overlaylink

It’s the Season of the Witch: Where Did the Stereotype Come From?

Taylor Rebhan
October 23, 2024 | 4 min read

From literature to film and pop culture, nothing screams Halloween quite like the legendary witch — and all that comes with her. Black cats. Flying brooms. Potions, cauldrons, knobbly noses, and spellbooks abound.

But what’s up with this ancient caricature? Is it grounded in reality, or is it all just a bunch of hocus pocus?

The history of witches long predates Halloween, as well as the Celtic tradition the modern holiday is rooted in. East to West, North to South, you’d be hard pressed to find a cultural record that doesn’t have its own tradition of witches.

Witchcraft Is Ancient

In fact, witches can be found in some of our earliest written texts.

Both the Judeo-Christian Old Testament and even earlier Mesopotamian clay tablets reference witches as literal figures in human history — not just characters in fiction. These ancient religious documents served warnings about the power of witches and their use of unsanctioned magic to bring about unsavory events.

Now, witches weren’t the only figures using magic in these tomes. But they were specifically called out for using the wrong type of magic — anything that the authors deemed unacceptable.

This is a pattern repeated for thousands of years. It’s not tongue of newt or dead man’s toe that adds a particularly unsavory flavor to the history of witches. No, it’s just straight-up moral panic, and the scapegoating that comes with it.

It’s not tongue of newt or dead man’s toe that adds a particularly unsavory flavor to the history of witches. No, it’s just straight-up moral panic, and the scapegoating that comes with it.

Before we knew much about microbes and mental health, unseen phenomena were explained through magic and religion. Who can blame us? Superstition and intuition were all we had to go on in ancient times. So we chalked up positive events to our deities and good magic, and misfortune and tragedy to malevolent forces, or black magic.

Who practices black magic? Well, maybe the shaman with the unconventional beliefs about health and healing. Or maybe the lippy old hag who defies the male elders in the tribe.

Why settle for explanations out of our control when we could pin misfortune on someone we have beef with? Time and time again, history shows there’s no one in society ripe for a good old-fashioned pillory quite like an opinionated woman.

Crops failed? Cow died? Husband had an affair with the milk maid? Grab the pitchforks and your biggest dunking tub — we’re going witch-hunting.

Time and time again, history shows there’s no one in society ripe for a good old-fashioned pillory quite like an opinionated woman.

A Few Of Her Favorite Things

OK, so we’ve established the background of witches: supernatural scapegoats with ancient magic origins that are more often than not victims of rabid misogyny. But what about her occult accoutrement?

Spells, potions, and bonfires with the Devil make sense. They’ve long been associated with black magic.

Warts, crooked noses, and an obsession with eternal youth? Sign up for your local university’s Gender Studies Program for your primer on portrayals of women in media.

Iconography like brooms and cats, however, call for more speculation.

This is where fact and fiction blend into folklore. Was the image of a broomstick taken from a witch-hunter observing a Pagan harvest ritual? Or was it just a burst of imagination from an aspiring demonologist with a penchant against housework? Either way, the originator had no idea the impact his creative liberty would have on pop culture.

Not all stereotypes are of such dubious origin, however. There are some scientific lenses we can retroactively apply to illogical leaps of lore. Take the ties between cats and witches. Neil DeGrasse Tyson explained it succinctly in a recent podcast: Some women who were mysteriously — ahem, magically — impervious to the plague happened to be cat owners.

Laymen of the time might cry, “Witch!” But we know now that plagues were transferred by fleas via rats. And if there’s one way to clear your house of rodents, it’s a feline companion. Add a few hundred years of Dark Ages illiteracy and a dash of paranoid misogyny, and you’ve got a classic stereotype.

So, take scientific ignorance and throw it in a cauldron with religious fearmongering. Top it off with deep-rooted hatred of women, and you’ve got the nasty potion that led to our current caricature of witches.

Take scientific ignorance and throw it in a cauldron with religious fearmongering. Top it off with deep-rooted hatred of women, and you’ve got the nasty potion that led to our current caricature of witches.

The good news? In our more enlightened age, writers of all stripes are reclaiming the story of the witch. From Broadway — think Wicked — to the silver screen — Robert Egger’s The VVitch — the oft-maligned witch is staging her renaissance as a figure to be both revered and respectfully feared.

More and more often, we’re exploring the hysteria with a critical eye toward the power structures of the time … and our current realities.

More and more often, we’re exploring the hysteria with a critical eye toward the power structures of the time … and our current realities.

Witches still have a chokehold on art and literature today because they reflect our fears back at us:

Our lack of control over the chaos of the universe;

Our feeble defenses against disease and misfortune;

Our tendency to point the finger — to accuse, rather than accept.

And maybe that’s the role these indelible figures play in our collective story.

The scariest thing about a witch isn’t what’s bubbling inside her cauldron. It’s what boils and roils in our own souls.

September 18, 2026 5 min read

I spent a decade correcting people's grammar. (Not in an insufferable way. I was getting paid to do it.) Now I write without correcting my own.

September 18, 2026 7 min read

Whether he's acting or writing, Wesley MacInnes finds a starting point for each creative project in freewriting.

September 10, 2026 2 min read

The winning short story in the 2026 Freewrite 500 is "Deathbed Victory" by Rocky Halpern.

I wish my mother could be a little less enthusiastic about losing weight from chemotherapy. Her sharp wrists and angular neck are trophies others remark upon. They look past her hair and eyebrows that are like hay carried away by a thunderstorm and ask if she’s doing keto or mediterranean. 

The world is mesmerized by shrinking things. Mini candy bars, happy meal toys, tiny dogs that fit inside a purse, dollhouses, adults who weigh as much as children. 

My mother wants me to go on Ozempic. I sit next to her hospital bed, and she wraps her wisp of a hand around my thick, pulsing wrist. She asks me to dream of wearing matching bikinis on the shores of a tropical beach. She wants me to share in her religion, recite the sacred text: Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. 

But chemo has rubbed her tastebuds down to a dull throb, so what does she know about it anyway? 

She dozes off as evening begins to creep. The TV mounted to the wall across from the bed plays a muted rerun of Friends, the one where Monica wears a fatsuit. She is half my size, at least. I turn off the TV, let go of my mother’s hand, and head toward the cafeteria. 

I examine limp premade salads, gray tuna fish sandwiches, and an unmanned make-your-own smoothie station. Eating dinner here doesn’t leave me with much of an appetite. Maybe I don’t need weight loss medication after all, I can just skulk the halls and wonder how much time we have left together. 

How much of that time will my mother spend wishing there was less of me? 

How much less of her can there be before she disappears? 

A nurse is checking her vitals when I return to the room. My mother looks at me, laughs softly, and asks the nurse, Can you believe she used to fit inside of me? 

I think of how we must have been, her warm body encasing mine like a bacon-wrapped date. I wonder if she ate hot fudge sundaes when she was pregnant with me. I wonder if there is a single moment of her life where she didn’t feel terrified of her body. 

My mother is a ghost and it’s the proudest she’s ever been, her deathbed victory lap. Somewhere, Jenny Craig sheds a tear and whispers into the ether, It’s not just about losing weight; it's about gaining life.