There once was a mysterious witch who lived next door. No one knew much about her, as she rarely left her house and always kept to herself. The townsfolk whispered tales of her strange abilities and peculiar experiments. Children would dare each other to knock on her door, but no one had the courage to actually do it. The adults, too, were intrigued by the witch but were wary of crossing paths with her. Her house was surrounded by an overgrown garden, adding to the aura of mystique that surrounded her.
They called her the Witch, the same as her mother; the Girl Witch when she first started trading in curses and cures, and then, when she wound up alone, the year of the landslide, simply the Witch. If she’d had another name, scrawled on some timeworn, worm-eaten piece of paper maybe, buried at the back of one of those wardrobes that the older crone crammed full of plastic bags and filthy rags, locks of hair, bones, rotten leftovers, if at some point she’d been given a first name and last name like everyone else in town, well, no one had ever known it, not even the women who visited the house each Friday had ever heard her called anything else. She’d always been you, retard, or you, asshole, or you, devil child, if ever the mother wanted her to come, or to be quiet, or even just to sit still under the table so that she could listen to the women’s maudlin pleas, their sniveling tales of woe, their strife, the aches and pains, their dreams of dead relatives and the spats between those still alive, and money, it was almost always the money, but also their husbands and those whores from the highway, and why do they always walk out on me just when I’ve got my hopes up, they’d sob, what was the point of it all, they’d moan, they might as well be dead, just call it a day, wished they’d never been born, and with the corner of their shawls they’d dry the tears from their faces, which they covered in any case the moment they left the Witch’s kitchen, because they weren’t about to give those bigmouths in town the satisfaction of going around saying how they’d been to see the Witch to plot their revenge against so-and-so, how they’d put a curse on the slut leading their husband astray, because there was always one, always some miserable bitch in town spinning yarns about the girls who, quite innocently, minding their own business, went to the Witch’s for a remedy for indigestion for that dipshit at home clogged up to his nuts on the extra-large bag of chips he ate in one sitting, or a tea to keep tiredness at bay, or an ointment for tummy troubles, or, let’s be honest, just to sit there awhile and lighten the load, let it all out, the pain and sadness that fluttered hopelessly in their throats. Because the Witch listened, and nothing seemed to shock her, and frankly, what would you expect from a woman they say killed her own husband, Manolo Conde no less, and for money, the old fuck’s money, his house and the land, a couple hundred acres of cultivated fields and pastures left to him by his father, or what was left of it after his father had sold it off piece by piece to the leader of the Mill Workers Union so that, from then on, he wouldn’t have to lift a finger, so he could live off his tenants and apparently off his so-called businesses that were always failing, but so vast was the estate that when Don Manolo died there was still a sizable tract of land left over, with a tidy rental value; so tidy, in fact, that the old man’s sons, two fully grown kids, both out of school, sons by his legitimate wife over in Montiel Sosa, rolled into town the moment they heard the news: heart attack, the doctor from Villa told the boys when they showed up at that house in the middle of the sugarcane fields where the vigil was being held, and right there, in front of everyone, they told the Witch that she had until the next day to pack her bags and leave town, that she was mad if she thought they’d let a slut like her get her hands on their father’s assets: the land, the house, that house that, even after all those years, was still unfinished, as lavish and warped as Don Manolo’s dreams, with its elaborate staircase and banisters decked in plaster cherubs, its high ceilings where the bats made their roosts, and, hidden somewhere, or so the story went, the money, a shedload of gold coins that Don Manolo had inherited from his father and never banked, not forgetting the diamond, the diamond ring that no one had ever seen, not even the sons, but that was said to hold a stone so big it looked fake
John Cheever used to tell how when he was a young man, living in New York with his wife, Mary, he d put on his suit and hat every morning and get in the elevator with the other married men in his apartment building. To get in, he forged his own letters of recommendation; two years later, he was asked to leave for failing math and other crimes, among them eating potato chips while leaning out the window.
Her house was surrounded by an overgrown garden, adding to the aura of mystique that surrounded her. One day, a young girl named Lily moved into the house next door to the witch. Lily was a curious and adventurous child, unafraid of the rumors and stories surrounding the witch.
