**Diary Entry**
Once, in a crumbling cottage at the edge of the village, a young woman named Mary moved in. The locals never took kindly to outsiders. They grew restless, even called the constable. He came, checked her papers, and assured them she was a distant cousin of old Granny Ethel, who’d passed years ago at ninety-six. “Never knew Granny Ethel to have any kin, not even children,” the villagers muttered.
Mary kept to herself, tending a patch of overgrown soil in midsummer—madness, they said. Yet, soon enough, green shoots sprouted, unnaturally lush. “Witchcraft,” they whispered, and the name stuck. She never spoke of her past, so tongues wagged. Some claimed she’d fled London with stolen jewels from a wealthy lover.
Then young Tommy Baker choked on a toy part. The nearest hospital was miles off, and no cars were about. His mother, desperate, ran to Mary. The witch yanked the boy upside down, thumped his back, and out it flew. After that, they respected her—but feared her too.
Except for Nicholas. His mother wailed, “Plenty of young lasses, and he’s trailing after that witch!” She’d stand outside Mary’s door, shrieking curses, till Nicholas led her home—only to return. They wed despite the gossip. Mary bore him two daughters: Rose, then Lily.
Time passed. One stormy night, the roof leaked. Nicholas climbed up to fix it, slipped on the way down, and broke his spine. The doctor said he’d never walk again. Some called it divine punishment for Mary’s spells. But she cared for him tenderly, even as whispers claimed her magic was healing him.
He sat carving wooden animals, weaving baskets, while the men seethed—jealous of a man so loved. Then one day, his knife slipped. Mary was gardening. He tried to stand, fumbled, and fell—straight onto the scythe she’d left leaning nearby.
Mary mourned terribly. The girls barely pulled her from his coffin.
Left widowed, she scraped by, never begging. Rose trained as a hairdresser in Manchester, returned weekends with clients paying in eggs and bread. Men offered repairs—hoping for more. Mary fed them, poured whiskey, but sent them off.
Then the jealous wives came, demanding her youth secrets—or they’d burn the cottage. They swore Mary emerged grey-haired, shriveled overnight. They fled, crossing themselves.
Illness took her next. Lily, now a wild beauty, clashed with her. One night, she stormed off to the pub. Neighbor Martha heard shouts, then a thud. By dawn, Mary was dead—a fall, the constable ruled.
Rose buried her. Lily vanished with earrings that “could blind a man.” The house rotted, picked apart by treasure hunters.
Years later, Lily returned with a boy. The cottage burned that night, revealing melted gold in the ashes. Her lover accused her: “You killed your mother for these.” She fled with his savings.
Rose came once, saw the ruins. Martha, bent double now, rasped, “Your sister stole, lied… paid for it.” Rumor said Lily was murdered selling the jewels, her boy left to Rose.
No one ever learned Mary’s secrets. Gold and diamonds—tougher than lives. Nicholas crippled, then dead. Lily damned. Only Rose stayed clean.
**Lesson learned**: Ill-gotten treasure breaks more than it glitters.
