"The Witches of Saint-Bronae" by Sasha Ravae

She thought she was opening a salon—turns out, she opened a portal.

When Aisha Rae inherits a long-shuttered beauty salon in the quiet town of East Viridia, all she sees is a chance to reinvent herself. Broke but ambitious, she plans to transform the dusty relic into a viral baddie-beauty haven. But something ancient stirs beneath the linoleum and lace fronts—something that remembers her bloodline, even if she doesn’t.

Unknowingly, Aisha awakens three witches sealed beneath the shop floor—Miss Mercy, Mama Yola, and Rue—forgotten matriarchs of a buried town called Saint-Bronae. Bound by blood and betrayal, they rise not just to finish what was started, but to decide if Aisha is the curse…or the key.

As glamour and grease collide, beauty becomes battleground, mirrors become memory, and the past refuses to stay hidden. This is not your typical witch tale. It’s a conjuring. A reckoning. A return.

The Witches of Saint-Bronae is a Southern gothic fantasy wrapped in Hoodoo, hair grease, and ancestral fire—where legacy is alive, and the salon isn’t the only thing that’s haunted.

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Chapter One

Aisha Rae wasn’t used to arriving anywhere quiet.

Not without bass rattling the windows, not without chatter spilling from corner stores, not without a cousin, ex, or low-key drama waiting at the curb. But when her Uber turned the corner into Saint-Bronaé, the only thing waiting for her was silence.

Old silence. The kind that smells like rain on brick and something burning on the next block over. The kind that carries memory in its lungs.

Her driver didn’t say a word the whole ride—just kept glancing in the mirror like he was reconsidering his five-star promise. The minute he pulled up to the faded storefront with the crooked Rae’s Touch of Class Beauty Salon sign, he popped the trunk and kept the engine running.

"You sure this the right place?" he asked, eyes not leaving the rearview.

"Yup," Aisha said, without looking up from her phone. "I own it now."

She stepped out in a crop top, platform boots, and a lace front that would’ve made RuPaul re-think retirement. Her nails were neon, her lip gloss unapologetic, and her lashes thick enough to disrespect a breeze. The East Viridia sun bounced off her hoops like they had something to say.

What she didn’t have though was a plan.

The inheritance had come out of nowhere—a single line in a dusty will from a grandmother she barely remembered. A building, paid off. Apartment upstairs, salon downstairs. No debts, just dust. And apparently, expectation.

No tears when she got the call. No slow packing. She just put in her two-weeks at a job she already hated, blocked her ex (again), and told the internet she was “entering a new soft life era.” Her TikTok bio now read: Legacy Beauty Priestess. Manifesting wigs, wealth, & worthiness.

Lies, mostly. But lies with potential—and filters.

She stood on the cracked sidewalk, staring through sun-bleached glass at half-dressed mannequins and dusty product bottles that hadn’t moved since 2006. There was a faded poster of LisaRaye with a French roll and brown lip liner curling at the edges like it was too tired to hold on.

She wondered if her grandma had styled that.

The door was locked, so she rang the bell to the upstairs apartment. It echoed like a cough in an old chest. A moment later, the buzzer clicked. She pushed the door open and walked into the building that was hers.

And it smelled like memory.

Blue Magic. Incense. Burnt coffee. Florida Water. Something sweet and sharp that hit the back of the throat like cinnamon and heat. It smelled like Sundays, scalp oil, and sorcery.

She wrinkled her nose. "Lord, this better not be haunted."

The staircase creaked under her platforms. The hallway carpet was a faded maroon, worn down in the middle like the building had a preferred path. Aisha placed her fingers lightly on the wall as she climbed, and the texture beneath her palm felt…knowing.

Everything felt touched. Used. Waiting.

The apartment door was cracked open. She stepped inside, eyes darting. It was cleaner than she expected. Lived-in. A faded peach couch, plastic still on the arms. A table fan humming low. A crystal bowl of peppermint candies by the door. She didn’t remember her grandmother much, but something about that bowl made her throat tight.

She set her bags down gently, almost respectfully. A fly buzzed against the window. The whole space had the kind of stillness that made sound feel rude.

The kitchen was narrow, tiled in green and gold. A kettle rested on the back burner like it had just been used. The fridge hummed like it remembered someone. She ran her fingers over the counter and came away with the lightest touch of oil and time.

Aisha stood in the middle of the room, looking around like she was waiting for a ghost to introduce itself.

"Okay," she exhaled. "We’re doing this."

