Barbara Devil smiled her terrible smile. “I’m not a witch,” she said, her voice a low hum that rattled the windows. “A witch still has a soul to save. I have nothing of the kind.”
She reached out and touched his forehead with one cold, dry finger. barbara devil
The legend began forty years ago, on the night the Henderson boy vanished. He had been a mean child, the kind who pulled the wings off dragonflies and threw rocks at stray cats. On a dare, he’d thrown a stone through Barbara’s shop window. The next morning, the window was repaired, but the boy was gone. His parents found only a single, polished rabbit skull on his pillow. Barbara Devil smiled her terrible smile