“*Down, down, down the road Down the witches' road Down, down, down the road Down the witches' road Circle sewn with fate Unlock thy hidden gate *
The "Ballad of the Witches' Road" has just been living rent free in my head. I even sing it without realizing I'm singing it. Omg 😱 has it taken control of my mind? OMg 😳 😱 does it mean I'm now a witch 🧹?
Anyways, You know how some stories don’t just start, they pull you in—like a whisper behind your ear that makes you turn, only to realize no one’s there? That’s how Agatha and the Witches Road begins. It doesn’t ease you in with grand fireworks, no. It’s quieter, creepier, more hypnotic—like someone tugging you into a place you already half-remember but can’t quite place. I swear, within the first few minutes, I felt like I wasn’t just watching a movie; I was being invited into it.
So let me gist you, scene by scene, because this one doesn’t just unfold like a straight line—it winds like the road itself, twisting until you’re not sure if you’re moving forward or getting lost deeper into the dark.
We begin with Agatha who is not a caricaturey witch as people assume. She is crude, harsh, yet human like making you tilt your head back and look closer. The first scene, which I remembered, was the beginning in her little workshop, where the candlelight was flickering over jars and half-burned herbs. Then there is this silence that is almost so thick and then--bang--somebody knocks on her door and cracks it. The visitor is not just another character, it is as though the entire world expects something out of her. That is when you realize that this is not merely a tale of spells and magic but is indeed a tale of survival, of decisions, of debts due to forces that are darker than anyone would care to acknowledge.
The very Witches Road does not present itself immediately. In the beginning, it is whispered, as though a threat, a dare. But once Agatha can make footing on it, oh, that scene. You could almost hear the breathing of the road. The stones were not stones, they throbbed with life. Each decision she made seemed to be a loss to her. And seeing that, I clenched my stomach. You ever have those times when you are afraid and want to know at the same time when you are leaning forward because you have to know what is at the end even though your gut is going off and telling you to turn back? That is how that order struck me.
And then come the witches. Not like broomstick-flying, cackling like. These are disturbing since they are recognizable. They are dressed like you have known women, damed women who laughed with you, took your hand but here they are smiling more their eyes are too decided. One--ugh, I can’t get it out of my system--is the scene where Agatha is with them at a long wooden table in the woods.
They’re passing bowls of food, but the way they eat is wrong. Too slow. Too deliberate. Every clink of the spoon is like a warning. I found myself holding my breath, because I just knew something was about to snap.
And then it does. Agatha is questioned by one of the witches--not loudly, but in a manner very gentle, very nearly kind, What wilt thou sacrifice to remain in this road? It struck me then that it is all a bargain this whole story. It is not only magic spells and rituals but about sacrifice, what side of yourself is you ready to give up in order to gain power, to become part of something, to find answers. And as Agatha hesitated, and struggled with her own shades, I had that something a-stirring me, as well. Because isn’t that life? We are all trading with each other to decide what to renounce to have the things we believe we cannot live without.
The highway also takes her through visions- hallucinations so true you forget they are imaginary. One second she is in a bed of flowers, the next she is knee deep in blood and her reflection is turned back at her. There was a scene when she was shown her younger self, big-eyed and innocent, and she was asking her, Why did you leave me behind? That one broke me a little. It is not hard to admire strong, powerful women on screen, but to watch her vulnerability be displayed, to watch her guilt and regrets- it was too close to reality.
And then comes the chase. Without snarling on your heels by the witches, you can have no witches road, can you? This shadow is trailing Agatha, at times it is nothing more than a rustle in the wood, and at times it is a figment of color with blazing eyes, and always it reminds her that she is not alone on the walk. The chase through the woods, when the road is attempting to swallow her, the trees closing in around her, the branches reaching out like claws,--it made me hold on. And the sound design, oh! The cracking of twigs was as though shots in a silence. I continued to think, Don’t fall, don’t turn back and run.
But the climax—it’s not a big, explosive battle like you’d expect. No, it’s quieter, more haunting. Agatha reaches the end of the road and finds herself face-to-face with… herself. Or maybe not herself, but the version of her that could’ve been if she made different choices. That scene lingers. She doesn’t fight with fireballs or spells. She stands there, trembling, and whispers: I know what I’ve done. I know what I’ve lost. And I still choose me. That hit harder than any fight scene could. Because it’s not about defeating some enemy out there—it’s about confronting the one inside you.
And when it dies, when the witches disappear and the road is swept up in mist, we are left alone with Agatha as she walks back in the world. Changed. Bruised. But standing. That was no victory--it was just survival. And even survival is more daring.
This movie left me with a sense of discomfort that was the most positive kind. As I had been presented a mirror and posed questions I was unprepared to respond to. What would I give up? On which roads would I presume to walk? And worst of all--what would be the shadows that would haunt me were I to?
That table scene. God. It does not simply occur, it breathes. To start with, it is the sound that you hear--the silence of the woods that has become too silent, even the wind does not want to enter. And then, as you come out of the darkness, there she is, this lengthy, unbelievably lengthy wooden table that stretches far beyond what your eyes can somewhat accept, and all along its length carved into symbols that do writhe under observation. And the witches are already in place, waiting, knowing, as though they knew, that she had come. That detail chilled me. She did not sit down and make herself one of them; and she was supposed to.
