Continue Your Journey into Witchcraft with the First Authentic Grimoire Published in Generations!

As the Masthead of Prolific Press, I’ve had the opportunity to work with a wide variety of manuscripts, from poetry collections to literary fiction and nonfiction. Our focus has always been on high-quality literature, and the publishing of witchcraft books has never really been on our radar. However, an unusual invitation recently pulled me into a world that I never expected to explore—a hidden collection of ancient grimoires, guarded by a secretive coven of witches.

The invitation came under strange circumstances. I was contacted by a group that claimed to possess an extensive collection of occult texts, some dating back as far as the 12th century, and they wanted me to examine them. As a publisher with a passion for rare books, my curiosity was piqued. These were no ordinary texts—they were grimoires, books of spells and rituals, guarded in secret for centuries, and kept hidden from the outside world since before the infamous Salem witch trials.

While Prolific Press doesn’t typically deal in esoteric or occult subjects, this was a rare and extraordinary opportunity. The coven wanted my expertise in publishing to help them create something new: a modern spellbook based on their ancient practices. Their goal was to publish a collection of approachable spells, focused on what some call “tree magic” or “natural magic”—a type of witchcraft rooted in the natural world. These spells, they assured me, would be designed for novices—modern witches looking to find their footing without the support of a coven, though the eventual formation of new covens was certainly one of their goals.

Despite my initial skepticism, I couldn’t resist the lure of such a collection. The chance to handle these ancient texts, to examine the illustrations and feel the weight of history in my hands, was too tempting to pass up. Little did I know, this journey would not only challenge my beliefs but also leave me with more questions than answers.

This is the story of how I was drawn into a world of hidden knowledge, ancient books, and the mysterious practices of a coven determined to pass their traditions on to a new generation of witches. What I encountered along the way was far more than I bargained for.

When I first arrived to view the collection, I wasn’t sure what to expect. The coven had been secretive, leading me to a remote house on a vast farm in Pennsylvania. In its basement, far from ordinary, was a collection of roughly 800 ancient texts, each weathered by time but well-preserved. Most were stored in leather cases that looked to be made by hand. The leather cases were theatrical, but the books within took my breath away. The collection had supposedly been passed down through generations of witches, hidden away from prying eyes. The idea of such a massive collection being hidden was the only provenance that made sense, as the alternative—a modern collector curating it—seemed less likely.

However, I hadn’t anticipated the language barrier. Most of the books weren’t in English—some in Latin, others in old German, and a few in unidentifiable languages. While I couldn’t read them myself, the coven had cataloged the books and offered translated notes. When I asked for specific readings, the coven’s leader, an Amish Brauchau, effortlessly translated passages from old Germanic texts. Hearing the ancient words spoken aloud, handled with reverence, gave the books an undeniable air of power. Their deep fluency in these texts lent credibility, particularly given their Amish background, which typically rejects such practices.

The collection was fascinating. Many books were bound in leather, with claims of some human skin bindings, adding to the mystique. Despite being stored in a basement, the pages were in surprisingly good condition, with minimal signs of decay. The resilience of the volumes was impressive.

Not all the books were grimoires. Some were philosophical works or early alchemical texts. Though the coven believed only a fraction of the collection contained genuine spells, they were clear about their goal: to sift through the texts and create a modern and approachable guide for witches, focusing on natural magic with accessible spells. They showed me financial receipts of book purchases over the last 200 years from rare book and antiquities dealers, but also admitted that they had fallen prey to some forgeries along the way. I appreciated their candor and this detail made their story more believable. They were not trying to sell me on the notion that every book was some magical relic. 

The Amish connection added another layer of intrigue. The Brauchau witches came from conservative Pennsylvania Dutch communities, where such practices are unexpected. Yet, here they were, preserving ancient occult traditions in secret. This odd juxtaposition lent weight to their claims, raising the question of how these texts, some dating back to the 12th century, had survived.

I recognized immediately that these were valuable. They represented centuries of thought and belief, with illustrations that weren’t all artistic masterpieces but still authentic, many being raw, primal works created for ritual. I kept thinking that these books really belonged in museums.

As I delved deeper into the project, my internal conflict grew. Coming from a background of skepticism, rooted in reason, I viewed witchcraft and spells as remnants of superstition. Yet, the more time I spent with the coven and their collection, the harder it became to dismiss the strange events happening around me.

The first indication that something was off came during my initial visit to the coven’s collection. As I stepped into the basement where the books were stored, I was suddenly overcome with a wave of nausea. It disappeared as soon as I left the room, and I initially brushed it off as a reaction to dust or mold. But the same thing happened on subsequent visits, even after taking precautions like wearing a mask. Despite my efforts, the nausea would return, only vanishing when I stepped outside.

