Drawtober 2026: Wicked Apothecary

Time: 9:34 a.m., October 31

The shop sat in a little alley off the town square. An unassuming door set into the brick wall of a larger building, its wood worn and brass knocker tarnished. A pair of windows bracketed the door, though you’d be hard pressed to see through them—the plants that grew in the windowsills were so dense they blocked any view into the store. A much-battered sign hung above the door on iron brackets. The gold leaf that had decorated it was gone, having been scraped away by the years, but the sign was still legible—cursive black letters declaring:

Apothecary and Medicines
Est. 1709
Herbs, Tinctures, and Tonics
Finest Reagents and Magickal Supplies

Turning down the alley, Maeve slowed her steps as she neared the shop. She stopped just outside and retrieved her journal from her bag. Pushing her glasses up her long nose, she flipped open to the page detailing the ritual for tonight and ran her finger down the list of supplies. Her finger stopped atop the fourth item.

Grave dirt.

Maeve looked up at the door and felt a flush rising to her cheeks. She’d seen the knowing look on Branwen’s face when she claimed they needed more this morning. The older witch knew she was lying. They had plenty of grave dirt in the reagents cupboard. Maeve had pushed a jar full of it all the way to the back so it wasn’t visible, but if any of the others spent more than five minutes searching, they would find it.

It was stupid. Childish, even. If she were a wiser witch, she wouldn’t have stooped so low. But she’d wanted a plausible excuse to go to the apothecary today, because today was Saturday, and on Saturdays, Thomas worked the front desk.

Maeve ran a hand down the practical black dress she wore, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.

Inside, amber light bulbs buzzed along a bare wooden ceiling, illuminating tall shelving on either side of the shop. More plants snaked their way along the shelves. The air smelled of earth and herbs, musty and green.

A small brass bell chimed as Maeve pushed the door open, a smile ready on her face. But as she looked around, glancing first to the long work table at the back of the shop before peering at the shelving on either side, she realized no one at all was there.

“Hello?” she called, stepping further inside. “Is anyone here?”

The floorboards creaked under her feet. She couldn’t help the feeling of uneasiness that crept down her spine as she looked around. Perhaps Thomas had gone out? There were sometimes errands to run or deliveries to be made. But the door had been unlocked, and it was not like Thomas to leave the store unguarded.

Maeve stepped towards the door that led into the back. “Thom—”

Beneath her feet, the floorboard shuddered. A muffled roar emanated up from the wood, sending the glass jars on the shelves shaking and making her jump in surprise. She gripped the edge of the work table and stared down at her feet. A few seconds passed, and then the floor rattled again as something in the basement thrashed away.

“Oh dear,” Maeve whispered.

There was a reason the Apothecary had been around for so very long. While Thomas was human, the business was owned and primarily run by goblins who could live hundreds of years. Providing, of course, that they didn’t get themselves killed doing whatever madcap experiments they could lay their minds to.

The current owner, a venerable old goblin named Gnazz, had left his days of trial and error behind. His nephew Venk, however, had not.

The floorboards rattled again. Maeve felt a wave of panic as they did. Goblins were hardy, and witches were quite hard to kill indeed, but humans were a different matter. If Thomas was down there, then he might be in danger. He might be hurt or—or worse. She didn’t let herself think what worse might be. Instead, she grabbed a tall broom from behind the worktable. Holding it before her like a talisman, she pushed her way through the door to the back, heading for the stairs to the cellar.

The sounds of growling and thrashing grew as she reached the top steps. Liquid in varying shades spattered the wood there, and for a panicked moment, Maeve thought she might see blood. But no—emerald green and royal purple seeped into the wood, but the reddish-brown hue of blood was not there. If Thomas was bleeding, he hadn’t started doing it at the top of the stairs.

She began her descent. It was difficult to go quietly, but she did her best. It grew darker as she went, though as her eyes adjusted, she saw that the cellar was not entirely unlit. Instead, a sickly green light pulsed through the space every few minutes. She gripped the broom handle tighter and wondered, briefly, if she should go get one of the other witches. Then she was at the bottom of the stairs, peeking her head around the corner, and any other thoughts she might have had flew out of her head.

Maeve had only been into the cellar a handful of times. It was primarily used a grow house for mushrooms and other fungi, plants that thrived best in the dark.