At the point of Agatha coming in, you find her stuttering, her hand trembling the slightest as though she desires to seek some charisma of protection that she lacks. In the night air her breath smokes. The chair she sits next is patted by one of the witches with a smile and the roughness of the wood touching the floor when Agatha pulls it off is unbearably loud. It is so still common sense in such an unconsecrated spot. that contrast struck me—as she had been called to dinner, except the family, who could eat her up.
Their food is plain, almost comical. Bowls of bread. A stew which is thin and smells somewhat of earth. Jars of something pickled. Yet the manner in which they swallow it--the slowness, the sharpness, the silence between knives. Every motion is measured. As one of the witches picks up her bowl, her eyes never seem to leave the face of Agatha like she is observing her rather than eating herself. The other witch is very careful in the way he chews, a bit being silent and wet. The sound of spoon against wood is too much to be heard or felt, and she can detect every note of a little hammer hitting her nerves. And you feel it tightening, that straining in your chest, where you are hoping she will avoid doing something wrong, that she will not violate whatever the rule is that is keeping this delicate picture together.
Then comes the question. Not bawed, not imperative, but gentle, nearly kind. One of the witches bends in, and her hair cascades like curtains down her face, and murmurs: What is it you are prepared to give up, in order to remain on this road? That’s when the air shifts. It is then that the food ceases to be food, the table ceases to be wood and the entire picture is upset by the fact that it is a trap in disguise of a feast.
And Agatha—you see her freeze. Her spoon is half an inch away to her lips. Her eyes fly to and fro, face to face, an attempt to read them, an attempt to weigh them. And then her shoulders slump. Just slightly. Almost imperceptible. But not so much that you know that she feels the noose tightening. It was then the scene broke me open--because how many times have we been there, at some unseen table, put questions that are not really questions but ultimatums, and dressed them in politeness? This is the brilliance of it: it is not merely witches who put Agatha to the test; it is life itself which is forcing her into a corner.
And then the final confrontation. The end of the road. I swear it felt like a dream collapsing.
The mist clears, and there she is—Agatha, staring at herself. But not quite herself. The double is cleaner, brighter, untouched by the weight of the choices she’s made. This “other” Agatha doesn’t carry scars, doesn’t have blood on her hands, doesn’t flinch like a hunted animal. She stands tall, radiant, like the version of Agatha who never walked this cursed road at all. And the silence between them is unbearable. No growls, no chanting, no thunder—just stillness.
For a moment, neither speaks. It’s just eye contact, unbroken, raw. You see Agatha tremble—her lips part like she’s about to speak, then close again. And the “other” tilts her head, almost pitying, almost smug, like she knows exactly what’s tearing through Agatha’s chest: regret.
Then the double speaks. The voice is Agatha’s but smoother, softer: Why did you leave me behind? That line—oh, it gutted me. Because it wasn’t some witch’s taunt. It was Agatha’s own voice, her younger, unbroken self accusing her of betrayal. And isn’t that the worst enemy we all have? Not strangers, not monsters, but the ghost of who we could’ve been if we hadn’t messed up, hadn’t chosen the hard, dirty road instead of the safe one.
Agatha makes arguments, attempts to clarify. The voice breaks when she says, I did what I had to. And the twin proudly gazes, coldly. No yelling. No curse. A mere reflection of all excuses, all injuries.
And here comes the piece of genius, she does not fight. No fireballs, no spells. Agatha instead drops her head. She shakes. Tears streak down her face. And she whispers--not shouts--I know what I have done. I know what I’ve lost. And I still choose me. That voice was more thunderous than thunder. Since it is not the conquest of an enemy. It is about possessing yourself, as ugly as scarred and broken as it is.
The doubling disappears, and turns to cloud as though she did not exist. And Agatha is there alone, bent in shoulder, though alive. The road of the witches melted away. She does not come out a winner- she comes out a survivor. And survival, at that time, was the bravest triumph of all.
Reducing its pace in this way made such scenes work even more painfully. That table was not only creepy, it was a reflection of the silent pitfalls in life. And that last battle was no fantasy, but all those moments when you have looked into the mirror and cursed that you could see nothing pleasant, yet said, I will go through with it anyway.
This is what makes Agatha and the Witches Road interesting. Not because of the magic. Not because of the witches. But by compelling you to get at the table and confront yourself.
So the end of Agatha and the witches road. I actually thought there would be an extension of the movie.
Lyrics for The Ballad of the Witches' Road
*Seekest thou the road To all that's foul and fair Gather sisters fire Water, earth and air
Darkest hour, wake thy power Earthly and divine Burn and brew with coven true And glory shall be thine
Down, down, down the road Down the witches' road Down, down, down the road Down the witches' road Circle sewn with fate Unlock thy hidden gate
Marching ever forward Beneath the wooded shrine I stray not from the path I hold death's hand in mine
Primal night, giveth sight Familiar by thy side If one be gone, we carry on Spirit as our guide
Down, down, down the road Down the witches' road (Down the witches' road) Down, down, down the road (Down the witches' road) Down the witches' road (Down the witches' road)
Blood and tears and bone Maiden, Mother, Crone*