, with the emotional sense you’ve commanded, and a lush garden to show for it.

Have you recently felt relief from the overthinking you’ve been doing? Less in your head and feeling closer to the version of yourself you’ve been dreaming of? The last few weeks have been tiring and introspective.

The scales had to be rebalanced at some point. After dark, there is light; it happens once a day.

The core of the message of the energy for this week: take advantage of your confidence and celebrate your wins, no matter the size.

The King of Cups is a chill guy, watching his ships roll in along the shore, self-assured by the work he’s put in, in a season of receiving. He knows his patience pays off, as does yours. He fills his cup and receives in kind.

The Nine of Pentacles confirms that.

The garden is blooming with abundance; I’ve seen it 888 several times today, Spirit’s confirmation for me that the universe is working in your favor right on schedule.

The key to all of this is maintaining a steady hand. You’ve worked so hard to get to this point. Look to the energy of Justice to pull you home in times of uncertainty. You’re not just in control, but you’ve never been more certain of who you are and what you’re deserving of. Balanced perspective, justified in your needs.

Spirit encourages you to rejoice in your abundance this week, whether it comes in the form of friendships, love, money, nature, food, or otherwise, it’s your time to enjoy. Don’t deny yourself simple pleasures!

Don't overthink it, let it be!

Is this the new you you’ve been searching for? How does it feel?

Your homework this week is to feel joy in your creations. What have you accomplished that makes you proud? Give yourself a high five, journal, buy yourself a sweet treat, whatever you choose—you deserve it.

All I Do is Try Try Try

I’ve never been a natural, all I do is try try try, Taylor Swift laments in her song Mirrorball. The lyrics mirror my insecurities. Am I getting it right? When will I fly?

When you’re ready, my child, Spirit responds.

I’m taking my own advice this week and celebrating myself. I’m proud of the work I’ve done, becoming more patient with my growth, and accepting that everything takes time. Everything.

My Spiritual gifts have grown substantially since January, forcing an unintended hibernation, a perpetual Hermit mode. I’ve been reflecting on my retreat.

Siren Books got off to a strong start. I thought I knew exactly what I wanted: to sell books, read tarot, and make a proverbial killing doing it.

I was posting a lot, attending events, and booking readings here and there, yet I felt as if I was going nowhere. I felt like I was running in place and becoming disengaged from my work.

There’s nothing like the shame of feeling like I left behind corporate for a reason, only to feel as if I was going through the corporate motion of creating for the sake of creation. When I tried so hard with few results for months, the reflection of my perceived failures got the best of me, and I retreated.

It’s been a challenging climb back, but I’ve been rethinking how I can combine my divine, intuitive calling with books and writing—and it’s been a difficult task. Siren Books still exists, but I’m more confident with what I can offer.

I'm finally home, both within my body and this magical, creative spirit. I’ve arrived at being comfortable in the creation, disengaged from the result. It will be what it is, and that’s great.

I haven’t given up on my dream. I think I accidentally took a detour back to my old self, letting the definition of corporate or highly structured success be the determining factor of success. Those outdated beliefs dictated my perception of my success and ultimately held me back.

But I’m done with it. I’m excited to be exactly who I am, comfortable with what I create, and letting success unfold naturally in this phase of my life. Passenger Princess to the universe.

What does this mean? When I’m called, I’ll answer with creativity. I’ll let Spirit flow more freely, coloring my creations with the magic I believe in so deeply. I hope you’ll join me on my Instagram and TikTok as I light the match and shine an even brighter light on my incredible gifts.

Thanks for celebrating this win with me. It feels good.

What I’m Obsessed with This Week

The King of Queens- Doug and Carrie navigate their married life in the ‘90s in Queens, NY. It’s my husband’s comfort show and has become one of mine. The silly humor and great costuming make it a win in my book. My husband lovingly teases me with how much I’m like Carrie. She’s no-nonsense, sassy, and straightforward. Plus, Leah Remini is gorgeous. I recently did Carrie’s astrology, and we share an Aquarius Mercury and Libra Ascendant placements. Life imitates art, and all that.

Mastermind-Taylor Swift recently bought back all of her masters, making her previously stolen work now her reclaimed work. She did say she could reclaim the land, and did. I won’t feel so bad listening to the original Speak Now, but I'm still choosing Fearless (Taylor’s Version). Incredibly, she was able to re-record her albums to devalue them to her buyer, and then use the capital generated from the Eras Tour to bring it home. Beautiful and brilliant, we can all learn something from Miss Swift.

New Jersey- I love my home state. I took today to travel to a small, beautiful town I’ve never been to, explore, and write this newsletter. It’s offered inspiration and given me hope for my future creations—the Garden State blossoms for those who need it.

