The Price of Deceit: How a Scammer Became a Water Sprite
The door to the old terraced house in a quiet corner of Sheffield swung open almost instantly—as if the owner had been waiting all day for a visitor. On the threshold stood a sprightly old woman in her eighties with sharp, twinkling eyes.
“Afternoon,” the young man said politely, offering a practised smile.
“Afternoon, love,” the old woman nodded. “Don’t just stand there letting the heat out—come in, come in. You from the council, then?”
“No, ma’am. I’m with a company that specialises in water purification. We install state-of-the-art filters—turn tap water into something as fresh as a mountain spring. Clean as the old days when you could drink straight from the river!”
“Blimey!” The old lady raised her eyebrows. “So you’re a modern-day water sprite, are you? Fine trade that. Come on in.”
The lad wiped his shoes carefully on the worn-out doormat and stepped inside.
“You mind if I keep my shoes on?” he asked, eyeing the scuffed linoleum in the hall.
“Course not, love. My daughter’ll mop up after. She’s young, I’m past it—too old for scrubbing floors.”
“Ah, don’t say that! You’ve got a spring in your step yet—rosy cheeks and all!” he chirped with the practised charm of a door-to-door salesman. “Now, where’s the kitchen? Let me show you the magic in action.”
“Oh, go on with you,” she chuckled. “Haven’t seen myself in a mirror for years—my daughter hung ’em so high I can’t even spot the top of my head. This way, then—let’s see what miracles you’ve got.”
The kitchen was cramped but tidy. The kettle gleamed, and on the windowsill sat a pair of geraniums beside a little dish of mint leaves. The old woman settled in her chair while the lad got to work—unscrewing, reattaching, pouring water into little jars, brandishing filters, and enthusiastically explaining the difference between “murky” and “pure.”
“I’ll take your filter,” the old woman said abruptly. “But first, let’s have a cuppa. Tea’s no fun alone—tastes like dishwater. With company, it’s sweet as honey. Five minutes, no more.”
The lad hesitated but nodded. The old woman boiled the filtered water deftly and brewed a pot of tea—fragrant, spicy, with an odd, mysterious depth to it.
“You got family, lad?” she asked, pouring the tea.
“Nah, single.”
“Good. Too young for little ’uns anyway. Tea nice?”
“Stunning. Where’d you get this?”
“Fairies bring it for my birthday,” she said with a wink.
The lad smirked. Decided to play along.
“Aren’t you worried opening your door to strangers these days? Scammers everywhere.”
“What’ve I got to fear, love?” she laughed. “My time’s long past for being afraid. At my age, it’s me who ought to be scaring folk—especially the likes of you.”
At that moment, the lad felt a strange lightness in his head. And then… the truth just spilled out.
“Who even needs this rubbish? I buy these filters for a fiver, flog ’em for fifty quid! Sometimes I even ‘enhance’ the water—squirt in a bit of muck—makes the ‘after’ look more impressive. Easy marks, these pensioners…”
He blinked, stunned at his own words.
“There we are,” the old woman nodded. “Told you the tea’s special. Fairy-brewed. Makes liars tell the truth.”
The lad shot up.
“What the—what’ve you done?”
“Nothing much. You said you were a water sprite, didn’t you? Well, now you will be. Poor old Jenny Greenteeth’s been run off her feet—can’t manage the rivers alone. So you’ll help: cleaning streams, feeding fish, trimming the weeds. Ten years’ service, and you might get your old shape back. Till then—welcome to the water.”
The lad didn’t even have time to scream before he dissolved—first into a droplet, then a mist, then a wisp of silver that splashed into the copper basin.
“There we go,” the old woman said, tipping the water down the sink. “Found him a job. Dreams do come true. That electric meter bloke from last week? Now he’s directing lightning. Air’s his thing. Yours is water. You’ll get on.”
She rinsed the cups, humming softly. Then she caught her reflection—or lack thereof—in the darkened glass of her kitchen cabinet.
“Why don’t I show up, why don’t I show up…” she mimicked the vanished salesman.
“Because I’m older than every mirror in this house. Three centuries, give or take. My daughter knows—that’s why she hangs ’em high. Not all truths are breakfast conversation.” She wiped her hands and glanced out the window. “Justice has to happen. Even if you’ve got to brew it in a teapot.”