There were no mushrooms now. Instead, something crouched amidst the remains of wooden shelves and ceramic pots at the center of the room. If it was a plant, it was not one she recognized. Long roots thrashed about on the floor, while a thick stem filled out into bushy leaves. Red flowers with what looked like fangs snapped uselessly at the air. Every so often, the thing would let out a screech from some unseen mouth and send its roots whipping around the room. One of them lashed perilously close to her head.

Something cold closed around her wrist, and Maeve nearly shrieked. She spun, readying a fire spell. The enchantment died on her lips as she saw Thomas.

He was crouched beneath the stairs behind a stack of crates. He had a purpling bruise beneath his eye and a cut along one cheek. He held onto her wrist tightly, pressing a finger urgently to his mouth and tugging her down to where he hid.

She allowed herself to be pulled down. Under normal circumstances, the fact that Thomas was touching her would send her heart careening in her chest. They’d brushed fingers over the past few months when he handed her paper bags of her requested tonics or she passed him money. Quick touches that only lingered a little and left her longing for more. Unfortunately, the fact that he was truly touching her was overshadowed somewhat by the thrashing monstrosity in the center of the room. It roared again and began pulling itself towards the far wall.

“Maeve, what are you doing here?” Thomas whispered. His voice was rough, as though he’d been shouting for a long time.

“What is that thing?” Maeve demanded.

“One of Venk’s experiments.” Thomas sat down heavily on the ground and released her wrist. He pushed a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t that big when I left yesterday. I came down to check on it this morning and it grabbed me. Threw me into a wall.”

“Where is Venk?” she asked. “This is his mess—he should be the one cleaning it up.”

“It ate him.”

Maeve cursed. Of all the days for this to happen. She wished Nellie were here. Her fellow witch had a way with plants, particularly the wicked ones. Maeve’s strengths lay in books and scrolls—in knowing, not in doing.

“I’ve tried our weed killers,” Thomas whispered. He winced as more ceramic pots went crashing to the ground. “But it’s no good. They just made it angry.”

“What kind of plant is it?”

“I don’t,” he said. “Venk said something about a Venus flytrap, but knowing him, that’s only a part of it.” Another crash, this time followed by the hiss of steam and a cry of rage as the thing ripped out one of the heating pipes.

Maeve bit her lip. Based on the look she’d gotten, she thought mandrake was a part of it, too. The leaves looked like deadly nightshade.

“What was Venk trying to make?” she asked.

“Something for pest control. We’ve had mice recently.” At her shocked expression, Thomas gave a helpless shrug. “You know Venk. He never does—did—anything halfway.”

“I pity the mice.” Maeve pulled off her hat and massaged her temples, thinking. Nightshade, mandrake, flytrap. Nightshade, mandrake, flytrap. It became a chant in her head as she tried to recall all she knew about the plants. It was a bad sign if the weed killers weren’t working. She’d seen that stuff eat through leather and rust metal.

The green light pulsed again, and Maeve peered out at the plant. It was grappling with the pipes on the wall with its roots. The pulsing green light came from the base of its trunk, making it look like a giant, misshapen lightning bug. She studied the glow for a moment. Bioluminescence. A chemical reaction was happening down there, fluid oxidizing to give off the shine.

Oxidizing.

“Can we lure it up to the vault?” she asked suddenly. Thomas blinked at her.

“Why?”

“I need a sealed room. No windows or other doors. There’s a chemical reaction going on in that thing’s gut that requires oxygen. If we can get it into a sealed room, I can suck the air out and suffocate it.”

Thomas’s brow furrowed. “Do you think that would work?”

“Well, the other thing I can think of is lighting it on fire, and this building is made of wood.”

“Right. Right, yes.” He swallowed. “How are we going to lure it upstairs?”

The monster roared. More pipes burst from the wall, sending water sloshing onto the floor. Maeve squared her shoulders.

“I think we just have to get its attention.”

#

The most difficult part was convincing Thomas that she was the one who should lure it upstairs.

“You could get hurt,” he hissed as she laid out her plan. “That thing ate Venk. It could eat you, too!”

