THE WITCH'S HOUSE

 

After the peaches and cream had been gobbled, the clank of cutlery started. Dinner was over. I left the table. I took my bowl to the kitchen while my Grandma started clearing the mess. My granddad got up without carrying his bowl to the kitchen and snuck off to watch the news. Outside the clouds had left the sky. A hot breeze rattled the sun-baked leaves. My father decided to take a walk down the hill to the fields. I went with him.

The cloudless sky made me anxious. With no clouds to reassure me it felt as if we were isolated on a tiny piece of the world cut off from everyone else. We walked down the hill past all the other bungalows. We peered at their front gardens, judging them with scores out-of-ten. At the bottom we turned onto the farm track. Two strips of pebbled concrete ran into the shadow tunnel of trees. The track had been there for decades. The farmers and their sons and wives and daughters had driven cattle along that same half-mile stretch for centuries. I didn’t like the silence of the road. The shadows felt darker under the empty sky. I wanted to turn back and go watch the news with Granddad. My father carried on at a pace increasing the distance between us. I had two choices, walk back, or follow on.

I sped up and caught up; his pace was always quicker than mine. He pointed to a chimney stack that stood alone in a patch of young Ash trees. The rest of the house had fallen into ruin.

            “That’s the Witch’s House,” he said, as he took us off the farm track and into the brush. Why he chose to walk into the ruins of the Witch’s House wasn’t clear. Witches were ugly green-skinned women with warts on their nose and a hatred of children. The house had fallen into a heap of chipped brick and rotting wood. The chimney was ready to fall. It had deep cracks filled with blossom heavy buddleia.

He said, “This is where the Witch used to live.” He started prodding the rubble with a stick looking for something valuable. He found the charred remains of a photo-frame and some broken willow-pattern pottery.

            “What happened to the Witch?” I said.

            “She disappeared after the trouble.”

            “What trouble?”

            “A little boy went missing. He was last seen walking down Briar's Lane.”

            “This lane?”

He nodded. “The boy was never found. People said she must have got him and…”

He didn’t finish. We left the ruins and continued along the lane to the Farm house. There we left the shadows of the trees and took the footpath into the fields. The purple-blue flax shook in the wind. It was good to get out of the shadows and away from the Witch’s House. As we made our way up the hill by the flax I felt her eyes. I did not turn around to look. I did not want to see the witch staring out of the shadows. I didn’t stop panicking until we got back inside the bungalow. The familiar smell of stale ground coffee, lavender, and TCP was reassuring.  I was glad the summer daylight held on past my bed time. The thought of the witch’s eyes peering out of the night built a fear inside me. Luckily the twilight lingered on for hours before the final snuff of day.

We entered the lounge and sat down. BBC two ran its reassuring soft programs that lulled you and numbed you before you went to bed. All the scary stuff had yet to come on. After nine thirty, murder mysteries, crime-watch, and other darker forms of Ofcom regulated horror came through the tube.

There was plenty of time left to talk. I wanted to reassure myself that the Witch’s House was just another of my father’s attempts to scare me.

            “We went to the Witch’s House,” I said. My grandparents went quiet with shock. It was as if I had mentioned something uncomfortable they had known, but long forgotten. They didn’t answer. I waited.

            “You shouldn’t have taken him there,” said my grandma.

            “The witch is long gone.”

            “You shouldn’t call her a witch,” said Grandma.

            “She was a witch,” said Granddad. “You know what she did.”

            “That was never proven,” said Grandma.

            “No smoke without fire.”

            “Do you remember that night when I brought back the glass bottle from the Witch’s house?” said my Dad.

            “I remember. You dropped it and as it shattered we jerked our heads east in unison in the direction of her house.”

Grandma flinched. “Don’t talk about it, you'll give him nightmares.”

            “They never found her.”

            “It’s time for bed,” said Grandma, “go and brush your teeth. I’ll come read you a story when you’re done.”

I didn’t argue. I went and gave my teeth a quick brush and rinse. Grandma came and read a passage from Danny the Champion of the World. I was happy until I was left alone. The pale blue light outside was bright enough to see, but it was growing darker every minute. My mind went straight to the witch.

