hair like spun gold and skin like porcelain, radiating innocence. She glided up the winding staircase without her feet touching the wood and floated along the corridor into the room with the set of mirrors. I followed her, for the first time without any apprehension or fear. This was Genevieve, uncorrupted and pure. She beckoned me to sit next to her and reached out her hand to hold mine. Our fingers threaded together. But something wasn’t quite right: her tiny, perfectly round pink nails were stinging my palm and I tried to loosen my grip, but I couldn’t and the pain was growing steadily worse. I looked down and her nails were now curled yellow claws boring into my hand, droplets of scarlet blood staining the floor. She wouldn’t let go; she’d never let go. I didn’t want to lift my head, but I had to look into the mirror, and Genevieve’s reflection was that of a wizened old crone with a hooked nose, black teeth and gimlet eyes. She was mocking me, rocking backwards and forwards, herlaugh high-pitched and hysterical. I woke with a violent shudder.
Once the horrors of the dream fell away, my first thought was that I had to see Nat. It couldn’t wait until college tomorrow. I had to look her in the eye and see if she still believed me now she’d had time to think things over. It might prove painful, but it was something that had to be done for my own sanity. I pulled back the duvet and pointed my toes, searching for my slippers, aware how cold the floorboards suddenly felt. I made a gap in the curtains and noticed small pools of condensation on the window ledges. It seemed like ages since this had happened. In winter it was so cold in my bedroom that my breath was sometimes visible, and once there was actually a layer of ice on the inside of the glass. I pulled my thin robe tight around myself, wondering if it was time to dig out my favourite woolly striped dressing gown and thick pyjamas.
It was only 8 a.m., too early to call Nat, and I felt twitchy thinking about the hours ahead and how I could fill them before finding out whether I had any friends left. My previous insecurity seemed to be returning. Before Nat and Hannah, I was always fearful that girls didn’t really want to be my friend and I tried much too hard to be liked. It felt the same now, as though I had to prove myself all over again. I padded down to the kitchen and noticed there were only a couple of spoonfuls of coffee left in the jar, so I made myself a weak cup, waiting for Mum to wake. The kitchen was north facing and never received any light until lateafternoon, which made it particularly depressing. I went and sat in the dining room, which had French windows on to the garden, and drank my coffee, deep in thought. My phone beeped and my heart jumped, hoping it might be Nat, but it was only Luke. He must have noticed that my curtains were open.
Don’t bother searching for the witch of Lower Croxton. I already have and there’s nothing on the Net, not even the hint of an urban legend. Told you that old lady was a fruitcake ha ha X
Luke could be such an unbelievable know-it-all. I was annoyed that even without being aware of all that had happened he had correctly anticipated that I would be fixated by the old lady’s words. I sat for a few minutes longer, now consumed by a sinking feeling that the day was going to drag. Merlin was busy with last-minute coursework and Mum was still sleeping so I retreated back upstairs and turned on my computer. Luke thought that he was the only person who was able to do any research and I had the strongest urge to prove him wrong. You didn’t have to be a journalist, I told myself with stubborn optimism.
It seemed sensible to dive right in, and my fingers began to type as if they had a life of their own. ‘Witch of Lower Croxton’ produced nothing specific, as I’d already been warned, so I broadened my search to ‘Witches’, which was short and to the point. Thousands of websites for modern-day
Once the horrors of the dream fell away, my first thought was that I had to see Nat. It couldn’t wait until college tomorrow. I had to look her in the eye and see if she still believed me now she’d had time to think things over. It might prove painful, but it was something that had to be done for my own sanity. I pulled back the duvet and pointed my toes, searching for my slippers, aware how cold the floorboards suddenly felt. I made a gap in the curtains and noticed small pools of condensation on the window ledges. It seemed like ages since this had happened. In winter it was so cold in my bedroom that my breath was sometimes visible, and once there was actually a layer of ice on the inside of the glass. I pulled my thin robe tight around myself, wondering if it was time to dig out my favourite woolly striped dressing gown and thick pyjamas.
It was only 8 a.m., too early to call Nat, and I felt twitchy thinking about the hours ahead and how I could fill them before finding out whether I had any friends left. My previous insecurity seemed to be returning. Before Nat and Hannah, I was always fearful that girls didn’t really want to be my friend and I tried much too hard to be liked. It felt the same now, as though I had to prove myself all over again. I padded down to the kitchen and noticed there were only a couple of spoonfuls of coffee left in the jar, so I made myself a weak cup, waiting for Mum to wake. The kitchen was north facing and never received any light until lateafternoon, which made it particularly depressing. I went and sat in the dining room, which had French windows on to the garden, and drank my coffee, deep in thought. My phone beeped and my heart jumped, hoping it might be Nat, but it was only Luke. He must have noticed that my curtains were open.
Don’t bother searching for the witch of Lower Croxton. I already have and there’s nothing on the Net, not even the hint of an urban legend. Told you that old lady was a fruitcake ha ha X
Luke could be such an unbelievable know-it-all. I was annoyed that even without being aware of all that had happened he had correctly anticipated that I would be fixated by the old lady’s words. I sat for a few minutes longer, now consumed by a sinking feeling that the day was going to drag. Merlin was busy with last-minute coursework and Mum was still sleeping so I retreated back upstairs and turned on my computer. Luke thought that he was the only person who was able to do any research and I had the strongest urge to prove him wrong. You didn’t have to be a journalist, I told myself with stubborn optimism.
It seemed sensible to dive right in, and my fingers began to type as if they had a life of their own. ‘Witch of Lower Croxton’ produced nothing specific, as I’d already been warned, so I broadened my search to ‘Witches’, which was short and to the point. Thousands of websites for modern-day
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