They had heard the mountain whisper before, soft and strange, like wind moving backward through time. Neversink was no ordinary trail, and the old stone structure known as the Witch’s Hat wasn’t just some relic. It was a beacon. A threshold. And it had begun calling them in dreams, signs, and synchronicities. This was no leisurely weekend hike. It was a mission wrapped in fate and spellcraft. They arrived at midday, carrying light packs filled with ritual tools: a ouija board, protective charms, extra vapes, and offerings for the land. The sky was overcast, but the air crackled with quiet promise.
From the very start, the forest resisted. Trails they’d walked before seemed to lead nowhere. The GPS glitching. Even the compass refused to behave. They passed the same ancient stone three times. The deeper they ventured, the more the trees leaned in, closing the space around them. This was no mistake. It was an initiation. They paused, grounded, and called on their senses. Brelynn peered through her hagstone, and Jackie murmured a blessing into the leaves. That’s when they saw it—a faint deer path, a "not-a-trail' nearly swallowed by the underbrush, tugging their gaze like a spell pulling thread. They followed.
Silence settled like fog as they stepped onto the forgotten trail. The air thickened. The birds stilled. The woods became watching. Then, at the edge of a narrow ravine, they found it: a ring of feathers, small bones, and red twine—carefully arranged, clearly magical. It pulsed with warding energy, a spell cast long ago by someone who knew the land well. They didn’t flinch. One produced a nail charm, the other traced a sigil in the air. Words were spoken, not loudly, not clearly, but enough to stir the space. The barrier dissolved like mist at dawn. They stepped through.
Somewhere between the old trail markers and the ridge they thought they knew, the path vanished. It wasn’t just gone, it had never been there. The familiar landmarks twisted, the incline wrong, the compass spinning without reason. Brelynn glanced at Jackie. They were lost. But not alone. Bird calls stuttered. A black feather floated down between them. Then, an odd knot of roots forming a shape they'd both seen in dreamwork: a symbol of protection, of guidance. Brelynn placed her hand over her heart. Jackie closed her eyes and whispered a quiet offering into the wind. The air changed. Subtle and unmistakable. They began to follow the signs. A black butterfly. A shimmer at the corner of vision. Deer that appeared, paused, and meandered uphill. At times, the path narrowed to nothing more than memory, but they trusted it. Step by step, they were led. Their footing grew steadier. The trees opened back to the trail on the other side and the mountain began to rise again in full.
The old stone Witches Hat loomed before them. Large, towering, and utterly alive with magic. A liminal crown atop the mountain. The sky seemed lower here, pressing down like the breath of the Otherworld. They circled it clockwise, murmuring as they moved. At its base, they placed their offering, fireball whiskey. They stepped inside the hollow of the structure. Something shifted. The air turned charged. The wind held its breath. This was no ordinary place. It was a hinge, a fulcrum between worlds. Here, the veil ran thin, threadbare in the places where time had worn it down. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. They had prepared for this. This moment had been seen in their visions long before it arrived.
Thunder on the Mountain: A Rite of the Black Flame
They faced North and opened the first gate. The earth stirred. A cold breath rose from below the mountain. The shadows of root and bone answered.
They turned East and opened the second gate. A sharp wind curled through the hollow. The taste of smoke and dawn lit the air.
Old breath. New fire. South, the third gate, was opened. The warmth pulsed low in their bellies. Flame flickered at the edge of vision. Desire. Courage. Will. The mountain itself seemed to exhale.
Then West, the fourth gate. Everything stilled. Water pooled briefly between the stones, as if from nowhere. A whisper coiled upward, carrying the scent of salt and endings.
They stood at the center now, inside the stone crown, the gates opened in all four directions. Hands lifted. Voices low but unshaking, they called with authority. They summoned the spirits as kin. They didn’t command; they invited, and the invitation was accepted.
Then came the thunder, it cracked twice. Once, to split the veil. Twice, to ignite the flame. Between them, the Black Flame shimmered to life. Silent and smokeless, but powerful. Not a fire that burned flesh, but one of magic. The energy was immediate. Palpable. A current that curled around their fingers and hearts alike. They had opened the portal. The Witches Hat now breathed, alive with spirit and presence. It had become a gateway. And they, its keyholders.
Their walk down was quiet. No confusion. No fear. Only the hush of forest acceptance. The spirits had tested them and they had passed initiation. A hawk watched them from a high branch until they descended, then took flight. The Witches Hat had done its work. The portal was open
Not all gates are found in books. Not all magic is cast in circles. Sometimes, the most powerful spells are made on forgotten trails with wind-tangled hair, bramble-scratched arms, and a heart brave enough to walk where the spirits whisper. If the land calls you, go. But be ready. You may not return the same.
