Page 50 of You'll Be Sorry

“I’ll tell you a secret,” I announced.

Four pairs of eyes locking into focus.

“I’m not a witch, for there are no more witches in Shereford.”

The oldest, already opening his mouth to argue. I held up a finger.

“Once!” I interrupted. “Once there was a witch. She arrived in the dead of winter, no cloak, no shoes, and yet walking unencumbered straight into the heart of the town. The villagers took her in, as good people do. They offered her food and shelter, a heavy coat, and warm boots. And do you know what she did?”

The kids regarded me wide-eyed.

I paused. Dramatic effect for them. A whisper of rage for me.

Epigenetics.

Don’t forget.

Epigenetics.

“She aided in childbirth. Ministered to the sick. Comforted the dying. She revealed herself to be an angel of the highest order. Except, of course, there’s no proving such a thing.”

“I don’t understand,” the oldest, Henry, asked in confusion. “She wasn’t a witch?”

“On the contrary. She was the most powerful kind of witch. An agent of change. Oh, no, such a creature could not possibly be allowed to survive.”

“Did she have a brewing cauldron?” the littlest one wanted to know. “Or a black cat, or magic broom?”

I smiled down at him, then sang softly:

“‘Ding dong bell, the witch is in the well. Red witch, blue witch, black or white. One for love, one for fright. One will dance all night long. One will see you dead and gone.’”

The children, totally mesmerized. I continued:

“‘Ding dong bell, the witch is in the well. Night’s a-comin’, she draws near. Wind’s a-howling…Which one’s HERE!’”

At the sudden explosion in my voice, they all stumbled back. Even the oldest was panting.

“Well?” I demanded to know. “Well?”

“Well what?” the older girl cried out.

“Exactly! You should know. Especially before going on a witch hunt.” I had to smirk at the irony. “Which one’s here?”

They weren’t happy anymore. Their grand adventure had become a little too real and frightening. Life is like that.

Lovey withdrew at the change in my tone. Her new friend had already retreated, clutching his older sister’s hand.

“Ask your father,” I instructed.

“What?” All four kids, blinking in surprise.

“Ask your father. For it was the Dixon family who took in the witch, offered her lodging. And it was your family that later…

“Tell him there are those of us who still remember. Who feel her moans in the rumble of the earth, hear her screams in the shriek of the wind, and taste her tears in the ripples of the river. The past isn’t a memory; it’s a legacy. Your legacy. Meaning all of you should be able to answer the question.”

“Wh-wh-what question?”

“‘Ding dong bell. Which witch is in the well?’” Then, because I just couldn’t help myself, I leaned forward and murmured: “Boo!”