She walked over to the window and opened it halfway. The air that poured in was warm, tinged with dust and some unnamed sweetness. The city hummed beneath her, low and alive. A bus hissed by. Wind rustled a faded mural of Black women with skybound hair. Below, the street pulsed with the rhythm of a place that had forgotten that it was sacred.

She pulled out her phone and opened the camera.

"Okay, God," she whispered. "Let’s make this the soft life reboot."

Click.

She took a selfie with the mural behind her, half-smiling. She adjusted the light, added a filter, and hesitated—just long enough to wonder what she was really stepping into.

New start. New space. No plan, but make it pretty.

Behind her, the fan suddenly clicked to a stop.

She didn’t notice…yet.

*****

Aisha kicked off her boots by the door, not bothering to line them up. The soles were scuffed, caked in city dust, one heel wobbling like it had secrets. She made a mental note to fix it. Or throw them out. Or maybe not. She had bigger things to worry about—like making this place look TikTok-worthy by the weekend. A place with charm, with history, with just the right balance of nostalgia and curated aesthetic. Her followers would eat this up—once she cleaned it, of course.

The upstairs apartment was quiet, but not the peaceful kind. It was the kind of quiet that pressed in too close, like someone else was waiting for her to breathe first. It didn’t feel abandoned. It felt paused. Like a breath held too long, the stillness stitched with something unfinished. Aisha tilted her head, listening. The silence felt layered, like it had sound stitched underneath it. Faint. Unfinished. Waiting to resume.

She walked through each room slowly, the air thick with dust and memory. The bathroom tiles were cracked in a pattern that looked vaguely like a sigil. One corner of the mirror was spiderwebbed with age, as if it had recoiled from a scream. The bedroom held a full-length mirror, tall and cloudy, leaned in the corner like it was eavesdropping. She caught her reflection in it for just a second—blurred, distorted, like her face belonged to someone else. She frowned, turned away.

She tossed her duffel on the bed and opened it halfway before abandoning the idea of unpacking. Instead, she found her favorite oversized tee, slid it over her crop top, and padded into the kitchen in socks. Her feet sank slightly into the old linoleum, which made a faint, sticky sound with every step. She opened a drawer. Rubber bands. Matchbooks. A pack of bobby pins that looked older than she was. And a faded church fan—plastic handle cracked—bearing the face of a woman who looked suspiciously like her grandmother.

The fridge hummed low, like it was meditating on someone else’s secrets. The hum fluctuated subtly, like it had opinions.

She opened a cabinet and found a dusty mason jar labeled Bay Leaves + Protection. Another held dried orange peels and clove. There was a tin of pink salt with a rubber band stretched around it twice. And a bundle of cinnamon sticks sat next to an old, charred matchbook from a long-closed juke joint. A tiny folded paper fell out as she moved one jar—a hand-scrawled note that read: Don't sweep what you can't send back.

She turned the jars over in her hands like they might offer her a hint. “This place got a whole Botanica in the pantry,” she muttered, half amused, half unnerved. She wasn’t sure if she meant it as a joke or a warning.

She took her phone out, snapped a photo, and typed: Legacy aesthetics >> Grandma knew what was UP. 🌿✨💅🏾 But she didn’t post it. Something in her gut said: Not yet. Not here. Not with eyes she couldn’t see watching. Her thumb hovered over the screen for a few seconds before locking the phone and setting it on the counter, screen-down.

She wandered back into the living room, where dust floated in the shafts of sunlight like lazy spirits. Aisha wiped at the windowsills with the sleeve of her tee, revealing layers of grime and something etched into the wood beneath—initials. Carved deep. With care. Maybe a ritual. Maybe a love story. Maybe both. She traced them with her finger. The shape felt warm.

Behind the couch, she found a broom. Old-school wood handle. Bristles flat on one side like it had always swept in the same direction. She picked it up without thinking and began to sweep in her own rhythm—starting in the front, pushing everything toward the back door. Her strokes were strong, almost methodical, like she was trying to prove something to herself.

From the back room, a draft rolled in. Not a breeze. A draft. Intentional. Heavy. It wrapped around her ankles like a question. It didn’t move the curtains. It didn’t rustle the leaves of the dusty houseplants by the sill. It just reached for her.

The hairs on her arms rose.

She paused, blinked, then shook it off. “Chill, Aisha. Just old building creaks.” But her voice sounded thinner in the air than she remembered.

She kept sweeping.

She didn’t know that in certain houses, you sweep from back-to-front. Not the other way around…not ever.

She didn’t know that sweeping toward the back door meant sending your blessings away, or that some spirits rested in corners…and others in bristles.

