One evening, in a derelict cottage at the edge of a quiet English village, a young woman took up residence. The villagers, wary of outsiders, grew restless and reported her to the local constable. He arrived, checked her papers, and assured everyone she was a distant relative of old Granny Mabel, who had passed years ago at ninety-six. “Granny Mabel never had kin, not even children!” they muttered in disbelief.
The woman settled in. She tilled the neglected garden and sowed seeds in midsummer, drawing laughter—who planted crops so late? Yet soon, lush green shoots sprouted. “No earthly hand grew that,” the villagers whispered, dubbing her the Witch of Willowbrook.
She kept to herself, revealing nothing, and solitude bred curiosity, then rumors—that she’d fled London after a doomed affair, stealing her wealthy lover’s jewels.
Then one evening, young Tommy Higgins turned blue, choking on a toy part. The doctor was miles away, and no cars were to be found. In desperation, his mother ran to Mary the Witch. Mary flipped the boy upside down, thumped his back, and out popped the trinket.
Respect mingled with fear after that. Still, young Thomas Archer fell for her. His mother wailed, “Plenty of girls his age, yet he trails after that woman!” She’d stand shrieking outside Mary’s cottage—accusing her of bewitching him with potions—until Thomas led her home, only to return.
The lovers ignored the gossip. A year later, Mary bore a daughter, Lily, then three years after, little Rose. The village lost interest, busy with their own troubles.
One stormy night, the roof leaked, and Thomas climbed to mend it. On his way down, he slipped, fell, and broke his spine. Mary fetched the county doctor, who ordered him rushed to hospital. She arranged transport, then returned to her girls.
A month later, a car delivered Thomas in a wheelchair—paralysed. Some muttered it was Mary’s punishment for ensnaring him.
Yet she doted on him, wheeling him onto the porch, bending close as he carved wooden animals for the children or wove baskets. The men envied him—useless as he was, his woman adored him.
Love works miracles. Slowly, Thomas tried standing. One afternoon, his knife clattered down the steps. Mary was gardening; he resolved to fetch it himself. He rose—then tumbled, striking a scythe left leaning by the porch. The blade pierced his neck.
Mary grieved so terribly, folks feared she’d perish too. The girls barely pulled her from his coffin.
Alone now—no widow’s pension, no income from Thomas’s crafts—yet they never begged. Whispers resumed: she sold stolen jewels.
When Lily left for London, she trained as a hairdresser, returning weekends to trim villagers’ hair for eggs or bread.
A woman alone struggled. Men fixed her fence or patched the roof, hoping for affection. Mary fed them, poured ale, but barred her door at night.
One day, envious wives demanded her secrets—how she stayed young, where she hid the diamonds—threatening to burn her cottage.
They swore Mary emerged then, grey-haired and withered. Terrified, they fled. Witchcraft, they hissed.
Grief aged Mary fast. She sickened, rarely leaving the garden. Rose ran errands.
Rose, bold and lovely, cared more for dances than exams. One evening, Mary forbade her going; their shouts rattled windows. Neighbours saw Rose bolt like a shot hare toward the pub.
That night, old Martha next door woke to frantic knocking. Rose stood weeping, pointing home. Inside, Mary lay dead by the hearth, blood crusted on her temple.
The constable came at dawn. Rose claimed she’d shoved Mary in anger, then fled—but swore her mother lived as she left. Martha confirmed it, vaguely. The death was ruled misadventure.
Lily returned, arranged the funeral, fed the village. The sisters never spoke. Rose vanished that night.
Martha swore Rose wore earrings that night—blinding bright. “Never seen their like.”
Gossip flared: Mary had diamonds; Rose stole them, fled to avoid sharing. Perhaps Mary died reclaiming them.
Lily silenced no one. She visited awhile, tending the garden, then disappeared.
The cottage rotted further. Teens smashed windows, hunting treasure.
Seven years passed.
Martha, now bent double, hobbled past the ruin one day and froze—a young woman sat on the porch, a boy swatting nettles nearby.
Not Lily—too gaudy, too red-haired. “Rose? You’re back?”
Rose embraced her. “Can’t get in. Could Uncle Jim break the lock?”
Soon, Jim pried it open, revealing a ransacked interior—slashed pillows, shattered crockery. He boarded the window. “Clean up, then come eat.”
Over supper, Rose confessed: factory work, a hostel, a man who left when she bore Tommy. Then a thief who landed in prison, his mother evicting her. “I’ll stay awhile, decide what’s next.”
“Your mother thrived here. So will you,” said Martha, giving potatoes, bread, pickles.
That night, Rose hammered on Martha’s door, Tommy trembling beside her. “Something walked the house—whispering! Tom’s terrified. Mum’s ghost hates me!”
“Guilt haunts you,” Martha snapped. “You wronged her.” Rose looked away.
“Stay with me,” Martha offered.
But Rose moved in with widower Bill White—his kids gone, his farm needing a woman. She sold milk at double price to summering city folk. Tommy grew sturdy, racing village boys.
Two months later, Mary’s cottage blazed at night. No one saved it; they hosed Martha’s roof instead. By dawn, only the chimney stood.
Kids poked the ashes next day. Rose warned, “Hot bricks’ll burn you.”
Tommy scampered up, clutching a sooty lump. Bill rubbed it—gold gleamed amid melted diamonds.
Rose snatched it. “Mine!”
“Truth, then,” Bill said coldly. “You killed for these. Lily helped you, and now your mum’s burned her own house to stop you.”
That night, Rose fled with Tommy and Bill’s savings.
Years later, Lily returned with her husband, staring at the overgrown ruin. Even the chimney bricks were gone—searchers after jewels.
Martha, near-blind now, hobbled over, recounting the fire, the diamonds, Rose’s flight. “Some say she killed Mary over those earrings.”
“Gossip,” Lily muttered. They left, unseen again.
Whispers claimed Rose was murdered selling the jewels; Tommy went to an orphanage until Lily took him—childless herself. Perhaps seen in London.
True or not, gossip never sprouts without seed. Mary’s secret—why she hid, whence came the jewels—died with her.
Diamonds endure, they say, while lives shatter against them. Thomas first crippled, then slain. Rose killing her mother, then herself undone. Only Lily, untouched by their curse, walked free.