The sentiment was sweet, but Maeve didn’t have time to swoon over the gallantry. “Witches are much harder to digest than either goblins or humans,” she said. “I need you to get up there and make sure Gnazz didn’t decide to close it. And be behind the door to close it when we get there.”

The sound of the monstrosity beginning to tire of ripping pipes out of the wall ended their argument. Eventually, it would turn in their direction. It would be better to be ahead of it than to be caught off guard.

Thomas crept up the stairs and out of sight on admirably silent feet. Maeve waited. She counted in her head, giving Thomas a good five minutes to get into position. Gnazz never closed the vault, since it was such a pain to open again. Then, she stepped out from behind the barrier and onto the stairs. She picked up a chunk of shattered pot.

“Hey!” she yelled. “Hey you! Come on, you stupid thing, this way!”

She hurled the ceramic piece at the monster. It struck the creature near the glowing base, cracking into smaller pieces and falling to the ground. The creature roared and lashed towards her with its roots. Maeve skittered up the stairs until she was out of reach. She kept shouting, picking up errant pieces of wood or smashed pots to hurl down at it. When she was certain it was following her, she turned and ran.

The vault was in the back of Gnazz’s office. According to Thomas, the goblin had had it installed decades ago. It was much too large for what they really needed at the Apothecary, and so it had become less a vault and more a junk room, filled with furniture, books, artwork, scrolls, knick-knacks, and other things the goblin wasn’t ready to part with yet.

Maeve scrambled down the hallway. The plant didn’t move fast, per se, but its roots had a long and lashing reach. She kept just ahead of them, turning into the office. Thomas stood beside the open vault. His face was pale and he flinched as he heard the creature, but he didn’t run.

Long roots flung themselves into the room as Maeve backed towards the vault. The monster pulled itself forward, bulk scraping over the floor. Furnishings were crushed, paintings rattled off the walls. Maeve moved in front of the open vault door.

“Hey!” she shouted. “Over here!”

The creature turned. It didn’t have a face, per se, but there was a place on its wrinkled trunk that folded into a series of frowning lines. Its roots shot out as it dragged itself towards the sound of her voice.

“Move!” Thomas hissed from behind the door.

“Not yet.”

“Maeve!”

“Not yet!” The creature drew closer, then closer still. When it was nearly upon them, roots beginning to lick at the ground, Maeve drew her hands together. She murmured a spell beneath her breath, feeling the wood of the room beneath her feet rumbling and shifting. She stepped to the side as the whole floor lifted and tilted. A ramp formed beneath the creature leading straight into the vault’s open door.

It worked almost perfectly. The creature, blossoms snapping and roots flailing, slid forward and down into the waiting vault. Thomas gave a whoop of victory and began shoving the door closed.

And then Gnazz’s desk, tangled in the roots of the thing, scraped down the makeshift ramp with alarming speed. It swung wide and struck Maeve. The breath went out of her in a rush as she was dragged into the vault just as the door snapped shut.

The creature had tumbled all the way to the back. It roared in anger, roots lashing out and knocking shelves loose. Maeve, gasping for breath, found herself pinned against one wall by the heavy desk. She struggled against it. It didn’t budge.

She was trapped.

“Maeve!” Thomas’s voice was muffled. “Maeve, are you all right?”

“Thomas, get the door open!” Maeve watched as the plant began righting itself. In the dim light of the vault, she thought she saw a bulge in its side. Maybe that’s where Venk’s body is, she thought. Was it still hungry? Was it really going to eat her? She’d been boasting when she’d said witches were hard to digest.

The door clanked. “The handle is stuck!” Thomas called. “I can’t spin it!”

Maeve glanced at the door. The broken length of a chair had wedged itself into the door mechanism. She could see the gears grinding against it, trying vainly to turn.

Panic, which she’d managed to keep at bay all this while, began crawling up her spine. Her breath came faster. Sweat beaded on her brow as she pushed against the desk with all her might, but it didn’t budge.

A green glow lit the space as the creature began coiling its way towards her. The red flowers all faced her direction. They snapped barbed tips at her.

“Maeve!” Thomas called.

Maeve reached for her magic, trying to force the wood away from her. But then what? She couldn’t run. If she moved the broken chair, Thomas still needed to open the door. How long could she last in here? That thing was hungry. And it was moving fast.

