In a crumbling cottage at the edge of a quiet Yorkshire village, a young woman appeared one day.
Strangers weren’t welcome there. The villagers fussed, called the constable. He came, checked her papers, and assured them she was a distant cousin of old Mrs. Winthrop, who’d passed years ago at ninety-six. “Mrs. Winthrop never had kin, not even children,” folk muttered, suspicious.
But the woman stayed. She cleared a patch of the overgrown garden and planted seeds mid-summer. Folk laughed—who sowed crops in July? Yet soon, tender shoots sprouted, lush and impossibly fast. “Witchcraft,” they whispered, and the name stuck—Mary the Witch.
She kept to herself, spoke little, and solitude fueled rumours. Some said she’d fled London after a doomed love affair, stealing jewels from a wealthy lover. Others swore she’d made a pact with darker forces.
Then little Tommy Higgins choked on a toy part, turning blue. The village had no doctor nearby, no car to fetch one. In desperation, his mother ran to Mary’s door. The witch snatched the boy, turned him upside down, thumped his back—and out popped the trinket.
Respect mingled with fear after that. All but Nigel Hartley, who fell for her. His mother wailed, “Plenty of young lasses about, and he chases a woman past her prime!” She’d stand outside Mary’s cottage, shrieking of love potions and spells. Nigel would lead her home, then return to Mary.
They ignored the gossip. Within a year, Mary bore a daughter, Ruby. Three years later, another—Lily. Life settled until a storm tore through the village, and Nigel climbed to mend the leaking roof. As he descended, his foot slipped. He fell hard.
Mary fetched the doctor from the next town over. “Get him to hospital,” he urged. She arranged transport, saw Nigel off, then returned to her girls.
A month later, a car arrived, carrying Nigel in a wheelchair. His spine was shattered. “A curse,” folk muttered. “Punishment for her witchery.”
Mary wheeled him onto the porch each day, tending him with fierce devotion. Some claimed she healed him in secret, that he’d walk again.
He whittled wooden animals for the girls, wove baskets. The village men envied him—useless as he was, his wife doted on him.
Love works miracles. Slowly, Nigel tried to stand. One afternoon, his knife clattered down the porch steps. Mary was in the garden. He gripped the rail, hauled himself up—then toppled. A scythe leaned nearby, left after Mary’s work. In his fall, the blade found his throat.
Mary grieved wildly. At the funeral, her daughters had to drag her from the coffin.
Alone, with no pension, no income from Nigel’s crafts, she somehow scraped by. Whispered tales said she sold stolen jewels.
Ruby left for Manchester after school, trained as a hairdresser. On weekends, she returned, trimming villagers’ hair for eggs or bread.
A woman alone was prey. Men fixed her fence, patched her roof—hoping for more. Mary fed them, poured whisky, but never let them past her threshold.
Then the village wives came, demanding secrets. “You’ve not aged a day. Share your diamonds, or we’ll burn this house with you in it!”
They swore later Mary emerged, hair white, face ravaged—aged decades in moments. The women fled, crossing themselves.
Grief wore Mary down. She rarely left her garden. Lily fetched groceries.
But Lily was restless, pretty, dreaming of dance halls. One night, she sneaked out. Mary’s shouts echoed through the lane.
Mrs. Peabody, next door, saw Lily bolt like a startled hare. Hours later, frantic pounding woke her. Lily stood trembling, sobbing, “Mum—Mum’s—”
Mary lay cold by the hearth, a gash on her temple.
The constable came. Lily confessed—they’d fought, she’d shoved Mary, run. “She was alive when I left!”
Mrs. Peabody’s testimony was vague. The constable ruled it an accident.
Ruby arranged the funeral, fed the village, but never spoke to Lily. That night, Lily vanished.
Mrs. Peabody swore the girl’s earrings that night glittered unnaturally. “Never seen such stones…”
Whispers resurged—Mary *had* hidden diamonds. Lily stole them, then fled to avoid sharing. Perhaps Mary died trying to reclaim them.
Ruby visited sporadically, until she too disappeared.
Seven years passed.
Mrs. Peabody, bent like a willow, hobbled past Mary’s ruins one evening. A flash of colour caught her eye—a young woman on the fallen fence, a boy smashing nettles with a stick.
“Lily? You’ve come back?” The woman embraced her. Rouge bright, hair copper-wild—nothing like stern Ruby.
Lily spun tales of factory work, a thief lover, eviction. “I’ll stay awhile, decide what’s next.”
Mrs. Peabody gave her bread, potatoes, jam.
At midnight, frantic knocking. Lily stood shaking. “Someone walked the house—murmuring. Tommy’s terrified!”
“Guilt,” Mrs. Peabody snapped. “Your mum’s dead. You wronged her.”
Lily refused to return.
Widower Bill White took her in. She sold his milk at triple price to summer visitors, thriving.
Then Mary’s cottage burned. The blaze swallowed it whole.
Next morning, Tommy dashed to Bill, clutching a sooty lump. Rubbed clean, it glinted—gold and diamonds, fused by heat.
Lily snatched it. “Mine.”
Bill’s voice chilled. “So the tales were true. You killed for these. Stole from your sister. Your mum’s cursed them.”
Lily fled with Tommy and Bill’s savings that night.
Years later, Ruby returned with her husband, finding only ashes.
Mrs. Peabody, near-blind now, spilled the story—the fire, the jewels, Lily’s flight.
“All lies,” Ruby said softly. They left, never seen again.
Some said Lily was murdered trying to sell the gems. That Tommy landed in an orphanage, rescued by childless Ruby.
Truth? Who knew. But whispers linger. Mary’s secret—why she hid, where the gems came from—died with her.
Diamonds endure. But the lives they touch? Fragile as glass. Nigel crippled, then dead. Lily, a killer, then slain. Only Ruby walked away untouched.
