What exactly the witch wanted, Gemma didn’t know. She had seen her twice. The first time was when she went upstairs one evening to fetch a book. In the middle of a pause of silence from the blaring TV downstairs, she thought she heard a whispering coming from her brother’s room.
Gabe was too young to be whispering, and she didn’t recognise any of the words as being his. Carefully, silently, she pushed the door open. And there was the witch, her feet balanced on the edge of the crib, her left hand against the wall, her right clinging to the window frame. The dark, ugly figure was whispering something that was hard to make out, even though Gemma strained her ears.
. . Is it Charles, or Curtis, or Clive?
Cedric, or Colin, or Cal?
Is it Casper, or Calvin, or Carl?
Christopher, Connor, or Clem?
Is it Christian, or Cain, or Claude. .?
“What are you doing?” Gemma asked.
At the sound of her voice the witch became startled. She ruffled and flapped her cloak as if it were two wide wings and flew instantly out of the open window, as quick and graceful as a leaf on the wind. Her black, swirling form could be seen against the streetlights, and then was gone-just another shadow in the night.
Gemma stood for a couple seconds, blinking. She had seen what she had seen, therefore she believed. Witches were real. She went into the room and closed the window, latching it firmly.
Gabriel seemed to be fine. He was awake, and while the witch spoke to him, he appeared to listen intently. But it was a long time before he went to sleep, and he woke up early Wednesday morning-along with the rest of the house-and the whole day he was fussy and agitated.
From that night on, Gemma was certain to check the room after her parents had put Gabe down and while they were still downstairs watching TV. She would open it a crack, stand for a time to listen in silence, and then go inside and check the windows. For an entire week, she heard nothing, but the next Thursday, as she was standing just outside, listening, she heard a rattling in the room, and then a click, and the sound of the window opening. She stood a little closer to the door, in order to hear what the witch was saying.
Would you come away with me, darling?
Leave your mummy and daddy at home.
Fly away with me, little darling,
If I call out to you, will you come?
Would you ride away with me, dumpling,
Leave all else behind and be free?
If I knew what your name is, my sweet one,
I would call you and you’d come to me.
Is it David or Dexter, or Dennis?
Damien, Douglas, or Del?
Is it Darryl, or Darren, or Darrick?
Dashiell, Dustin, or Don?
Is it Duncan, or Dylan, or Dideron?
Dudley, or Dixon, or Dan. .?
“Stop that,” Gemma said, entering the room.
Once more, the witch wheeled up, flew out the window, and was gone. But this time, Gemma saw an angry red eye glowering at her amidst the black cloth.
Gemma went to the window and shut it. Something had to be done.
The next day Gemma went to the school library. She spent a little time online but found a lot of things that were confusing, and more that were contradictory. She signed off and went to look for a book on witches.
There were not many to choose from-three, in fact. She flicked through them all and decided to check the oldest one out. Back at home, she read it cover to cover. Then she picked up the volume of Grimm’s Fairy Tales that her uncle had given her.
A plan started to form. All of the myths and legends, if you looked at them from the right angle, lined up, and it was easy to find your way through them after that. Tomorrow would be Saturday. She would have to go to the shops to get some materials, but the plan should work. It should work.
The next Thursday night Gemma slipped into Gabriel’s room just as it was still light outside. It was just before Gabe’s bedtime. Preparations only took a couple minutes. She retreated to her room and waited, reading one of her books.
She heard her mother carry Gabe up and put him in the crib. She heard the door close and then footsteps down the stairs. Gemma rose quietly and went to her little brother’s door.
She had only been standing there maybe five or ten minutes when she heard the scratching at the window. Holding her breath, Gemma heard the catch click and the window swing open.
She tried to picture the scene in her head: the window hanging open, the witch perching on the window sill, spotting her brother, then what would she do? Climb over? Leap across?
There was a shrill scream from inside the room, and Gemma flung the door open. All she caught was a flicker of black fabric outside the window.
“What’s going on up there?” Gemma heard her dad call up.
“Sorry, Dad. I thought I saw a bat.”
“Well, did you?”
“No, it was just a moth.”
Her dad muttered something and then said, “Go to sleep, Gemma. Get ready for bed.”
“Okay.”
Gemma went into Gabe’s room; he was fine, just a little bemused. She was surprised that he wasn’t crying, but, she reminded herself, he was special. She smiled at him and he smiled back, showing all eight of his teeth. She closed the window and then went to the top of his crib. Along the rungs, so the tips were only just exposed, were the clusters of brass pins that she had taped where she had seen the witch’s feet perch. Six of them were tipped with blood; not a lot, just a few pearls on each.
From her pocket, Gemma pulled a small glass bottle with a cork in it that she had bought at the supermarket. She’d tipped the contents-cloves-into the garden, so that it was empty. She had bought it especially because of the size and the cork. She didn’t know if the cork was important, but she didn’t intend to take chances.
She also took out a pair of tweezers and, uncorking the bottle, removed the bloodied pins from the tape and put them in the bottle. Then she corked it, removed the tape and the unbloodied pins from the crib, gave her little brother a pat, and left the room.
The next week she did the same routine, only the preparations were a little more difficult. She had already done the hardest part-pounding nails into the ceiling-before her parents had come home, but now she had to stand up on the changing table to reach up to them in complete silence. Plus, she had to do this after Gabe had been put down, since this time her trap would certainly be noticed.
She managed it, however, and withdrew just as it grew dark enough outside for the streetlamps to come on.
She stood in position just outside the door and didn’t have long to wait before she heard the creepy scratching and picking sound once more. The window unlatched, swung open, and there was a pause of about three seconds before she heard flapping and grunting.
Opening the door, she caught sight of the witch, her hair entangled in half a dozen strips of flypaper that she had hung from the ceiling. Seeing Gemma, the witch fell backward, out of the window, pulling several of the flypaper strips with her.
But three still remained.
Her parents didn’t seem to have heard anything, so climbing up on the changing table, she very carefully brought down the strips and carried them into her room. She would have to remove the nails later, she thought. Or maybe not. The strands of hair that she removed, she put in the bottle, along with the bloodied pins.
The next week was the last and the easiest stage of the plan. It was also the riskiest, and the most frightening, and Gemma had no clear idea of what would happen next. It was also the last chance she would have, since the witch was now up to the letter G in her name-calling rhyme.