In an old house, near a little creek, next to an old forest, by a little town, once lived a witch.
She was not a wicked witch. She didn’t curse princesses or eat children. But she also didn’t care much for people and preferred to be left alone.
This witch wasn’t frightening to look at either. She didn’t have a crooked, warty nose or long, spidery fingers. And she was neither old nor young. Witches are a bit like oak trees in that respect. You can’t truly tell the age of a witch unless she is very young or very, very old. And they do live surprisingly long lives. Some might have been around since the beginning of the earth and still roam the lands and cast their magic. But our witch was not an ancient one. She was a simple, average-skilled, middle-aged witch.
She hadn’t always been a recluse, but, as many witches do, she had a secret, a dark one. When she was much younger, she fell in love with a man. Back in those days, she was still living in the little town and had made a name for herself as a healer. One rainy autumn evening, a young man knocked on her door, in need of a unique remedy. He was tall and handsome, of course. His wet black hair fell into his face, emphasising his steel-blue eyes. Our witch fell in love with him instantly. And he knew. It never occurred to her that there might be something not quite proper about this man, charming as he was. He looked into her face longingly, sweet desperation in his voice. He told her that he was on the run from people who wanted him harm. It was all a mistake, bad luck, wrong place, wrong time. He was innocent, he swore. But he was at his wits’ end now, too, and needed a potion to change his appearance. She was his only hope, he begged, gripping her hands to his heart. Changing those beautiful features- what a travesty- the witch swooned. He sensed an even better opportunity. He felt tired now and asked if he could kindly stay and rest for a night to recover from the ordeals. Of course. The witch prepared her guest bed, reluctantly; she’d rather have him in her own. But she was a modest witch after all. She was glad he would stay with her. She had been feeling rather lonely for a while. She would hide him until the end of time if she could. So she prepared him a hearty meal, and he moved in.
Over the following weeks, he showed a keen interest in her and also her craft. She began teaching him the basics of healing and then the not-so-basics of witchery. He was clever, a fast learner, and he knew to ask the right questions at the right time whilst not leading her on. She was happy; she was in love. She told him all her secrets, showed him her most precious books and trinkets. They danced, they laughed until she woke up one morning and he was gone. So were her books and many of her magical objects. At first, she was in disbelief. Something must have happened. He was kidnapped. They finally found him. Or did he leave? Was it her? Did she scare him away? She wasn’t the prettiest of all witches, but she truly believed he loved her, at least a little. He had said so the previous night when they were drinking wine in front of the fire. And how did she not notice him leaving? Searching around her house, she realised that it must have been quite the riot to pack everything up. Then she noticed the wine again. She looked at the two glasses still standing by the fireplace. She held hers for a moment, smelling it, holding it to the light. There it was, a trickle of black. He had poisoned her. It was a killing potion. Witches don’t react the same as mortals to potions, so it had put her into a deep sleep. She had been conned by a thief. The glass in her hand broke. She went mad.
For years, she tried to find him, hunt down the man who stole her belongings and her heart. She summoned and cursed him any way she could think of, to no avail. He was now well-versed in the arts and well-equipped, thanks to her.
Eventually, she gave up. But having learned her lesson, she created a spell to protect herself from any man ever coming into her life.
But sometimes, when a witch’s heart is broken, darkness takes residence in her chest and a special kind of curse forms secretly in her soul. Her protection spell turned and grew, until any man who knocked at her door dropped dead, right there on her doormat.
At first, she didn’t make the connection, but the townsfolk caught on to it rather quickly. Since she was still a healer, although she had lost her edge, folks would still visit her, and wives would sometimes send their men. And them dropping dead like flies wasn’t good for her reputation. People were scared and angry. Threats and insults grew while her client base shrank. When the pitchforks and torches came out, the witch fled.
Far away and well hidden, she had built herself a little house, well fenced in with plenty of signs and spells warding people off. Still, every once in a while, some brave adventurer, wounded hunter, or lost prince would ignore the warnings and knock on her door.
And so it was that one fine summer’s day, three knocks were left at her door, followed by a heavy thud.