The halls of Swarthmore High School buzzed with anticipation. Winter formal had long proved to be a tradition everyone enjoyed.

Well, almost everyone.

Annie Turner hated dances. She hated the outfits, the fake cheer, the need to pretend that small social matters would lead to anything important in life. She couldn’t stand it.

She decided that this year, Swarthmore High deserved a new tradition. One that showed all the fakes that the only thing that matter was power. Power that transcended mortal existence.

Her plan had been in motion since last October after Gary Vanderfront and his cronies decided to line the inside of her locker with sheep guts and wrote “You’re a baaah-ed time.” Gary hadn’t taken her rejection at the Halloween party well. But you can’t expect success when you dress as a skeleton and ask people if they want to “bone.”

Annie had to research how to remove sheep guts on the internet. That’s how she found her book of incantations on Etsy. The page with the cleaning guide had an old recipe section where a Midwestern Wiccan detailed their successes in between explanations of how to properly boil lentils and how to spice up vegan chili.

Annie combed the halls as the first songs began to echo out from the gymnasium. The melodies of Timbaland and Shakira faded as she dove deeper into the school. She finally found an abandoned music room— budget cuts left the place dusty and littered with turned over chairs. It was perfect.

Annie lit a single red candle and began.

“Where did you come from?

Where did you go?

Reveal the secrets of the universe to me- Cotton Eye Joe!”

A thrumming weight moved through the air. Time stuck like molasses as the final note rang clear. The motion inside the gymnasium froze. A half submerged ladle of punch stopped mid-bubble.

A Deity had deigned to visit Swarthmore Formal. And Annie Turner had called it there.

An explosion of lace and corduroy shocked the crowd back to life. The amp buzzed the stilted air— something changed— but the students didn’t know what.

No one noticed the disappearance of Annie Turner. No one even thought to look.

Over the next couple years— students would swear they heard chanting echo the halls on Winter Formal. Harsh whispers in the edge of rooms. Invisible eyes peeked through the stark, fluorescent lights and teenage music.

Memories slipped like salmon on a ladder and worries fled to dark dreams and acid flashbacks.

The name Annie Turner burnt like a twisted wick— flickering, but never full.