The Witch at the Top of the Hill

TW: abuse, stalking

The farmhouse on the hill was a lonely place. It had once been a bustling farm. Many years hence. Now however, the dark stone building stood like a headstone in the hills. Alone. There were still chickens. A handful of sheep. One old belligerent mare. And a barn cat of midnight black.

And, if you believed the rumours, a solitary witch.

A thriving herb garden. A brackish pond with geese in the summer. The house itself was as old as the hills. Still standing by some act of nature. The stones used to build its spine fossilised relics of a time before time. 

When the roof had begun to leak three years prior, the nearby village of Merthyrbryn had pitched in to help fix it. The road leading to the front door, though twisting and narrow, was well-kept and well-travelled. There was even electricity now. And solar panels on the roof.

As Laura Edgecroft edged her uncle’s old jeep up the winding road to the farmhouse, she was forced to sit basically folded in half to see the road in front of her. She didn’t want to drive through animal muck. With Uncle Harold’s bum hip, she’d be the one cleaning it up.

Finally, she eased it to a stop in front of the old front door. The crunch of gravel beneath her trainers as she hopped out. She could hear the distant ruckus of chickens, the noisy yodelling of sheep and the sharp consonant blare of geese. It smelled exactly how she’d expected it to. Like earth, grass and manure. 

Walking to the boot of the jeep, she pulled out the old crate filled with groceries. She’d agreed to do this favour for her uncle. Apparently the greengrocer didn’t do deliveries that far up in the hills — and now that she’d braved those winding tightropes Laura knew why — and Uncle Harold had been fetching them up for the woman who lived here.

Angharad Llewelyn. A name that her uncle had very kindly repeated a few times on first utterance. Welsh was not a language she knew or a pronunciation style she was familiar with. 

Armed with her crate, she cast around, a little uncertain, and slowly began to draw closer to the farmhouse. That’s what they called it in town too. The Farmhouse. Like it was the only one, regardless of the fact that their little village was nestled in a quilt of quaint farms all with their own farmhouses. 

A shadow moved across an upstairs window. A crow flew away from the roof with a caw. The front door opened and Laura took a hasty step backwards.

A young woman in her mid-twenties stood there. Wild red hair tumbled in dizzy spirals around her shoulders. Skin pale as milk. Freckles kissing every hint of exposed skin on her neck and shoulders. She wore an ACDC t-shirt and a long floaty skirt that she had tucked hastily into a pair of bright yellow wellies. A human daffodil. 

‘You’re not Harold,’ she said, her accent thick with the lyrical flow of the valleys. She folded her arms. Her eyes — a light blue that was almost too faint to even be called blue — ran over Laura appraisingly. 

Laura had the sudden urge to cover her eye and check her sleeves were pulled down. Those eyes were a physical presence on her skin. 

‘Um, yeah I’m his niece,’ Laura said, holding out the heavy crate, ‘just helping him out while he rests up after his surgery.’

’That’s an odd name,’ the woman commented, tongue in cheek. She took the crate easily, hefting it under one arm like it didn’t weigh a tonne. ‘Mine’s Angharad.’

Laura bit her tongue to avoid answering in kind, but the smile in those eyes suggested that Angharad already knew what she was struggling not to say. ‘I’m Laura.’

‘Come on in, Laura,’ Angharad said, shoving the door open with her hip and disappearing into the farmhouse.

By the time Laura had even processed wanting to refuse, Angharad had disappeared into the farmhouse. People didn’t invite you into their houses in London, not if they didn’t know you. And now she was left with two options. Go inside this stranger’s house, or leave and be the rudest version of herself.

Laura stepped inside. The roofs were low and made of vast wooden beams. As she followed her ears and nose down the corridor to the kitchen, an itch began between her shoulder blades. She looked over her shoulder. Just the innocuous front door. A coat stand, a side-table for keys. She rubbed the back of her neck and shook off the feeling, stepping into the kitchen.

Jars upon jars lined every conceivable surface of the claustrophobic kitchen. Full of different jams. Blackcurrant. Strawberry. Rosehip. Raspberry. A smothering of fruit. The room was warm, steamy and cosy. The decor outdated but preserved with loving reverence. 

Dried herbs were trussed up in one corner. Glass jars full of assorted herbs, spices and other earthly ingredients lined the shelves of her bustling pantry. A black cat yowled at her from its basket next to the Aga stove. A chicken ran through the room and out into the mudroom, making a break for the back garden. 

Angharad had already cleared out the crate and was refilling it with jams. A loaf of bread. Cloudy cider. As if sensing the question, Angharad began to explain.

‘I like to give Harold a little something to say thank you for the trip.’

‘That’s kind of you.’

Angharad shook her head. ‘Not really. You pay for a service however you’re able.’

Laura, who had unconsciously decided to be nosy, turned around a glass jar so she could more clearly read the handwritten label. ‘Does this say nightshade?’

Angharad smiled. ‘Probably.’

Laura stopped touching the jar and rubbed her hands on the backs of her jeans. ‘ Why do you have a poisonous flower?’

‘Same reason I have knives,’ she answered cheerfully, ‘you never know when they might come in handy. Speaking of which, wait here for a sec.’

