It begins with darkness.

But not the kind that hides — the kind that reveals.

A cold hush drapes the room. Two sisters stand in its silence — half-shadowed, half-awake — bearing the weight of centuries misunderstood. They are not merely portraits. They are revenants. They are reckoning.

In The Witch Sisters, Salem breathes again — not in screams, but in stillness. In the way the light clings to the bone. In the quiet strength of women who were once hunted for being untamed. The makeup is war paint. The gaze, an incantation. This isn’t horror — it’s history in chiaroscuro.

A reimagination, yes. But also a restoration. A way of saying: They were never monsters. They were mirrors.