I read that they cut off the witch’s head, but it did not fall into the wicker basket—instead, it floated upwards, gleefully. Its hair kept growing, down almost to the chimneys, until both the head and its hair were entirely eaten up by crows, leaving only the tall shadow affixed to the ground.
I read that the ground was dug up in the 1930s, and that the hole became our local outdoor pool. I have come to believe that the witch still lives, in the pool’s shadows, powers waxing with the season.
Today, the water shines, the pool’s concrete edges sharp in the summer sun. My brother and I are swimming. He never spoke much, but these days he doesn’t speak at all. Mum worries. Dad says that it is a phase. My brother and I climb out of the pool, beaded, shadows across my brother’s face. The summer sluggishly passes.
Winter comes—slow and dark. I return to the pool, through a gap in the fence. The shadows are dim, blurred, the cold pool deserted. Except for my brother. He is in the water, naked. I’m not sure why, but I climb up on the diving board, shivering. He does not look at me.
We wait for the sun to peak, for the diving board’s shadow to swallow my brother. He speaks. After we get home, he speaks some more, and then some more. Everyone says that they are glad that the phase is over.
But no-one says anything about my brother now saying things he should not know, about him talking to crows in the night, about him speaking the words of the witch.