I saw her sitting in a candle lit kitchen. I couldn’t look at her but I felt her eyes and her evil smiling face. Something bubbled on the stove. A pot filled with bones. Were they the bones of the boy that disappeared? Would I be next? Would she come for me? I imagined her peering out of her ruined house. I saw her wandering along the farm track at the bottom of the hill dressed in black. She started walking up the hill until she got to the drive. There she waited before she came up the garden path. She was outside. I couldn’t look at her face. Her eyes were black as coal shining in the last of the twilight. She waited for the darkness. I could hear her breathing. The door was locked, the window was open a crack to let the cool in. The lace moved with the breeze. She was out there down the side of the house. She was waiting for me, waiting for everyone to fall asleep. One by one my family went to bed. The light in the hall went out. This was it. The leaves were rustling. I saw her muddy hand slide onto the window frame. She pushed up the window and called to me.

I saw her hideous dirt-wild face and I couldn’t scream. She called to me. I got out of bed. I went to her. She grabbed my arm and I screamed. My Dad burst in as I was being pulled through the window. He grabbed hold of my ankles and pulled me back in. The witch was strong. Her muddy hands bound onto my wrists like ivy. I was being pulled back and forth inside and outside. I was stretched and screaming.

            “He’s mine,” said the witch.

            “He’s mine,” said my Dad, fighting to pull me back inside. The noise woke my grandparents.

            “We’re calling the police.”

            “Get your hands off my son.”

            “He’s mine,” said the witch.

The sight of my grandparents scared her and she let go. I came back into the bedroom. My wrists were red and cut from her binding fingers. My dad held me. I felt him shaking with rage. Grandma made some coco and we waited for the police to arrive.

 

TWO

            “You said your mother pulled you through the window?” said the ward therapist. He double checked his notes and pushed his glasses back.

            “Did I? I meant the witch. The witch pulled me out. But I think I meant to say my mother.”

            “There was no witch?”

            “No the witch was just what my father used to call my mother.”

            “And that night your mother came to the house.”

            “Yes.”

            “She came to the window.”

            “Yes.”

            “She beckoned you to leave through the window.”

            “Yes. She was supposed to have picked me up at six. But my father was late back and he told her I would stay with him. He told her. But it was never agreed.”

            “She turned up and tried to get you to leave through the window?”

            “She did, and I was half way out when my father saw. He grabbed hold of my legs and tried to pull me back inside. My mother had my arms she would not let go either. I jerked back and forth as they tried to win the fight. My father won. He pulled me back inside. And then he bit his own lips on purpose.”

            “He bit his lips?”

            “He was getting ready for the police. When the police arrived he told them my mother hit him.”

            “He lied to the police to paint your mother as the violent one.”

            “He lied because he was a coward. I didn’t want to stay with him that night. And I didn’t want to go back to my mother. Neither of them seemed like a safe option. The witch won in the end.”

            “You ended up with your mother?”

            “Mum got full custody. That suited my father. She took me cross country to get away from him. And he gave up on being a father after that. Everything he did after that was more of a gesture than an actual act of fatherly time.”

            “Do you resent him?”

            “I did. I don’t anymore. I used to blame him for his failures. That was a waste of energy. He was worse than useless. I am glad I have nothing to do with him now. I don’t blame him for failing me. I am angrier that my grandparents tried to convince me that he did his best. They have never acknowledged his failures.”

            “What of the witch? Not your mother; the witch that haunts your nightmares.”

            “She is always there, waiting in the darkness, peering out of the trees. I don’t fear her anymore. I am reassured. She watches over me. She checks in on me whenever I feel the childhood mistrust of the dark.”

            “Do you believe it to be a real witch or a figment of your imagination?”

            “The witch is real. She’s peering in on us from the trees over there. She likes the shadows.”

            “I think we are nearly out of time. We will pick up this next week when I do my rounds. Are the meds helping?”

            “No.”

            “I’ll get the nurse to up the dose. How are you finding life in the hospital?”

            “It’s okay. When can I leave?”

            “We want to keep you in for a few months of observation. Try and relax. I’ll see you next week.”

            “Goodbye. Don’t worry about the witch; she has no interest in you. She watches over me.”