Once upon a time, in a derelict cottage at the edge of a quiet English village, a young woman took up residence. The villagers, distrustful of outsiders, grew uneasy. They reported her to the local constable, who checked her papers and assured everyone she was a distant relative of old Granny Winifred, who had passed away years ago at the ripe age of ninety-six. “Granny Winnie never had kin, not even children,” the villagers muttered in disbelief.
The woman began settling in. She cleared patches of the overgrown garden and planted something. The neighbours scoffed—who plants a garden in mid-summer? Yet soon, lush greenery sprouted. “Must be witchcraft,” they whispered, and so she became known as Mary the Witch.
She kept to herself, never speaking of her past, and solitude bred curiosity. Rumours spread—perhaps she’d fled London after a doomed affair, stealing jewels from a wealthy lover. That’s why she’d hidden in this forgotten village.
One day, a child turned blue, choking on a toy part. With the hospital miles away and no car to be found, the frantic mother ran to Mary. The witch snatched the boy, turned him upside down, thumped his back—and out popped the blockage.
Respect for Mary grew, though so did fear. But Thomas, a local lad, fell for her. His mother wailed, “Plenty of young girls about, and he’s smitten with an older woman!” She’d stand outside Mary’s cottage, screeching that her son had been bewitched, but Thomas always led her home, then returned to Mary.
The couple lived on, ignoring gossip. A year later, Mary bore a daughter, Rose. Three years after, another, Lily. The villagers eventually left them be—too busy with their own troubles.
One stormy night, their roof leaked. Thomas climbed to fix it but slipped on the way down, shattering his spine. Mary fetched the doctor from the nearest town, who insisted Thomas be rushed to hospital. She arranged transport, stayed with him, then returned to the children.
A month later, a car pulled up. Thomas was wheeled out—paralysed. Some muttered it was Mary’s punishment for ensnaring him.
She cared for him devotedly, never leaving his side. They whispered she was healing him, that soon he’d walk again.
He sat on the porch, whittling wooden animals for the children, weaving baskets. The men envied him—useless, they thought, yet doted on by his woman.
Love works miracles. Slowly, Thomas tried standing. One day, his knife tumbled down the steps while Mary gardened. He attempted to retrieve it, steadied himself—then fell. A scythe, left by the porch, pierced his neck.
Mary grieved deeply. She nearly followed him into the grave, but the girls pulled her from the coffin.
Alone now, with no pension or Thomas’s handicrafts to sell, she somehow scraped by. Some said she pawned stolen gems.
Rose left for London after school, trained as a hairdresser. On weekends, she returned—villagers brought their children for cuts, paying in food.
A woman alone in the country was vulnerable. Men helped mend her fence or roof, hoping for affection. Mary fed them, poured them ale, but sent none to her bed.
Jealous wives once demanded she share her youth secrets—how she’d stayed unchanged. “Hand over those diamonds, or we’ll burn your house down!”
They swore later that Mary emerged—grey-haired, withered. The women fled. Witchcraft, surely.
Loss aged Mary. Illness came often. She seldom left the garden; Lily fetched supplies.
Lily grew bold and pretty. On prom night, Mary forbade her from dancing. Their shouts echoed.
Agnes, a gossipy neighbour, saw Lily bolt like a shot. That night, frantic knocking woke her. Lily stood sobbing, “Mum… Mum’s—”
Mary lay cold by the hearth, blood dried on her temple.
Agnes fetched her husband. They laid Mary on the bed, took Lily home—she refused to stay with the corpse. The constable came. Lily swore she’d shoved her mother in anger but left her alive. Agnes couldn’t recall if Mary’s shouts came before or after. The constable ruled it an accident—no need to ruin Lily’s life.
Rose returned for the funeral, hosted the wake. The sisters never spoke. Lily vanished that night.
Agnes claimed Lily’s earrings gleamed unnaturally—”Never seen the like!”
New rumours spread: Mary had diamonds. Lily stole them, killed her mother to keep them. Maybe Rose knew.
Rose tried silencing gossips, but village tongues wagged. She visited briefly, tended the garden, then disappeared too.
The cottage slumped further. Kids smashed windows, hunting treasure.
Seven years passed. Agnes, now bent double, hobbled past the ruin—then spotted a woman on the bench, a boy whacking nettles.
“Lily? Back home? This your lad?”
Lily flung her arms around Agnes, spun tales of city hardship—a factory job, a runaway lover, thrown out pregnant. A thief’s mistress, then evicted. Now she’d returned.
Agnes gave her potatoes, bread, pickled onions.
That night, frantic knocks—Lily and the boy, terrified. “Someone walked inside—muttering. Colin heard it!” (She’d named him after his father.)
“Nonsense. Your guilt’s haunting you,” Agnes said sharply.
Lily refused to sleep there again. Widower White, a cowkeeper, took her in. She sold milk at outrageous prices to city folk.
Two months later, the cottage blazed. The village watched it crumble.
Next day, kids poked the ashes. Colin proudly showed a sooty lump—gold and diamonds, melted together.
Lily snatched it. “Mine.”
White glared. “So the tales were true. You killed your mum for these. Stole from your sister. Now Mary’s burned it all to spite you.”
That night, Lily fled with the boy and White’s savings.
Years later, Rose returned with her husband, finding only weeds and scattered bricks. Agnes, near-blind, recounted the fire, the jewels, Lily’s flight.
“All lies,” Rose muttered. They left, never seen again.
Gold ill-gotten brings no good. Some say Lily was murdered trying to sell the gems. That Colin ended up in care, taken in by Rose—childless herself. Others swear they saw her in London.
True or not, whispers never rise from nothing. Mary’s secrets—why she hid, where the jewels came from—died with her.
Diamonds, they say, are so hard they shatter fragile lives. Thomas was crippled, then killed. Lily murdered her mother for them, then perished too. Only Rose, pure-hearted, remained untouched.
