Underhill carried on in its usual solitude as the mid-summer stars twinkled above the empty cottages that waited for
nature to return them back to their native form. The clay owl next to Hetty's door watched the stillness with the same
acuity it had always done during Peggy Powler's previous time at her aunt's home and now with that same member
of the Fae-folk bringing warmth to the parlour and helping the statue's ailing elderly owner, its unblinking surveillance
of the village remained steady and uninterrupted.
The little Witch in front the flickering flames scoured her recollections for clues to when Hetty's vague warning of a
danger coming from the grassy tor that now resided in the darkness outside. Were the nocturnal habits of Underhill's
residents relevant to this peril from beneath its soil? Tossing one of the remaining logs that Hetty had gathered up
during her better days onto the fire, the little Witch returned to the halls of her memories and the faint outlines of
those weird souls who'd lived alongside the old Hag who'd allegedly came from a well.
.................................................................
Edna Mantle was a widow who kept chickens and could be sometimes observed visiting the well for water after the
dawn had broken. As said, all of Underhill's strange residents shunned performing their chores during daylight and
the custom -if that what it can be titled, was never fully understood by the small Carnival girl who'd come to live in
the village below the hill. Even when Peggy approached the subject with her aunt, Old Hetty would offer a shrug,
but not elaborate on the nocturnal practice of her neighbours. "It just their way" she'd mutter and return to whatever
task was at hand.
Edna was a small apple-shaped woman who lived alone in the first house standing beside the usual entrance to
Underhill from the Calder's Way direction. The alternative to this well-used spacious track was a single-person-wide
path that meandered towards the stream at the rear of Hetty's abode and then snakes away around the mound
before arriving at another break in the dry-stone wall of the distinguished sea-cobbled highway once more.
Peggy recalled how the roly-poly of a woman had decorated her front door with holly, red ribbons and a large candle
to celebrate the Winter solstice. Then as the small orphaned girl who'd been taken in by her aunt watched from her
bedroom window, she, Hetty and the witching hour witnessed the whole ornament set ablaze and scorch the door.
Luckily, a small bout of rain came along and dowsed the flames, something that always made Peggy wonder if
there was more to the fleeting precipitation then meets the eye.
The now-empty Crowther residence stood in the metaphorical shadow of the hill as it was the nearest. Lank grass
hung from its eaves and a sapling of an oak grew threateningly close to where their pigs used to gambol beside the
home. Peggy's natural procedure of inquisitiveness brought another peripheral reservation that intrigued her. Since
Martha Crowther had left Underhill, who would now tend her dead husband's grave? Another query for the little
Witch's questionnaire to put her aunt when she was healthier.
Then there were Nellie and Milton Lavender living beside Phyllis and Wilbur Rugosa, four people Peggy had never
seen fully except as dark shapes shuffling about in the night. The next two houses was empty and deemed by all
those of Underhill as condemned. The roofs had collapsed even before the petite Witch-ette had arrived on her
auntie's doorstep and Hetty had often warned of playing among the crumbling ruins.
Iris Farthingale was the last-but one in that line of cottages. A spinster who -so Hetty informed her newly-arrived
agnate, originated from a place called Munderville. Peggy had continued her given-task of washing the Scallions
of dirt and said nothing to hint she'd actually been there with the Carnival. Miss Farthingale had also blended with
in her neighbours and performed her chores during the hours of darkness.
Hence, the two hundred year-old crone in the grubby diaphanous garment could be deemed the last of the Underhill
residence, that is unless we include the vigilant pot owl watching from the door.
.................................................................
Now -if Peggy accepted the few mumbled words of Hetty when she dropped like a sack of potatoes, it would also
mean the need to check the buildings for evidence of this 'something' that had emptied the village and decree a
commitment to prevent this unknown factor from succeeding fully in its goal. The embers glowed in the hearth as
the Last Witch of Underhill plucked her satchel hanging from a hook beside the fireplace and set her mind towards
the thing she did best, the craft that the unconscious woman upstairs had partly taught her during her years here.
.................................................................