I mentioned this to the witches, and they didn’t seem surprised. The Brauchau witch offered to accompany me with a white candle on my next visit, assuring me it would help. Skeptical but intrigued, I agreed. To my surprise, when she brought the candle and stayed nearby, the nausea vanished completely. I spent hours in the basement that day without a single problem. While I resisted attributing the change to anything mystical, I couldn’t deny that something had shifted.

There were other odd occurrences too. My phone, a reliable modern device, would malfunction every time I was in the basement. Its battery would inexplicably drain, even though it was fully charged. When I tried to take photos, the images appeared sharp—except for the text in the books, which remained blurred and unreadable, even though everything else in the photo was clear. I tried different angles, lighting, and focus, but the text was always distorted.

When I shared this with the witches, they were again unsurprised. “Some things are not meant to be captured that way,” they told me. As much as I resisted their explanation, I couldn’t find a better one. The phone worked perfectly outside the basement, but in the presence of the books, it continued to malfunction.

The setting of the house itself added to the confusion. A traditional Amish home—large and without modern conveniences—yet in the basement, several working light bulbs stood in stark contrast to the rest of the house. Though I didn’t ask directly, it was clear that despite their roots, the witches embraced practicality and modernity when it suited them—just as they had chosen me, a modern publisher, to help bring their work to light.

As I examined the collection of books, I found myself less focused on disproving the witches’ beliefs and more interested in capturing the essence of what they were trying to share. They truly believed in what they were sharing, and in the end, it wasn’t my belief that mattered—it was theirs. Still, just being around the collection took its toll on me mentally and physically, and little did I know but things were only going to get worse.

It was clear that the coven had a specific goal in mind—to create a modern spellbook merging their ancient Braucherei knowledge with a more accessible format for today’s witches. While protective of their collection, the coven understood the rising interest in witchcraft and saw a need for practical, approachable material for beginners.

Their focus was on tree magic, a type of natural magic that draws energy from trees to create simple yet powerful spells. The coven wanted to ensure these spells could be performed by novices without requiring elaborate coven structures or rare magical tools. The book was intended as a guide for solo practitioners and as a means to eventually form new covens based around nature-based magic.

What intrigued me most was their pragmatic approach. They recognized that the ancient texts in their collection, written in Latin, Old German, and other archaic languages, were too complex for beginners. Even with their help translating these grimoires, many spells required a deep level of understanding beyond most readers. To address this, they began distilling the knowledge into simplified forms, focusing on tree magic.

The Brauchau witch, my primary contact, handed me a carefully curated set of notes and translations, focused on rituals involving natural elements like oak leaves or birch bark. The idea was to use the inherent energy of nature for spells of protection, clarity, and healing—rituals that anyone could perform, no elaborate tools required. My task was to shape these notes into a cohesive manuscript that modern witches could use.

As a publisher, this presented unique challenges. The raw material was a mixture of personal commentary, symbolic language, and layers of meaning. Yet, the spells were practical, grounded in the belief that nature carries an inherent energy anyone can harness. The coven wanted this approach to resonate with modern readers, offering a way to reconnect with nature through accessible, real-world magic. This project wasn’t about creating a grand, mystical spellbook; it was about bringing Braucherei magic into the hands of new witches who were seeking something practical and rooted in nature.

The process was challenging but fascinating. The more we worked together, the clearer it became that this book wasn’t just about preserving tradition—it was about guiding new witches toward deeper, nature-based practices, while also building new covens around the teachings. In a time when many are disconnected from the earth, the coven saw tree magic as a way to reestablish that bond. Their sincerity and commitment were undeniable, and it was my job to present their work with clarity and respect.

After spending so much time with the grimoires, I had developed a deeper appreciation for the collection. Even as a skeptic, I couldn’t help but be captivated by these books—each a vessel for the rituals and secrets of witches long gone. Yet, just when I felt I was beginning to understand the collection, the coven distanced themselves.

After presenting mockups for the modern spellbook—focused on tree magic—the witches unexpectedly denied me further access to the grimoires, claiming the books had been moved without explanation. It felt like a door had quietly closed, leaving me outside the world I had briefly glimpsed.

At first, I assumed they were being protective of their collection, fearing it might attract unwanted attention. With the grimoires being potentially priceless, their caution made sense, but something about their sudden withdrawal felt incomplete, as if more was at play.

One of the lower-ranking witches hinted at another reason. She claimed the coven sensed a growing power in me, one I was unaware of. I laughed it off, but she insisted that men who handle the grimoires with such intensity sometimes unknowingly absorb the magic within. She further explained that magic, typically channeled by women, could become dangerous when combined with male energy. “A man with that kind of power,” she said, “could twist the magic, bending it to his will—a warlock. It would no longer be cooperative, but dangerous.”