They Called Her the Witch
They called her the Witch, the same as her mother; the Girl Witch when she first started trading in curses and cures, and then, when she wound up alone, the year of the landslide, simply the Witch. If she’d had another name, scrawled on some timeworn, worm-eaten piece of paper maybe, buried at the back of one of those wardrobes that the older crone crammed full of plastic bags and filthy rags, locks of hair, bones, rotten leftovers, if at some point she’d been given a first name and last name like everyone else in town, well, no one had ever known it, not even the women who visited the house each Friday had ever heard her called anything else. She’d always been you, retard, or you, asshole, or you, devil child, if ever the mother wanted her to come, or to be quiet, or even just to sit still under the table so that she could listen to the women’s maudlin pleas, their sniveling tales of woe, their strife, the aches and pains, their dreams of dead relatives and the spats between those still alive, and money, it was almost always the money, but also their husbands and those whores from the highway, and why do they always walk out on me just when I’ve got my hopes up, they’d sob, what was the point of it all, they’d moan, they might as well be dead, just call it a day, wished they’d never been born, and with the corner of their shawls they’d dry the tears from their faces, which they covered in any case the moment they left the Witch’s kitchen, because they weren’t about to give those bigmouths in town the satisfaction of going around saying how they’d been to see the Witch to plot their revenge against so-and-so, how they’d put a curse on the slut leading their husband astray, because there was always one, always some miserable bitch in town spinning yarns about the girls who, quite innocently, minding their own business, went to the Witch’s for a remedy for indigestion for that dipshit at home clogged up to his nuts on the extra-large bag of chips he ate in one sitting, or a tea to keep tiredness at bay, or an ointment for tummy troubles, or, let’s be honest, just to sit there awhile and lighten the load, let it all out, the pain and sadness that fluttered hopelessly in their throats. Because the Witch listened, and nothing seemed to shock her, and frankly, what would you expect from a woman they say killed her own husband, Manolo Conde no less, and for money, the old fuck’s money, his house and the land, a couple hundred acres of cultivated fields and pastures left to him by his father, or what was left of it after his father had sold it off piece by piece to the leader of the Mill Workers Union so that, from then on, he wouldn’t have to lift a finger, so he could live off his tenants and apparently off his so-called businesses that were always failing, but so vast was the estate that when Don Manolo died there was still a sizable tract of land left over, with a tidy rental value; so tidy, in fact, that the old man’s sons, two fully grown kids, both out of school, sons by his legitimate wife over in Montiel Sosa, rolled into town the moment they heard the news: heart attack, the doctor from Villa told the boys when they showed up at that house in the middle of the sugarcane fields where the vigil was being held, and right there, in front of everyone, they told the Witch that she had until the next day to pack her bags and leave town, that she was mad if she thought they’d let a slut like her get her hands on their father’s assets: the land, the house, that house that, even after all those years, was still unfinished, as lavish and warped as Don Manolo’s dreams, with its elaborate staircase and banisters decked in plaster cherubs, its high ceilings where the bats made their roosts, and, hidden somewhere, or so the story went, the money, a shedload of gold coins that Don Manolo had inherited from his father and never banked, not forgetting the diamond, the diamond ring that no one had ever seen, not even the sons, but that was said to hold a stone so big it looked fake
She would often hear strange noises coming from the house next door, but she was determined to uncover the truth. Lily decided to approach the witch's house one day, armed with nothing more than courage and a sense of adventure. She knocked on the creaky wooden door, and after a moment, it swung open to reveal the witch standing before her. To Lily's surprise, the witch wasn't as frightening as she had imagined. She was an elderly woman with kind eyes and a warm smile. The witch invited Lily inside and explained that she had been misunderstood all these years. She was not a wicked witch, but rather a healer and protector of the forest. The strange noises that Lily had heard were simply the sounds of her magical concoctions and potions brewing. The witch had spent her life learning about herbs and plants, using their powers to heal those in need. From that day forward, Lily and the witch became unlikely friends. Lily would visit the witch often, learning about the magic and ancient wisdom that the witch possessed. The townsfolk soon came to realize that their assumptions about the witch were wrong, and she was embraced by the community. The witch next door turned out to be a source of wisdom and kindness, and her presence added to the vibrant tapestry of the town. Lily and the witch showed everyone that it's important not to judge others based on hearsay and rumors. The tale of the witch next door serves as a reminder to keep an open mind and to look beyond the surface. Sometimes, the most extraordinary things can be found in the most unexpected places. So, don't be quick to judge a book by its cover..
Reviews for "The Witch Next Door: From Fear to Friendship"
1. Laura - 2/5 stars - "I really wanted to like 'The Witch Next Door', but I found it to be underwhelming. The plot was predictable and lacked any real surprises. The characters were one-dimensional and difficult to connect with. Additionally, the pacing was incredibly slow, making it feel like a chore to get through. Overall, I was disappointed and wouldn't recommend it to others."
2. Mark - 1/5 stars - "I can't believe I wasted my time and money on 'The Witch Next Door'. The storyline was completely absurd and it was hard to take anything seriously. The acting was subpar, with awkward and forced performances throughout. The film failed to create any tension or suspense, which is essential for a horror movie. It's safe to say I was thoroughly unimpressed and wouldn't recommend this to anyone."
3. Sarah - 2/5 stars - "I was excited to watch 'The Witch Next Door', but was left feeling frustrated and unsatisfied. The film had potential, but it failed to live up to it. The dialogue was weak, with cheesy lines that made me cringe. The special effects were also lackluster, which took away from any potential scares. Overall, it felt like a missed opportunity and I wouldn't watch it again."