Going Places I’ve Never Been

I’ve been to Europe exactly once, landing in Portugal for a long weekend to celebrate the wedding of a family member, which is why it took me by surprise when I dreamed in accurate technicolor of Budapest, Hungary, last week.

Like I said, my gifts have changed.

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Positive Self-Talk

Happy Gemini Season! I love Gemini, represented by the Lovers in tarot. Gemini is an excellent reminder to love all aspects of yourself, be light-hearted, and have fun by engaging in activities like radical self-expression, singing, dancing, and being joyful!

As of this reading, the sun, moon, and Mercury are all in Gemini. If you’re feeling extra self-admiration (as you should!) and confident with your voice, celebrate it and play with the celestial boost!

Weekly Tarot Reading: May 27-June 1

What’s that? Did you feel that shift?

This week’s message is all about believing your hype and trusting it.

The Six of Swords is back, accompanied by the Hanged Man, the Ace of Pentacles, and Judgment.

You’ve needed to find that patience we’ve been discussing. The clarity is finally here for some in this collective. You’ve navigated the intense emotional waters and emerged with a renewed sense of self and perspective, finally trusting that you knew how to navigate all along.

You might perceive the shift as slight, but surprise! It’s a significant one. The Hanged Man sees the world and themselves differently. More emotionally available to release old hangups in favor of new opportunities.

The Ace of Pentacles confirms this. The new beginning is real. The excitement for what comes next is tangible, and you can cultivate the seeds you’ve planted.

During this reading, it felt as though a fog lifted. Like your once tightened chest can now draw a full breath.

I love Judgment’s placement in this reading, here to encourage and affirm your change. Do you feel the shift? It’s real! Pluto rules over this card; its determination is absolute change, and you’ve changed for the better.

Let yourself sing, dance, and be your authentic self in this Gemini season, a new beginning and a fresh perspective on yourself.

I’m proud of all the hard work you’ve accomplished!

Changing Frequency

I love this week’s reading! It’s an excellent confirmation for this collective. It rings true for me, even though my personal reading was slightly different.

This past weekend, I participated in an intense meditation session, where I was able to release a significant block. I felt like I left behind the tiny, dark apartment I was keeping myself in and received the keys to a proverbial mansion in my heart, airy and full of light. A huge breakthrough. A massive relief.

What’s impressive about this work is that nothing stays the same. I’ve been experiencing disconnection and discomfort in my practice, a side effect of maturing in my practice. Of course, I don’t recognize my previous self.

Sometimes it’s more difficult to leave behind the devil you know than tangle with a new one. Joke’s on me, I like this version a lot better.

The best part is that I’ve been more patient and kind with myself. I feel less inclined to rush to get to the next thing. I’ve accepted that good things take time.

Even the spiritually gifted need times to let their practice deepen, the connection to spirit mature, and lean into confidence. I’m not exempt from those feelings. Think of it as a continuing education credit. We’re constantly studying, questioning, and changing.

My channels have been different, more involved. I’ve been gifted more detailed visions, clearer channeled words and phrases, and permission from Spirit to explore my gifts a bit further with fun, lighthearted acceptance, with a return to ritual.

The mirror of tarot reflects what we need from ourselves. The permission to change. Permission to believe.

And so it is. Let’s dance and enjoy the season!

Obsessions This Week

The New York Mets: I saw my fourth walk-off win this season. Francisco Lindor hit a walk-off sac-fly against the White Sox. Whenever Lindor walks up to the plate, his song is either My Girl by the Temptations or Ain’t No Mountain High Enough by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. All of Citi Field breaks out into song, joining in, which makes a hit like that to win the game all the more exciting.

Linor, Brandon Nimmo, and Brett Baty got SNY reporter Steve Gelbs with a Gatorade bath, too. It was such a great time! Plus, I had a delicious chopped cheese, pickle-flavored fries, and ice cream in an upside-down helmet, which makes it taste better. That’s just science. How can you not love baseball?

Medieval Times: A year ago, I planted the seed that I wanted to go to Medieval Times for a date night, and this past weekend, it bloomed! We dined with our hands, we cheered on our knight, and we laughed our way through the medieval WWE show it was. I haven’t been since the sixth grade, and had no idea what to expect. It was a fun way to spend a date night; I would highly recommend it! It was fun to be silly for the sake of it. Sometimes we need it!

Cetus Lepetus: Reconnecting with childhood favorites is exactly the treat you think it is. I haven’t seen Zenon: Girl of the 21st Century or Zenon: The Zequel since they aired in the late 90s and early 00s, and yet I still know every word to the songs in those movies. It’s like Disney created a sleeper cell that woke up upon the first chords of the songs. Do you have a favorite DCOM?

Tune In

As I mentioned, channeling has evolved, encompassing what I’m meant to share, and here are some things I’d like to share with you.

Back in March, I received a channel from my guides.

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