In a forgotten cottage at the edge of a sleepy Yorkshire village, a young woman appeared one evening as if conjured from the mist. The villagers distrusted outsiders. Whispers spread like wildfire until Constable Thomson arrived, checked her papers, and declared her some distant kin of old Granny Hester, who had passed years ago at ninety-six. “Granny Hester never had kin, not even children,” the villagers muttered, eyeing the stranger.
The woman set to work, digging up the weed-choked garden in the height of summer. Folk laughed—who plants in midsummer? Yet soon, emerald tendrils sprouted unnaturally fast. “Witchcraft,” they hissed, and the name stuck.
She kept to herself, spoke little, and solitude bred rumours. Some said she’d fled London after a scandalous affair, laden with a wealthy lover’s jewels. Others swore she’d bargained with darker forces. Then young Tommy Wilkins turned blue, choking on a toy part. With the hospital miles away and no cars about, his mother ran to Mary the witch. Mary flipped the boy upside-down, thumped his back, and the toy piece shot free.
After that, respect mingled with fear. But Thomas Greenwood loved her. His mother wailed, “Plenty of lasses his age, and he’s besotted with that hag!” She’d stand outside Mary’s cottage, shrieking of potions and hexes, until Thomas led her home, only to return to Mary.
They lived quietly, ignoring the gossip. A year later, Mary bore a daughter, Lucy; three years after, another, Eliza. The village turned its gaze—too busy with their own troubles.
Then a storm broke the roof, and Thomas climbed to mend it. On his way down, he slipped, shattered his spine. Mary fetched the doctor from the nearest town, but he insisted Thomas be rushed to hospital. She arranged a ride, then returned to her girls.
A month later, a car delivered Thomas in a wheelchair. “A curse on Mary,” some muttered. Yet she nursed him tenderly, love undimmed. He whittled animals for the children, wove baskets. The men envied him—pampered by a woman who still danced around him.
Love works wonders. Thomas began to stand. One afternoon, his knife clattered down the steps. Mary was in the garden. He rose, swayed, then tumbled—straight onto the scythe left by the porch.
Mary mourned so fiercely, they feared she’d bury herself with him. The girls barely dragged her from the coffin.
Now alone, with no pension or Thomas’s basket earnings, she never begged. Whispers resumed: Mary sold stolen jewels.
Lucy left for London, trained as a hairdresser. On weekends, villagers brought their children for trims, paying in eggs and bread.
A lone woman’s life was hard. Men repaired her fence or patched the roof, hoping for favours. Mary fed them, poured whisky, but shut her door at night.
The jealous wives came demanding her secrets. “You’ve not aged a day! Share those diamonds, or we’ll burn you out!” They swore Mary emerged grey and withered in an instant. They fled, crossing themselves.
Grief stole Mary’s health. She rarely left the garden. Eliza ran errands—a bold, pretty thing with exams looming but dancing on her mind. One night, Mary forbade her from the hall. Their screams rattled the lane.
Neighbour Martha saw Eliza bolt like a shot hare. Hours later, pounding woke her—Eliza at the window, sobbing, “Mum… Mum’s—” Martha found Mary cold by the hearth, blood dried on her temple.
The constable ruled it a fall. Eliza swore Mary had been alive when she fled. Martha couldn’t recall if the shouts came before or after. Lucy returned, held a funeral, served ale and pies. The sisters never spoke. That night, Eliza vanished.
Martha swore Eliza’s earrings sparkled “like nothing mortal.”
New rumours spread: Mary *had* hidden jewels. Eliza stole them, killed her to keep them. Lucy tried to hush the talk, but village tongues wagged. She visited, harvested the garden, then disappeared.
The cottage sagged. Boys smashed windows, hunting treasure.
Seven years later, Martha—bent like a willow—spotted a flame-haired woman on Mary’s bench, a boy whacking nettles.
“Eliza? Home at last?”
Eliza hugged her. “Can’t get in. Uncle Jack?”
Jack broke the lock. Inside lay slashed pillows, upturned drawers. He boarded the window, muttered, “Clean up, then come for supper.”
Over stew, Eliza confessed: factory work, a dodgy bloke, eviction. “I’ll stay a while, sort myself.”
“Good,” Martha nodded. “Your mum hid here once too.” She gave potatoes, bread, pickles.
That night, Eliza pounded Martha’s door, wild-eyed. “Someone walked the house—muttering! Nicky’s terrified!” (She’d named the boy after his father.)
“Ghosts don’t haunt bricks. Guilt does,” Martha said. Eliza looked away.
She moved in with Widower White, a dairy farmer. Sold milk to posh holidaymakers, turning profit.
Then Mary’s cottage blazed. By dawn, only the stove remained. Boys poked the ashes. Nicky tugged Eliza’s sleeve: “Look!”
A sooty lump, rubbed clean, spat gold and diamonds.
Eliza snatched it. “Mine.”
White’s gaze darkened. “So the tales were true. You killed for those?”
Eliza fled that night with Nicky and White’s savings.
Years later, Lucy returned with her husband. Only weeds and scattered bricks remained.
Martha, near-blind now, told of the fire, the jewels, Eliza’s flight. “Some say she’s dead—stabbed selling them. Others reckon Lucy took Nicky from the orphanage.”
“Just gossip,” Lucy said. They left, never seen again.
Gold won through sin brings no joy. Thomas crippled, then dead. Eliza killing, then killed. Only Lucy remained untouched.
And Mary’s secret? Why she hid? Where the jewels came from? That mystery died with her.
Diamonds, they say, are harder than lives. They broke every hand that held them.
