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Captioned Images Series: The Witch's Holiday
Created: 12/01/2025
The Grand Regency Hotel was always busiest in autumn, when the city swelled with tourists chasing colored leaves and haunted tours. Miss Fireblossum—real name Fiona, though only the payroll department ever used it—worked the front desk with quiet efficiency, her long auburn hair twisted into a neat knot, her smile polite but distant. She had been there three years, never late, never sick, never asked for anything. Until today.
She knocked lightly on the frosted glass of Mr. Wilson’s office door.
“Come in.”
Harold Wilson was fifty-two, balding, perpetually red-faced, and believed that any request for time off between Labor Day and New Year’s was a personal betrayal. He didn’t look up from his spreadsheet.
“Mr. Wilson,” Fiona began, voice soft, “I’d like to request October thirty-first off. It’s… important to me.”
He snorted. “Halloween? Absolutely not. We’re booked solid for that ghost-walk package the marketing idiots cooked up. Request denied.”
Fiona closed the door behind her and lowered her voice. “It isn’t Halloween. It’s Samhain. The Wiccan New Year. The veil is thinnest. I need to be home for the rites.”
Wilson finally glanced up, amused. “You’re telling me you’re a witch?” He laughed once, sharp and ugly. “Jesus, Fireblossum. Next you’ll want the solstice off to dance naked under the moon.”
Something shifted in Fiona’s eyes—green irises flaring like struck flint. The air in the small office grew thick, scented faintly with ozone and crushed rosemary.
“I had hoped you’d be reasonable,” she said.
Wilson opened his mouth to fire her on the spot—and the world folded in on itself.
A hot wind rushed through his bones. His scalp prickled as though a thousand invisible fingers rearranged every strand of hair. His shoulders narrowed; his waist cinched like a corset drawn by unseen hands. The cheap polyester of his suit slithered against his skin, liquefying, re-knitting, gleaming suddenly black and slick. Fabric exploded outward into acres of flared latex skirt, so short it barely covered the tops of his thighs, supported by a riot of scarlet bouffant petticoats that rustled like angry birds. The bodice squeezed him mercilessly, nipping him into an impossible hourglass, short puffy sleeves capping shoulders now delicate and smooth.
His legs lengthened, calves sculpted; feet arched painfully into gleaming patent stilettos. Patterned pantyhose—black lace roses climbing ivory silk—sheaved his new legs all the way up to the frilled edge of the dress. A wide satin sash cinched his waist and tied in an enormous bow at the back, its tails brushing the hem of the petticoats.
His face burned. Cheekbones rose; lips plumped and painted themselves scarlet. Eyelashes thickened. Hair settled into a brutally precise brunette bob, ends sharp as scissors, bangs straight across the brow. Nails lengthened into perfect ovals, lacquered the same deadly red as his mouth.
Wilson stared down at himself—at herself—in animal horror.
A delicate hand rose to touch the unfamiliar face. The reflection in the dark computer monitor showed a stunning, doll-like Asian woman in fetish-pinup attire, eyes wide and black as wet stones.
Fiona watched him calmly.
“Now you understand,” she said. “Samhain matters to me the way Christmas matters to others. I asked politely.”
Wilson’s new voice came out high, melodic, trembling. “Change me back. Right now.”
“I will,” Fiona replied. “In twenty-four hours. The spell runs its course at the next sunset. Until then, no one will notice anything amiss. To them, you have always been Miss Willow Wilson, the hotel’s impeccably dressed general manager. Your signature will match. Your keycard will work. Even your mother will call you ‘honey’ in that same fond tone and not think twice.”
She turned to leave.
Wilson—Willow—lurched forward on the impossible heels, petticoats swishing outrageously. “Wait! You can’t just—”
Fiona paused at the door, glancing back with a small, almost kind smile.
“Enjoy the day, Miss Wilson. And don’t worry—the guests adore your new look. They always have.”
The door clicked shut.
From the hallway came the muffled sound of the front desk bell and a guest’s cheerful voice: “Miss Wilson! Love the dress today—so retro-glam!” Mr. Wilson grabbed the hem of his dress to give the guest a better look at his dress.
Willow stood frozen in the middle of the office, scarlet lips parted, the scent of latex and rosemary still hanging in the air like incense.
Somewhere in the distance, a clock began to chime noon.
Twenty-four hours to go.
The day unfolded like a fever dream. Guests cooed over “Miss Wilson’s” daring outfit, the concierge asked if the petticoats were vintage Dior, and a teenage influencer begged for a selfie “with the coolest GM ever.” Willow smiled through clenched teeth, signed reports in perfect looping handwriting she’d never possessed, and discovered that teetering on six-inch heels for ten hours straight was its own circle of hell.
At 11:57 p.m., alone in the executive washroom, the reversal began. The latex melted away like black candle wax, petticoats collapsing into nothing. Bones lengthened, shoulders broadened, the bobbed hair receded into his familiar bald spot. By midnight Harold Wilson stared back from the mirror—red-faced, rumpled, male, and utterly himself again.
He burned the security footage. He told no one. He gave Fiona Fireblossum not just October 31st off but every future Samhain in perpetuity, no questions asked.
A week later an email arrived from corporate.
Subject: Formal Write-Up – Dress Code Violation, 31 October
Dear Mr. Wilson,
During my unannounced visit to the Grand Regency on October 31st, I observed that you were not wearing the required managerial name badge. While I appreciate the… flamboyant commitment to the Halloween spirit, policy is policy. Please see the attached disciplinary form. A copy has been placed in your permanent file.
Regards,
Reginald P. Hargrove III
Regional Director
Attached was a photo: Willow in full latex glory, scarlet smile dazzling, enormous bow fluttering, chest completely bare of any name tag because the dress had no sensible place to pin one.
Wilson stared at the screen until the words blurred.
In the lobby, Fiona Fireblossum hummed as she polished the brass bell, auburn hair catching the morning light like quiet fire.
She never looked up, but the corner of her mouth curved—just slightly—as if she already knew.
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