Laura watched her sprint away, heard her feet rush around upstairs. She looked around at the chaos. Made eye contact with the cat. The cat that refused to blink or look away. As she was beginning to question her sanity, Angharad reappeared.

‘Here,’ she held out an orange square.

Laura took it, realising it was a little plastic square of orange face paint. ‘What’s this for?’

‘Colour correction, it will reduce the appearance of the purple,’ Angharad answered lightly, ‘before you put on your foundation. It’ll help.’ And she tapped the corner of her left eye with a knowing look.

A faint sheen of sweat covered Laura’s body as her heart tried to escape her chest. She fought valiantly to avoid breathing like she’d just run a marathon. ‘I-I don’t—‘

‘Just take it,’ Angharad interrupted, waving her away. There was no pity there, Laura realised, just understanding. 

She shoved it into her pocket. ’Thanks.’

‘I put some cider in for you too,’ Angharad said, holding out the crate, ‘pear cider. You’ll like it.’

Laura took the crate and was grateful that Angharad continued to support the crate until she had stopped shaking. ‘Thanks.’

‘Come back any time you need something,’ Angharad said, her eyes blue mirrors, ‘but beware the nighttime.’

Laura snorted out a laugh. ‘Did you just tell me to beware the nighttime?’

Angharad made claws with her fingers and cackled. ‘Got to keep up appearances.’

‘You know about the rumours?’

Angharad smiled revealing a pronounced gap between her front two teeth. ‘Who said they were rumours?’ 

***

One week later, as Laura pulled up to the farmhouse again, she came bearing cleaned glass jars, a crate full of food, and her first short-sleeved shirt of the summer. Her arms were clear of the echoes of the past, though she was still using the face paint. 

As she climbed out of the jeep, she almost fell over. The black cat had run directly underfoot, like a snare trap. Now she sat on the roof of the jeep, staring down at her condescendingly. Laura blinked at the cat and the cat blinked back.

‘Right.’

She went around to the boot and pulled the crate out, hefting it up against her chest before heading towards the farmhouse, all under the watchful, managerial gaze of the black cat. As she got to the door, she half expected it to open again and for Angharad to spill out.

Unfortunately, only one of those things happened. The door slowly opened. A shiver shot down her spine like a cold predatory finger. But the house beckoned onwards, and the cat that had wrapped its way lovingly around her ankles was pulling her in.

Shaking her head, she walked inside. Following the sounds and smells into the kitchen again.

Less glass jars this time. Jam making had ceased. But there was an older woman sat at the kitchen table with a doll in her hands. The doll seemed to be made of a twisted piece of coarse fabric. As she sniffled, Angharad pressed a handkerchief into her hands. 

‘Hello Laura,’ she said cheerfully, patting the lady’s shoulder. ‘Have you met Agatha Jones?’

The lady from the post office. ‘Um, yeah. Is everything okay? Maybe I should just go—’

Agatha stood in a flurry. ’No, no. Just, I just need to freshen myself up. Thank you, Angharad.’

Clutching the doll, she made a shuffle for the bathroom and locked the door. Laura turned her back on the sounds of crying.

’She’ll be alright,’ Angharad said, taking the crate and beginning to unpack the groceries. ’She just needed a little push.’

‘A push?’

Angharad nodded. She was wearing shorts that had clearly once been jeans, the hems were completely uneven. ’She needs to reconnect with her daughter, so I gave her a little push.’

Laura felt her phone buzz against her hip. Dread curdled her belly. ‘Are you really a witch?’

Angharad gave her a sharp look. The contact electrifying her blood and buzzing in her belly, chasing away the dread. 

‘Do you need me to be?’

Laura was saved from having to answer by the timely reentry of Mrs Jones. She folded Angharad into a big hug, blew her nose noisily, and headed off before Laura could offer her a lift, leaving the two women alone in Angharad’s kitchen. 

The phone buzzed against her hip again. This time she pulled it out, checking the screen in case it was uncle Harold. The number she’d committed to memory illuminated her screen. Her eyes glanced over the first few inflammatory words of the text before she shoved it back into her pocket. The room swam around her for a moment, and she became aware of hands on her elbows.

The scent of persimmons flooded her senses as Angharad walked her backwards to the bench. Her knees hit it and buckled, but Angharad kept hold of her elbows and lowered her gently. She felt hands, calloused and gentle, against her cheeks, and she looked up to see Angharad staring down at her. She was blurry. Retroactively, she realised her eyes were full of tears. 

‘You’re safe here,’ Angharad said. Her certainty was like a boulder. Unmoving. Unconquerable. Steadfast. Completely certain. 

Laura nodded, entranced faintly by this person brimming with confidence. So unshakable. She’d never met anyone like her. Was this why people called her a witch? This magical ephemeral assuredness that pulsed through her veins. That filled the kitchen. That smelled like persimmon. 

Angharad dropped her hands from Laura’s face, gripping her shoulders instead. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

About the broken silence of the night? The shattered safety of her bed? The crushed dignity of her mind? The wearing down of her body and her selfhood?

