Which way to Witch’s Way was a running joke among us as we at last found the sign pointing towards Witch’s Way.
The sign was such a curiosity we couldn’t help but photograph it and then speculate as to how it had all come about.
A little way along Witch’s Way we came upon a quaint house a little back off the road. There was smoke coming from the chimney, and a rather pungent aroma surrounded us.
At first glance, it looked like the gingerbread house we all knew from the Hansel and Gretel stories. This observation added to the mirth of the growing situation and as our cameras clicked in unison taking as many photos as possible the front door opened and an old lady came out.
She beamed at us and invited us in. As we entered the alluring aroma of gingerbread drifted up our noses, and the smell seemed to be coming from the doorjamb. She invited us to take apiece as we entered and as we bit into it we were immediately in her power.
She welcoming self quickly turned into a malevolent and sinister one as she ordered us to sit and having done so we found we were in fact inside a cage.
It was her maniacal cackle that frightened us the most. As she went into her kitchen, we could see a huge cauldron from which rose a steam and an odour that could be best described what you’d imagine we might emit if we were in it.
She informed us she was making Boy Soup and even though we were a bit scrawny she thought there was enough meat on our bones we’d do the job perfectly.
The following Sunday she informed us was the annual village fete, and she needed as much soup as she could make as there was a demand for her soup, it did things to the locals, and they could never get enough of it.
She tapped two of my companions on their heads with her wand, and they disappeared into the cauldron without so much of a whimper.
A little later she tasted the substance and announced it perfect. She looked at me and said I’d keep for the next day.
She spent the afternoon bottling her soup, even offering me a taste, which I declined.
I’m writing all this on the back of a roll of toilet paper in the hope my story gets told before this happens to other foolish travellers like ourselves.
The smell is overwhelming but the longer I stay here, the more conditioned to it and that in itself is disturbing.
Its dawn now, she’s lighting the fire, the cauldron will soon be bubbling, I’m shoving this story out the tiny window in the hope someone finds it.