Despite the witches’ withdrawal, our collaboration wasn’t over. They still wanted to see the modern spellbook published, focusing on tree magic as an introduction for novices. The coven’s goal was clear: to pass their knowledge to a new generation. However, they hinted at deeper, more complex rituals hidden within the grimoires—spells too dangerous for beginners. What they shared was just a fraction of their knowledge; the true power in the heart of the collection remained buried, safeguarded by those who understood its potential.

The lower-ranking witch also suggested my involvement wasn’t over. “They’ll be back,” she said. “You’ve seen the books. You’ve felt their power. Whether you want it or not, they’ll need you.”

Her words stayed with me. Though the coven had distanced themselves, it was clear they had no intention of shutting me out completely. I began to wonder if they were waiting for something—for me to come to terms with the power they believed was growing in me. The modern spellbook felt like just the first step. There was far more magic left to explore.

This is difficult to write publicly, but even after the coven withdrew, the presence of the grimoires lingered. The spellbook project continued, but something within me had undeniably shifted. I had entered as a skeptic, focused on publishing, not belief, but now I’m not sure how to explain it—something has changed.

The lights in my house flickered more frequently, but only when I was deep in thought about the spellbook. At first, I brushed it off as coincidence, but the LED bulbs shouldn’t behave like this. Then came the feeling of pressure in the room, as if I wasn’t alone, and the eerie sensation of being watched, as though unseen eyes followed my movements. It’s hard to describe just how heavy this presence felt.

I had assumed the strange occurrences would disappear once the books were gone, but instead, they followed me, creeping into everyday life. What unsettled me most was how natural these incidents began to feel, as if they were becoming part of my normal routine.

Sometimes I can shake it off, but the feeling always returns, especially when I’m barefoot outside. I’ll feel a subtle hum from the earth, urging me to pay attention, pulling me back into the world of the coven and the magic. It’s as if I never truly left. At these moments, I can almost sense the white candle the Brauchau witch carried beside me, its protective flame flickering somewhere near, though invisible. Maybe it’s not the candle—but something—something I can’t identify, yet it is undeniably there. 

Am I imagining things, attributing meaning to coincidences? My thriving rosemary plant withered overnight. Objects seem to shift when I am not looking, and I find them arranged in ways that feel deliberate, like a pattern I should understand but don’t. 

Then there were the animals. A couple of cats, ones I’d never seen before, started showing up near the house, watching from the edges of the yard. I know, “cats,” cliche’ and eyeroll worthy, but I’m trying to be a reliable witness to the truth of these events and this is what has actually happened. They never ventured close, just stayed, observing in their quiet way. More unsettling were the birds. I began noticing them lining up along my fence in unusually long rows by the bird feeder. It was something only the sparrows did when the feeder was full, and they were waiting to take turns eating—but the feeders were empty, and this was a wide variety of birds. Instead of flying off, they just stayed there, for longer than I had ever seen birds stay in one place, frozen like little silent statues staring in the direction of the house. It unnerved me.

I started waking at 3 a.m. every night without fail. I felt anxious, and I didn’t even realize it for the first few weeks, but I had fallen into the habit of stepping outside to feel the earth hum beneath my feet. It calmed me, seemed to fill me up, like singing “Hallelujah” in church fills your heart, making it soar into the rafters. The more I tried to ignore it, the more these occurrences slipped into my daily life, blending the boundaries between the ordinary and something else—is this what witches mean when they say they are spiritual?

Even now, as I continue my work on the spellbook, I can’t shake the feeling. While I try to rationalize it, the real question isn’t whether magic is real—it’s whether there’s a clear boundary between the mystical and my life. It might help you understand if I mention that, while writing this very paragraph, my microwave suddenly died as I tried to warm my coffee. The cup was shattered when I looked inside. This is how I live now.

*Important note: If you’re interested in owning this unique spellbook, crucial information about pre-purchasing is included below. Please read carefully, as the first printing is very limited and you may not have another chance to obtain a copy.*

**Pre-Purchase Details**

The first printing of the spellbook will be limited, and pre-purchasing is highly recommended. Those who pre-purchase will benefit from a significant savings: the pre-purchase price is set at **$24.95**. If they do not sell out in pre-purchasing, the cover price will be **$69.95**. The price reflects the rarity of this book in the marketplace and the expected print run is initially small. Our contract does not allow for a second printing, but we hope to negotiate that. There is no guarantee more will be printed later. 

The official release is planned for late 2025, and pre-purchasing guarantees your place among the few who will own this first edition. For those who hesitate, be warned: once the limited run is sold out, we cannot guarantee more copies will ever become available and it is unlikely those who own it will ever give up their copies. 

A first edition print from a small print run of something so monumental is a treasure in itself.