The Wicked Witch That Eats Children
Deep in the heart of Blackthorn Forest, where the trees twisted like gnarled fingers and the mist clung like a hungry ghost, there lived a witch named Morga the Devourer.
Parents warned their children never to wander too far, for Morga had a taste for tender young flesh. Her hut stood on crooked chicken legs, its walls patched with the skins of those who had dared to knock. The door, carved from the bones of lost travelers, creaked open only for the foolish—or the doomed.
The first to disappear was a boy named Tommy. He had chased a white rabbit with blood-red eyes into the thicket, lured by its unnatural glow. When the villagers searched, they found only his tattered cap, damp with something that smelled faintly of spoiled milk.
Then came Emily, who had picked blackberries where the thorns were said to whisper. Then Jacob, who swore he heard his name called from the hollow of an ancient oak. One by one, the children vanished, and the village grew quieter, heavier with dread.
Morga feasted well in those days. Her stew bubbled with stolen laughter, her bread was kneaded with the tears of mothers. She sharpened her knives on a whetstone made from a child's tooth and hummed a lullaby that slithered through the trees like a serpent:
Little ones, so soft and sweet,
Come to Morga—you'll be a treat!
But children, as they often do, never truly believed the stories—not until it was too late.
Lena and her little brother Finn were no different. "Prove the witch isn't real," Finn dared one evening, his grin too bold for a boy who still slept with a candle lit. And so, as the sun bled into dusk, they crept into the forest, where the shadows stretched too long and the air tasted of rust.
They didn't see Morga at first. They only heard the giggle—high and wet, like a throat full of rainwater. Then the witch stepped from the darkness, her fingers twitching, her smile splitting her face like a rotten fruit.
Finn screamed as she seized him, stuffing him into a cage woven from ribs. Lena fought, but Morga was ancient, her strength forged in nightmares. "You'll be tender by morning," the witch crooned, stoking the flames of her great iron oven.
But Lena was clever. She noticed the way Morga's eyes never lifted above her own hunched shoulders. And there, dangling from the rafters, was a single glass jar—pulsing with trapped laughter, the stolen joy of a hundred children.
While Morga stirred her pot, singing of feasts to come, Lena climbed. The jar was slick in her hands, warm as a living thing. She hurled it to the ground.
The sound that erupted was not of this world—a chorus of pure, unfettered delight, bursting free after years of hunger. Morga shrieked, clawing at her ears as her flesh blackened and split. "NO! SILENCE THEM!" she wailed, but the laughter was relentless.
Lena wrenched open Finn's cage. Together, they shoved the shrieking witch into her own oven, slamming the iron door shut on her howls.
The village rejoiced when the children returned. The witch's hut collapsed into rot, the trees sighed in relief, and for a time, the forest was still.
But sometimes, when the wind dies and the world holds its breath, mothers pull their children a little closer. Because deep in Blackthorn Forest, if you listen very, very carefully.
You can still hear Morga's lullaby.