She didn’t know that the floor had memory. That it held grief like grout.

She didn’t know that the corner she swept into had once been an altar—set low to the ground, hidden under a false floorboard. A sacred place meant only for hands that knew how to bless. That the dust she gathered was not just dust, but residue. Remains of offerings. Ashes of intention.

And she didn’t see the mirror in the bedroom…pulse.

*****

The salon door groaned when she pushed it open. Not creaked—groaned. Like something inside resented being disturbed. Aisha paused in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, her other arm full of a cleaning caddy she’d put together upstairs with the determination of a girl on a content mission. Bleach, Windex, gloves, a dust mask, and a lavender-scented floor cleaner that promised renewal. She had every intention of filming a before-and-after TikTok. Maybe a soft rebrand. Something like #RestoringTheCrown, reclaiming legacy one swipe at a time.

But the moment she stepped through the threshold, that energy faltered.

The air downstairs was thicker, and it smelled like time and talcum powder. And something else, just beneath it—like scorched hair and sweet oil, like something held too long inside a hot comb.

Aisha blinked into the dimness. The overhead fluorescents didn’t turn on, no matter how many times she flipped the switch. But sunlight spilled in through faded gold curtains, pooling on the cracked linoleum in thick, hazy shapes. The room was still. Too still.

It looked like someone had walked out mid-shift and never came back. Curling irons still coiled on the counter. A half-finished style locked in time on a mannequin head near the window. Plastic chairs lined the wall, each with a cracked backrest and one leg that didn’t quite touch the floor. A dusty clock hung crooked, its hands stopped at 3:12. There were old hair posters curling at the corners, stuck to the walls with yellowed tape—finger waves, micros, French rolls stacked like crowns. Mary J. Blige. Brandy. Destiny’s Child-era Beyoncé, eyes full of ambition and edge control.

Aisha walked slowly, the soles of her slides sticking to the floor with a faint tack. It wasn’t just abandoned. It was preserved. Like someone or something had insisted it stay frozen.

She paused near the counter, eyeing the clutter of Black girlhood and womanhood alike: unopened relaxer kits, edge control jars with cracked lids, old curling irons with scorched handles, half-used bottles of Pink Lotion and Blue Magic. The smell alone unlocked memories she hadn’t lived but had inherited. Someone else’s Saturday mornings. Someone else’s mama in a housecoat.

She ran her fingers along the old register. It clicked when she opened it—only pennies and a receipt folded like a secret from 2006. The paper was brittle. Her fingers tingled.

The hooded dryers were lined up like throne chairs at the back, their domes tilted slightly, like heads bowed in prayer. She walked past them slowly, eyes lingering on the seat cushions—one still held a satin bonnet, crushed like it had just slipped from someone’s hand. Another had a comb tucked beneath it, as if someone had meant to return.

She paused. Swallowed.

She wasn’t scared. Not exactly. But the air felt aware of her. Like the mirrors remembered.

She approached the supply shelf in the corner. Everything was dusty—bins of rollers, unopened packs of braid hair, and a curling iron resting on a silk scarf that had turned dull with time. But near the bottom was something strange: a basket, covered in rich burgundy velvet. It didn’t match the rest of the shop’s tired palette. It gleamed faintly in the sunlight.

Aisha knelt down, her knees popping. She peeled back the cloth slowly, like peeling back skin from a piece of fruit.

Inside, there were three objects.

A golden handheld mirror, small and ornate, its surface dull with age but heavy with presence.

A wooden pressing comb, the old kind, iron-hot in memory, with soot still charred between the teeth.

And a laminated flyer for a hair show: Saint-Bronaé Hair Battle Royale – 1988. The paper shimmered faintly at the edges. Not with glitter. With memory.

She stared.

Something buzzed in her ears for a second, like radio static. The room seemed to tilt slightly. The light from the window stretched longer across the floor. She blinked, shook her head. Looked around.

Everything was still. Again.

She reached out, fingertips brushing the handle of the mirror.

It was cold. Not room-temperature cold. Earth-cold.

Aisha yanked her hand back like it burned her, heart kicking up, suddenly aware of how alone she was…or how not alone.

She stood quickly, dusting off her knees. “You’re being dramatic,” she whispered, to no one and everyone. “Just props. Old junk. It’s just stuff.”

But the comb’s teeth glinted slightly.

And from the far dryer chair, she swore she heard something settle.

Like weight in a seat.

Like someone exhaling.

Like the room had been waiting for her to open that basket all along.

And now that she had…it wouldn’t stay silent for long.