With a cry, she reached into the well of her power. There was no finesse. No fine spell spoken or runes drawn. Nothing but panic and anger and a wish that she was more like her sisters—more like Branwen or Nellie or Rowena. A desire to be a witch who could do instead of a witch who merely knew.

The power rippled around her, flooding the shelves at her back. Shelves that were filled with books and maps and scrolls, the pages of a long, long goblin life. The shelves shuddered, twisting beneath the onslaught.

And then, answering her call, the books surged to life.

Paper flew every which way as knights of ink and parchment unspooled before her. Horses with hooves of leather and eyes of gold leaf charged forward with paper spearmen on their backs. Archers fired arrows made of splintered shelves, arcing over the swordsmen and peppering the creature with bolts. A set of encyclopedias launched themselves into the air and became eagles, raking paper talons across the creature’s flank before circling back for another run.

The plant monstrosity roared. It’s roots whipped out, ripping attackers apart only to find itself beset by smaller slips of paper. Tattered knights became snarling dogs and cats, shredded eagles turned to swarms of bees. Maeve’s paper defenders whizzed around the plant. The wounds they left were not deep. But there were hundreds of them. Thousands. And, as any great reader knows, there is nothing worse than a paper cut.

A pair of paper knights hung back from the fight to pull Maeve free of the desk. She stared at them in confusion. Good lord, what had she done? She hadn’t intended any of this. It wasn’t a spell. She didn’t know how to dismiss it. She wasn’t even sure she could.

Her racing thoughts fells silent as, with a final groan, the plant monster stopped thrashing. It wavered on its tangled roots for a moment before crashing down into the debris on the floor with a colossal thud.

“Maeve! Maeve!” The witch startled as she heard Thomas’s voice. The lock of the vault was still stuck. Shaking herself, she hurried over to pull it open.

#

Needless to say, Venk was properly ashamed.

Gnazz had come when one of his neighbors reported the noise and ruckus at the shop. When all was said and done, and the creature had been pulled out of the vault and sliced open, a very wet, very shocked looking Venk had come tumbling out. His uncle had given him the dressing down of a lifetime.

Maeve stood outside the Apothecary as more goblins—the Gnazz’s extended family—hurried in and out of the shop carrying furnishings and plants to safety. The whole thing would have to be cleaned and purified to make sure that none of the plant monster remained to root itself again.

She looked down to her hands, feeling them slowly. Once the monster was dead, her paper army had fallen away, too. It seemed too unreal to have really happened. And yet it had.

Nearby, someone coughed. Maeve jerked her head up to find a very dusty, very tired looking Thomas standing beside her. He gave her an exhausted smile and held out a small paper bag.

“Here,” he said. “Grave dirt. Gnazz says its on the house.”

Maeve looked at him blankly for a moment before remembering the errand she’d come here for. “Oh, right. Yes.” She took the bag, fiddling with the top.

“We, um. We actually don’t need the grave dirt. But thank you.”

Thomas blinked. “Of course. Did you need something else? Everything’s a bit of a mess right now, but I’m sure I can—”

“I wanted to ask you to dance with me tonight,” Maeve blurted. She felt her face flush hot, but she pushed forward anyway. “At the festival. I wanted to dance. With you.”

Thomas stared at her with wide eyes. A flush came into his own face, and he cleared his throat. “I…Miss Maeve, I would love to, but I can’t.”

“Oh.” Maeve swallowed hard. After everything, this felt like too much. Tears pricked her eyes, making her feel childish and lovelorn—two decidedly un-witchlike emotions. “Of course. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize you were already going with someone. I should have realized!”

“What? No, no that’s not it at all. I very much want to go with you, I want to dance but—” He broke off, biting his lip. “When the the plant threw me, it wrapped up my leg. It’s not quite right.” He pulled up his pant leg, and Maeve saw a massive bruise already purpling up his calf. “I didn’t notice it until after you killed that thing. But, well, it hurts. Quite a lot. Dancing is probably out. But if you’re all right with waiting, I would love to dance with you next year. And, perhaps, this year we can just sit and talk? I’d love to know how you managed to kill that thing.”

Despite everything, Maeve felt herself smile. Her heart beat bright in her chest. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I think that sounds perfect.”