Or about the night she left. About how she had fled London. Left behind her life and her friends — his friends — her home — his home. His life. The one he’d trapped her inside. Could she tell this gentle stranger any of that?

She opened her mouth. To try. To shout. To deny. And cried.

One a solitary tear broke the dam, the others came pouring out through that crack in her edifice. Until she was fighting to breathe as her chest heaved and her hands shook and her throat closed.

Angharad sat beside her on the bench, pulling her down into a protective cocoon of her arms. Made soothing noises in her throat and stroked her hair. Rocking her gently. She waited. 

Eventually, the dam was empty, and she subsided into gentle embarrassed hiccups. She pulled away from Angharad, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry,’ Angharad answered lightly, eyes pouring over Laura’s face as if she could read her thoughts that way. ‘Be greedy, come on, this time I want you to choose what cider you want to try.’

Grateful for the change of topic, and the knowing air around Angharad, Laura chose her cider without question. She shuffled out of the farmhouse, feeling like a freshly birthed fawn; wet and sticky and vulnerable.

‘If you ever need me, you know where I am.’

And with that offer hanging around her neck like a talisman, Laura got back into the jeep feeling warmer. 

***

‘I’m outside bitch. Come out or I’m coming in.’

The text lit up her screen like a flare. She stopped in the hallway between the kitchen and the living room. Staring at it like a deer in headlights.

It was seven. Uncle Harold wasn’t due back for another hour. She had never been so alone. The house that had been her bolthole became a snare.

The phone chirped again and she slapped a hand over her mouth. A picture of the front of Uncle Harold’s house. 

Mind racing, she considered the police. But, this rural, it would be a good twenty minutes before anyone arrived. The nearest neighbours were all also at bingo. The only place left…

She looked at the backdoor. The farmhouse was just beyond the hill if you ran through the field. Much closer than anything else.

But she’d be bringing danger to Angharad.

The sound of fists hitting the front door was like a starter’s pistol. She bolted before she had thought about it and was out of the door and halfway across the field beyond by the time she heard the front door cave in.

Darkness enveloped her like a co-conspirator, and she ran headlong into it and into the silence as she heard him screaming behind her. Heard his big galumphing footsteps as he chased her down.

Fear made her faster, and soon she crested the hill, sprinting up the winding road to the farmhouse as blood pounded through her veins. Urging her further, further. 

She yanked the front door open and fell inside the quiet house. It was dark, the shadows consuming the front room, curling around the bannister, snaking into the empty kitchen. Empty.

She scrambled to her feet. ‘Angharad!’

The panic in her voice cracked through the silence. Footsteps on the landing above her drew her gaze upwards as relief fell around her like a cloak. 

The door buckled inwards like a cardboard fort in a thunderstorm. Jeremy filled the doorway, eyes wild and brandishing Angharad’s pitchfork.

Turned to face him, Laura held out one forestalling hand and took a panicked step backwards. Her ankles hit the wooden stairs and she tumbled back onto her bottom, the stairs striking her lower back. She covered her head with her hands. 

Waiting for the blow.

Laura dared open her eyes into slits, looked up at Jeremy. He stood over her, the pitchfork clutched overhead in white-knuckled hands, but he wasn’t looking at her. He stared open-mouthed, wide-eyed at the top of the stairs.

Laura looked up.

Shadows had crept up the stairs, coalesced at the very top. They curled around Angharad’s ankles, up her calves, drifted around her wrists and shoulders like a mantle. She was looking down at Jeremy with her lip curled. Cold and ruthless. 

She floated down the stairs, not moving her limbs as the shadows drew her inexorably downwards. She came to a stop just beyond Laura’s prone body, her feet gently touching the threadbare rug. Jeremy took several horrified steps backwards.

‘W-what are you?’

Angharad smiled. ‘I’m the witch at the top of the hill. People come to me for help,’ she gestured to Laura with one pale hand, ‘or for punishment.’ 

She pointed at Jeremy. The shadows, which had moved like docile smoke, hardened under her command, bursting forwards from the closed-off places of the farmhouse. Like crazed dogs. They savaged Jeremy, forcing him down onto his back and holding him there as he screamed like a frightened schoolboy.

Angharad came over him, crouching on his chest. She wrapped one claw-like hand into his hair and pulled so he was forced to look up into her face. Laura couldn’t see what Jeremy saw, but she did smell the tell-tale scent of ammonia.

Angharad laughed, low and cruel. ‘Do you know what these shadows are?’

A terrified gurgle that might have been an answer escaped his chest.

‘They’re all that’s left of the bad men who came to my farmhouse,’ she said, ‘if you don’t want that to happen to you too, I suggest your run, Jeremy.’

She stood and moved away from him, a smile back on her face that contained too many teeth.

Jeremy managed to scramble up and out of the farmhouse, down the path, screaming as he fled into the night with nightmares at his heels. 

Light returned to the farmhouse as the shadows retreated, satiated. Angharad closed the door and came to kneel down at Laura’s side.

Laura scanned her face, eyes wide and panicked. There was no hint of monstrosity any more, just that same kind smile. And the smell of persimmon.

‘Would you like some tea?’