*****

The mirror wasn’t where she had left it.

When Aisha stepped back into the salon the next afternoon—cleaning supplies in one hand, an iced coffee sweating rivers down the side in the other—the burgundy cloth had slid nearly completely off the basket. The objects she had uncovered yesterday sat exposed like offerings at a forgotten altar: the mirror, the pressing comb, the flyer. And the mirror—God, the mirror—was now tilted just so, catching the weak afternoon light, catching her in a way that felt personal, almost conspiratorial.

She stopped cold, her heart doing a slow, thick roll in her chest.

"It wasn’t…like that," she muttered, voice swallowed by the heavy, syrupy air that pressed against her skin and filled her mouth like smoke.

The air wasn’t just thick with talcum powder now—it was heavier, saturated with scorched oil, burnt sugar, and old incense long snuffed out but stubborn in its stay. It was the smell of something waiting, stewing, remembering.

Aisha set her coffee down on the counter. She didn’t even flinch when the cup slid an inch sideways without being touched. It felt inevitable.

"Nope," she whispered, fumbling for her phone like it was armor. She unlocked it, tapped into her playlist—anything bright, anything loud—but the screen froze instantly. The battery icon blinked out. Black mirror. Dead weight.

She slipped the phone inside her back pocket, spine straightening despite the goosebumps rising along her arms. Her eyes flicked to the back of the salon, where the dryers still sat like shrines, their domes bowed low as if in mourning.

As she moved deeper into the room, the comb on the basket clattered—a soft, deliberate tap that echoed too loudly. She stopped mid-step, breath stalling.

That's when she heard it.

A voice. No—a melody.

"You can press it, you can curl it, you can lay it, you can slay it..."

Faint, broken, rising like mist from the cracked linoleum itself. The tune was warped, a soundscape worn thin by time, fluttering just beyond comprehension. It sounded like it belonged to another era, another lifetime.

Aisha’s feet moved without her consent, guiding her closer to the source. Toward the mirror.

Her reflection awaited her, but something was wrong—subtle, like bad lighting. Her image lagged, slower than her movements. It blinked a fraction too late. It inhaled after she exhaled. It smiled without her permission.

Her heartbeat drummed a furious rhythm in her ears.

From the left edge of the mirror, something shifted.

A shadow unfurled, slow and sinuous—not a clear figure, but an impression. Like a secret taking shape. It bloomed just behind her left shoulder.

She whipped around.

Nothing.

Just the heavy dust motes trembling in the stale sunbeams, the soft, aching creaks of the building settling deeper into itself.

When she faced the mirror again, the glass had changed. It wasn't just reflecting anymore; it was moving, breathing. The surface shimmered with a thick, oily sheen that swirled without wind, forming spirals that tightened and loosened as if responding to her heartbeats.

And then—it came.

Not aloud. Not through her ears.

Through her bones.

Her name.

Aisha.

It wasn’t a sound. It was a claim.

It wrapped around her ribs and tugged, low and insistent, like the undertow at a shoreline where you can’t quite see what waits beneath the water.

Her knees gave slightly. She clutched the counter edge, knuckles white.

Overhead, the flickering fluorescent lights buzzed back to life. They spasmed once, twice—then burned steady, casting jagged, slanted shadows along the curling posters and battered dryers.

The objects on the burgundy cloth vibrated—not violently, but with a pulse. A living, breathing rhythm.

Waiting.

For her.

For something she hadn’t yet remembered but had already promised.

Aisha stumbled back, one foot sliding awkwardly against the cracked tile. Her breath came in short, stunned gasps. The salon leaned with her, the walls bending closer, mirrors whispering confessions she almost understood.

Where could she go? The doors were closed. The light outside looked thinner now, less real.

Running wouldn’t help. Nothing would. This wasn’t fear. It was memory clawing its way back.

The salon wasn’t empty. It never had been.

And now, whatever had been sleeping inside it—curled tight like a secret, stitched into the bones of the building, humming in the dust—had finally, fully awakened.

Because she had come.

Because she had touched it.

Because she had been remembered.

And because now, it was remembering itself through her.

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Chapter 1 cracked the floorboards—and now, the fog just won’t sit still.

The broom swept wrong. The mirror pulsed. And the old salon? It’s remembering. Aisha Rae just moved in, but the house already knows her name.

✨ Chapters 2–5 are now live in the Fog & Flame Bundle, or tap the Flame Book Bundle to stay locked in every time a new Field Fiction exclusive conjures up.

No noise. No rush. Just creaking floors, whispered names—and the first spark of something ancient rising.