We Are Witches, We Are Weirdos

Whispers of the Weirdo Witches: A Conversation with Hansel and Gretel's Ghosts

In the shadowy corners of the world, where moonlight rarely touches and where the wind speaks in cryptic murmurs, a group of witches huddles. We are a coven of outcasts, a clan of self-proclaimed weirdos, and we wear the title proudly. To some, “witch” is a name to be whispered in fear, but to us, it is a badge of honor. Our strangeness is our strength, and our oddities, our magic.

Tonight, we sit around a cauldron not of boiling potions, but of memories. The air is thick with the smell of pine and decay, and the night is alive with echoes of old stories—especially one. Hansel and Gretel, the children whose tale has been twisted through time, wander in this spectral space with us tonight. But they are no longer children. They are ghosts, still tethered to their grim fates, and tonight, we witches speak with them, not as adversaries but as kindred spirits. For who understands being a weirdo better than those who were cast aside and hunted?

"Well, well, well," says Myrtle, the tallest and lankiest among us, with a grin that could stretch across the sky. "Look who’s drifted back to us. The infamous duo. The bread-crumb trailblazers." Her laugh crackles like old firewood.

Hansel and Gretel’s ghosts appear before us, translucent but still carrying the weight of their story. Hansel is a little taller now, though perpetually boyish in his stance. Gretel floats beside him, her face a mixture of innocence and the weariness of someone who’s known too much darkness.

Gretel looks at us with curious eyes, her voice barely a whisper. "You... you witches. Are you like her? The one with the house of candy?"

Myrtle’s laugh echoes through the trees. "Oh, darling, no. We’re weirdos, not cannibals. Do we look like we eat children?"

"I mean," chimes in Poppy, whose fiery red hair glows under the pale moon, "there was that one time at the summer solstice where—"

"Shh, Poppy!" Myrtle cuts her off with a wave, though her grin remains wicked. "That was a misunderstanding. But no, we don’t eat kids. Not anymore. You’ve got the wrong idea about witches. We’re misunderstood. Outcast. Just like you two."

Hansel, still wary, steps forward. "Then why do people tell stories about witches like they’re monsters?"

Poppy shrugs, twirling a stick of rosemary in her hand. "Because people are boring, Hansel. They fear what they don’t understand. We’re weird, so they turn us into villains. They can’t stand things they can’t explain. Magic, mystery—it frightens them. So, we get turned into wicked old hags who lure children into traps. Just because we like living in the woods, doing our own thing, they assume the worst."

Myrtle leans in, her eyes gleaming. "And here’s the kicker: we love it."

Hansel raises an eyebrow. "Love being feared?"

"Oh, not exactly. We love being weird," Myrtle explains. "There’s power in being different, in not fitting in with their tidy little world. We dance under the moon, we talk to ghosts—like you two—and we live by our own rules. That's what they can’t stand. They call us witches, monsters, freaks. We call it freedom."

Gretel hovers closer now, her voice tinged with sadness. "But your kind did try to eat us."

Poppy clicks her tongue, eyes rolling. "That one? She wasn’t really one of us. Just an amateur, a wannabe. Anyone who builds a house out of gingerbread is clearly compensating for something. No true witch would go for such... theatrics." She waves her hand dismissively. "You two just ran into a hack. Happens all the time."

"Besides," Myrtle adds, her voice softening, "she was driven mad. The loneliness, the isolation. Sometimes, being weird means you end up alone, and that can twist you if you let it. That’s why we stick together. You see, weirdos have to look out for each other."

Hansel looks at us with a kind of cautious understanding now, his ghostly form flickering like candlelight. "So, you don’t want to hurt anyone?"

Poppy grins. "Only if they deserve it."

Myrtle elbows her playfully. "We’re not about causing harm, Hansel. We’re about survival. Just like you and Gretel were when you found yourselves lost in that forest. The world’s a cruel place sometimes, and when you're an outsider, it’s even worse. But we didn’t come here to haunt you. We came here to remind you that you’re not alone. You survived. You fought back. You outwitted that madwoman, and in doing so, you embraced something weird and wild within yourselves."

Gretel’s eyes flicker with something like hope. "You mean... we’re weird too?"

"Of course you are!" Myrtle exclaims, her arms wide. "You wandered into a forest and faced down a witch! You outsmarted an entire system that wanted to consume you—literally. You survived, and that makes you different. Special. A little strange, maybe, but in the best possible way."

Hansel seems to be mulling this over. "So, being weird... isn’t bad?"

"Not in the slightest," Poppy says, tossing the rosemary into the cauldron, causing it to hiss and bubble. "Weird is just a label for those who live beyond the ordinary. It means you see the world differently. You don’t bury your head in the sand like most people. You face the shadows, the mysteries, and you embrace them. It’s what makes you strong."

Gretel tilts her head, curiosity growing. "Is that why we’re still... here? Why we can’t move on?"

Myrtle smiles softly, her hand resting on the cauldron’s rim. "Maybe. You’re still holding on to that old fear, the old story. But what if you let it go? What if, instead of being haunted by what happened, you embraced it? What if, instead of being the victims of a tale, you became its heroes? Weirdos survive, Gretel. And you two survived. So maybe it’s time to start telling your own story."

Hansel and Gretel’s forms seem to shimmer in the moonlight, as if the weight of their past is lifting, if only a little. Gretel looks at her brother, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Heroes, huh?"

"Yeah," Poppy says, winking. "Heroes. The kind who don’t fit the mold. The kind who find a way through the darkness, and come out the other side a little stranger, a little stronger."

Hansel nods, his ghostly hand reaching out to Gretel’s. "I think... we can do that."

And as the night deepens and the ghosts of Hansel and Gretel begin to fade, Myrtle raises a final toast to the night sky. "To the weirdos," she says, "the survivors, the ones who walk through fire and come out the other side, different but alive."

And in the echo of that strange night, we witches smile, knowing that in our own odd way, we have welcomed two more kindred spirits into the fold.