The Witch of the Hill: Mrs. Bridge’s Tale of Power

Unlike most sleepy villages nestled in the countryside, this one had no school, no temple, and not even a humble post office. What it did have, however, was a peculiar little hill—a quiet, brooding bump of earth that seemed to hum with old secrets. Atop that hill stood a withered cottage, slanted with age and shadowed with time. Within it lived a witch—not just any witch, but the most feared and respected in the entire region.

Her name was Mrs. Bridge, though no one had ever known her to be married. The name was her inheritance—passed down through a long line of witches who carried their magic in their blood and their surname in whispers. She was young for a witch of such renown, but her legacy came prepackaged: she wore tattered black robes inherited from her mother, caked on terrifying makeup learned from her aunt, and kept company with a black cat bequeathed to her by a deceased cousin. She even took pride in a few dreadful quirks of her own—such as a complete aversion to brushing her teeth or hair.

These traits, cobbled together from generations past, made Mrs. Bridge a figure of frightful awe. When she descended the hill to buy groceries from the village, even the bravest farmers stumbled backward, clutching their produce like shields. Her presence wasn’t just feared—it was legendary.

For a time, business thrived. Villagers paid well for potions, charms, and the occasional hex. Her eerie presence served her reputation like a brand. But as the old saying goes, “The devil walks easiest on smooth paths.” And walk he did.

One crisp morning, while Mrs. Bridge was fetching water, a peculiar figure sat atop a moss-covered rock near the spring—a devil, smirking and wicked-eyed.

“What do you want?” she barked.

“Oh, nothing in particular,” the devil replied with a casual shrug.

“Then be gone,” she hissed.

But the devil only laughed. “What is there to fear in you? Old robes, second-hand cosmetics, and a used-up cat. You’re a patchwork of others’ frights.”

Enraged, she hurled her bucket at him. The devil vanished with a chuckle, but the seed of doubt had been planted.

That night, Mrs. Bridge stared long into the smudged reflection of herself in her cottage window. “The devil—it’s a filthy liar,” she mumbled. “But perhaps he’s not wrong.” Her fearsome persona, after all, was stitched together from the scraps of others. Even her name wasn’t truly hers.

Consumed with fury and a desire to reclaim her identity, she stripped herself of every inherited item. She threw off the robe, wiped the kohl from her eyes, shoved the cat outside, and—almost disastrously—attempted grooming. But no matter how hard she scrubbed, she couldn’t wash away the feeling of being built from borrowed pieces.

The next day, she returned to the village. Gone were the robes and the menace. She wore a modest dress, her head wrapped in a simple scarf. She walked softly, humbly. But the reaction was worse than she’d feared. Children giggled. Elders chuckled behind their hands. Even livestock seemed unimpressed.

And then came the devil, perched mockingly atop a chimney. He pointed, puffed smoke from his ears, and blew sulphur from his rear in wicked delight. The villagers roared with laughter.

Humiliated and trembling with rage, Mrs. Bridge tore off her scarf, flung her dress into the mud, and stormed back up the hill as villagers jeered behind her.

But something had changed in her. The shame turned to fire. In her fury, she picked up her tattered black robe and, this time, she made it hers. Using a needle and thread, she embroidered ancient runes of destruction into its seams. She dipped her fingers in black paint—not her aunt’s but her own blend—and painted her lips and nails like thunderclouds. She fed her cat a strange mix of moon-fed mushrooms and whispering insects. Her cat grew eerier, sharper.

Then, she returned to the village.

With a whisper and a flick of her hand, she banished the devil back to the underworld. Her cat leapt onto rooftops, scattering children in terror. Elders screamed and fled. Some families packed what they could and escaped to nearby villages, spreading tales of a witch who could vanquish demons and curse with a look.

From that day onward, Mrs. Bridge was no longer feared for her name or her inheritance—but for herself. Her magic became her own. Her power, real and raw.

She lived to an old age, comfortably wealthy from generous payments for her spells—or, often, for simply staying away. But above all, she was remembered as the witch who had once remade herself from ashes and laughter, and rose not with borrowed robes, but with fire of her own.

🌙 Moral of the Story:

True power doesn’t lie in what we inherit, but in what we create. Respect earned from authenticity will always outlast fear built on borrowed legacies.