The local witch

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The chimes rang – a vacant shudder-some tone that could bring out the dead in the dead of the night. They waited for the old woman to come to the door. Dory nudged Ken to ring the bell again when after two eternal minutes, nobody opened the door. Ken smacked his lips and rang the bell again. The same banshee-like sound reverberated around them. Ken looked back at his high school mates, hidden in the brush, ready with the eggs. All four of them made the ‘L’ sign with their thumb and index finger. He gave them the middle finger.
Dory pushed Ken aside and rang the bell again. This time they could hear a rustle inside. The tried to peer inside through the window, but it was black as pitch. The rustle was louder. Ken looked back and gave a thumbs up.
“Come on, you witch,” Dory shouted.
“Yeah, come on out. We have a gift for you.” Ken called out – melodious and sweet with an exaggerated effeminate tone.
The door creaked ajar. A withered leathery face covered with protuberances galore, eyes sunken into invisible depths, and hair plastered in a thinning layer on the white scalp, looked out. Her missing teeth and blackened gums outlined by the non-existent shriveled lips parted slightly as she made an effort to enquire why they were at her door.
But chance slipped by as the first egg hit her door. Dory and Ken threw the chicken bones they were carrying, right through the gap into the house and jogged away laughing. The other eggs came one after the other followed by peals of laughter and chants of “witch.” The depletion of the eggs led to more running feet. The unkempt yard was empty.
One egg had found its target and was oozing down the white scalp finding its way to the invisible eyes and hairy ears. Brenda closed the door with all her strength and stood against it, tears mingling with the egg. Old age was a curse.

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