She lived next door and quite frankly, she looked just like you'd
imagine. My parents didn't know when they bought the place they would be neighbours to a Witch.
This never bothered me. As I saw it, it was a social stigma
attached to old, ugly women with funny noses and bad dress
sense. This applied to most of the ladies at the regional sorting
office and everyone at the council tax.
Her cottage sported not only climbing Ivy, but climbing poison Ivy.Her walls flaked black paint and her thatched roof played home
to innumerable owls, crows, hawks and the like.
Her cat- black of course, hissed at people so much that they
crossed the road at our house, walked past and then crossed
back over.
At some point a rumour began that the cat had at one point been so aggrieved at a barking dog at the gate, that she
had jumped from an overhanging Azalea bush, landed on the
foolish dogs back, sunk its claws in deep and ridden the howling canine all the way to the local pub.
I decided it was high time for the silliness to stop and instead of
crossing the road, I opened the gate. Bravely marching up the
path to the rickety old door I raised the knocker and rapped with
confidence. The wait was matched only by the silence.
A crowd gathered over the road to watch.
Finally, a pair of footsteps sounded and then stopped as the door creaked open. My heart raced and my blood pulsed. The black
light beyond shrouded whomever opened the door and following a hooked finger in beckoning, I ventured within...
davidjwing 