With a small flame on her thumb flickering in the darkness of the late-summer night, Peggy quietly ambled towards
the remains of old Edna Mantle's place and unknown to the wary sorceress in the big hat, two pairs of unblinking eyes
watched her journey in that same gloominess. One of them was the earthen owl from the ledge of its patron's house
and the other was the agent who'd almost made Underhill a ghost town.
nature to return them back to their native form. The clay owl next to Hetty's door watched the stillness with the same
acuity it had always done during Peggy Powler's previous time at her aunt's home and now with that same member
of the Fae-folk bringing warmth to the parlour and helping the statue's ailing elderly owner, its unblinking surveillance
of the village remained steady and uninterrupted.
The little Witch in front the flickering flames scoured her recollections for clues to when Hetty's vague warning of a
danger coming from the grassy tor that now resided in the darkness outside. Were the nocturnal habits of Underhill's
residents relevant to this peril from beneath its soil? Tossing one of the remaining logs that Hetty had gathered up
during her better days onto the fire, the little Witch returned to the halls of her memories and the faint outlines of
those weird souls who'd lived alongside the old Hag who'd allegedly came from a well.
.................................................................
Edna Mantle was a widow who kept chickens and could be sometimes observed visiting the well for water after the
dawn had broken. As said, all of Underhill's strange residents shunned performing their chores during daylight and
the custom -if that what it can be titled, was never fully understood by the small Carnival girl who'd come to live in
the village below the hill. Even when Peggy approached the subject with her aunt, Old Hetty would offer a shrug,
but not elaborate on the nocturnal practice of her neighbours. "It just their way" she'd mutter and return to whatever
task was at hand.
Edna was a small apple-shaped woman who lived alone in the first house standing beside the usual entrance to
Underhill from the Calder's Way direction. The alternative to this well-used spacious track was a single-person-wide
path that meandered towards the stream at the rear of Hetty's abode and then snakes away around the mound
before arriving at another break in the dry-stone wall of the distinguished sea-cobbled highway once more.
Peggy recalled how the roly-poly of a woman had decorated her front door with holly, red ribbons and a large candle
to celebrate the Winter solstice. Then as the small orphaned girl who'd been taken in by her aunt watched from her
bedroom window, she, Hetty and the witching hour witnessed the whole ornament set ablaze and scorch the door.
Luckily, a small bout of rain came along and dowsed the flames, something that always made Peggy wonder if
there was more to the fleeting precipitation then meets the eye.
The now-empty Crowther residence stood in the metaphorical shadow of the hill as it was the nearest. Lank grass
hung from its eaves and a sapling of an oak grew threateningly close to where their pigs used to gambol beside the
home. Peggy's natural procedure of inquisitiveness brought another peripheral reservation that intrigued her. Since
Martha Crowther had left Underhill, who would now tend her dead husband's grave? Another query for the little
Witch's questionnaire to put her aunt when she was healthier.
Then there were Nellie and Milton Lavender living beside Phyllis and Wilbur Rugosa, four people Peggy had never
seen fully except as dark shapes shuffling about in the night. The next two houses was empty and deemed by all
those of Underhill as condemned. The roofs had collapsed even before the petite Witch-ette had arrived on her
auntie's doorstep and Hetty had often warned of playing among the crumbling ruins.
Iris Farthingale was the last-but one in that line of cottages. A spinster who -so Hetty informed her newly-arrived
agnate, originated from a place called Munderville. Peggy had continued her given-task of washing the Scallions
of dirt and said nothing to hint she'd actually been there with the Carnival. Miss Farthingale had also blended with
in her neighbours and performed her chores during the hours of darkness.
Hence, the two hundred year-old crone in the grubby diaphanous garment could be deemed the last of the Underhill
residence, that is unless we include the vigilant pot owl watching from the door.
.................................................................
Now -if Peggy accepted the few mumbled words of Hetty when she dropped like a sack of potatoes, it would also
mean the need to check the buildings for evidence of this 'something' that had emptied the village and decree a
commitment to prevent this unknown factor from succeeding fully in its goal. The embers glowed in the hearth as
the Last Witch of Underhill plucked her satchel hanging from a hook beside the fireplace and set her mind towards
the thing she did best, the craft that the unconscious woman upstairs had partly taught her during her years here.
.................................................................
With a small flame on her thumb flickering in the darkness of the late-summer night, Peggy quietly ambled towards
the remains of old Edna Mantle's place and unknown to the wary sorceress in the big hat, two pairs of unblinking eyes
watched her journey in that same gloominess. One of them was the earthen owl from the ledge of its patron's house
and the other was the agent who'd almost made Underhill a ghost town.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.