**Diary Entry**
I still remember the day that young woman moved into the abandoned cottage at the edge of our village. Folks here never took kindly to outsiders. Word spread quickly, and soon enough, the constable was called in. He checked her papers, then assured everyone she was a distant relative of old Mrs. Winthrop, who’d passed years ago at ninety-six. “Never heard of Betty Winthrop having kin,” people murmured, but the constable insisted, and that was that.
She kept to herself, that one. Set to work clearing the overgrown garden, planting something—in the middle of summer, no less! We all laughed. But soon enough, green shoots sprouted, unnaturally lush. “Witchcraft,” the villagers whispered, and the name stuck—Mary the Witch.
She never spoke of herself, never mingled. And nothing stirs gossip like a mystery. Before long, tales spread—she’d fled the city after a doomed affair, stealing some rich lover’s jewels. Why else hide in a backwater like ours?
Then young Tommy Blackwell choked on a toy. His mother ran screaming, no time to fetch a doctor—ten miles to the nearest hospital, and no motorcar to be had. In desperation, she dashed to Mary’s. The woman snatched the boy, turned him upside down, thumped his back—out popped the blockage. After that, respect mingled with fear.
But not for William. He fell hard for her. His mother wailed, “Plenty of young lasses about, and he’s sweet on an older woman!” She’d stand outside Mary’s cottage, shrieking about love potions and witchery. William would lead her home, only to return to Mary.
They ignored the gossip. A year later, Mary bore a daughter, Rose. Three years on, another—Lily. The village eventually left them be, too busy with their own troubles.
Then the storm came. The roof leaked, and William climbed up to fix it. On his way down, he slipped. Badly hurt. Mary fetched the doctor from town—no use. “Get him to hospital,” he said. She arranged a motorcar, saw him off, then returned to the children.
A month later, another motorcar arrived. They wheeled William out, spine shattered, legs useless. Some muttered it was Mary’s curse coming due.
She didn’t care. Tended him, loved him. Fiercely. Even the gossips softened when they saw her devotion. Some swore she was healing him—that he’d walk again.
He sat on the porch, whittling animals for the girls, weaving baskets. The men envied him, useless as he was. “Lucky sod,” they muttered.
Love works miracles, they say. And true enough, William began trying to stand. One day, his knife clattered down the steps. Mary was in the garden. He steeled himself, gripped the railing—stood, swayed, then fell. A scythe leaned nearby. Mary had left it out. It caught his neck as he tumbled.
Mary near died with him. The girls had to drag her from the coffin.
Left alone. No pension, no income from his carvings. Yet she never begged. “Selling those stolen jewels,” folk whispered.
Rose left for the city after school, trained as a hairdresser. Came back weekends, villagers lining up for trims—paid in eggs, bread.
A woman alone here is prey. Men “helped” with the fence, the roof, hoping for more. Mary fed them, poured ale, but never let them past the door.
Then the wives came. Jealous, demanding her secret—how she stayed young. “Share those diamonds, or we’ll burn you out!”
They swore later she emerged grey-haired, face lined. They fled. Witchcraft, surely.
Grief wore Mary down. She grew frail, seldom left the garden. Sent Lily for groceries.
Lily was wild, pretty. Exams looming, but all she cared for was dancing. One night, Mary shouted her down—“No!” The neighbours heard the row.
Old Mabel saw Lily bolt like a hare, straight to the pub. Later, a frantic knock—Lily, white-faced: “Mum… Mum’s…” Mabel found Mary cold by the stove, blood on her temple.
She fetched her husband. They laid Mary out, took Lily in. Come morning, the constable came. Lily swore she’d pushed Mary, run off—her mother had been alive, shouting after her. Mabel agreed, though she couldn’t say when the shouting was. The constable called it misadventure.
Rose came for the funeral. A proper wake. The sisters never spoke. That night, Lily vanished.
Mabel swore Lily’s earrings sparkled “like nothing I’d ever seen.”
New rumours—Mary *had* hidden jewels. Lily stole them, killed her mother for them.
Rose tried hushing the talk. Futile. She visited at first, tended the garden. Then she too disappeared.
The cottage sagged. Kids smashed windows, hunting treasure.
Seven years passed.
Mabel, bent double now, hobbled past the ruin—then froze. A woman on the bench, a boy whacking nettles. Not Rose—too flashy, red hair tumbling loose.
“Lily? Home at last? This your lad?”
Lily clung to her. “Can’t get in. Uncle Jim’s got bolt-cutters?”
He broke the lock, shoved the door—inside, ripped cushions, dust. “Clean up, then come eat,” he muttered, boarding the window.
Over broth, Lily spun her tale—factory work, a hostel. A man left when she fell pregnant. Evicted. Another thief, jailed. His mother threw her out.
“Just till I sort myself,” she finished.
“Your mam found refuge here. So will you,” Mabel said, handing her potatoes, bread, pickles.
That night—banging. Lily and the boy, trembling. “Something *walked* in there,” she stammered.
“Ghosts? Guilt, more like,” Mabel said sharply.
Lily looked away. “We quarrelled. If I’d stayed—”
“Live with me, then.”
But Lily moved in with Widow White—his kids gone, a cow to milk. She sold the milk dear to summer visitors. A goldmine.
Two months passed. The boy thrived.
Then—fire. Mary’s cottage blazed like kindling. They saved Mabel’s place, let the witch’s home burn. By dawn, just ashes.
Kids poked the wreckage. “Don’t!” Lily warned.
Her boy ran up, grubby fist outstretched—a sooty lump. Widow White rubbed it—gold glinted, diamonds in the cinders.
Lily snatched it. “Mine.”
“So the tales were true,” he said coolly. “You killed for earrings. Robbed your sister. Now Mary’s burned it all.”
That night, Lily fled with the boy, his cash box light.
Years later, Rose returned with her husband. Only weeds and broken bricks remained.
Mabel, near blind now, wheezed out the story—the fire, the jewels, Lily’s flight.
“Lies,” Rose said.
They never came back.
Some say Lily was murdered trying to sell the diamonds. That Rose took the boy—childless herself.
Truth? Who knows. But gossip never springs from nothing. Mary’s secret died with her.
They say diamonds are hard enough to shatter lives. William crippled, then dead. Lily killing her mother, then herself. Only Rose stayed untouched—clean as the stones she never touched.
