Brandy Wine

Brandy Wine: The Witch Who Left Nothing Alive

Written in shadow. Preserved in spite. A story of Brandy Wine.

By Darklady

She came to me in a dream—but not like dreams come to the innocent. 

She came in shadow, thick as swamp fog, and stared through me like she was deciding if I was worth her name.

I couldn’t move.

I couldn’t speak.

I just felt her presence crawl through my bones like something ancient had finally found me.

And when I woke up, her name was in my mouth: Brandy Wine.

The witch whispered about in the hushed corners of crooked villages and scorched altars.

The kind of witch who didn't just curse—she made curses beg to be spoken by her lips.

The Origin of Rot

She wasn’t born in a cradle. She was spit out by the swamp on the third night of a blood moon, her first breath souring the air like vinegar on rot.

They say the midwife who caught her went mad.

They say her eyes were black before her lungs were full.

Her name was Brandy Wine, and she was not just feared—she was studied by spirits.

The Early Years

She never cried, never smiled.

Instead, she whispered to bugs.

Spoke to crows.

Taught weeds to grow backwards.

And once—just once—she turned her teacher's tongue to salt for calling her “difficult.”

By nine, she could draw sigils that made milk curdle across town.

By twelve, she buried her own shadow to free herself from prophecy.

By sixteen, the local priest begged her not to look at him during storms.

She didn't hex for fun. She hexed for lesson. And legacy.

Her Curses Had Teeth

Brandy Wine didn’t do soft majick. She didn’t believe in “letting the universe handle it.”

No. She believed in:

• Binding fingernails to silence

• Soaking hair in gravewater until dreams bled

• Creating vinegar jars so strong, spirits would knock first

She crafted the infamous “Rot of Return” curse: a spell that makes a liar’s words spoil in their own throat each time they speak your name.

She wrote spells in her own blood, bound with black wire, and buried them beneath enemies’ houses with the bones of birds that never sang again.

Her Book Was Not a Grimoire

It was called The Bitter Record, and it wasn’t made with paper.

• The pages? Flayed skin from promises broken.

• The ink? Mold and memory.

• The binding? Stitched with the red thread of forgotten midnights.

It was said that to even open her book was to feel every curse she never got to finish.

What Became of Her?

Some say she drowned herself in her own cursed wine. Others say the swamp took her back, fed up with how powerful she’d become.

But some of us know better.

Brandy Wine doesn’t die.

She just gets quieter.

They say if you pour black vinegar at the base of an ash tree and whisper a lie three times, she’ll hear it.

And if she chooses to rise?

You won’t feel cursed. You’ll feel forgotten.

darkwitchery.com