Witch Hunter. Willow Sears
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only by the commuters who may have silently been pleased with the faster routes onto major road networks. Mimi, following the story over the months and years as closely as she could from her flat in Oxford, decided that she couldn’t bear to see the area she so loved desecrated. This would be the cause to champion, the story that would show her mettle and talents and make her a heroine to the locals – who might reward her with a house there on the cheap.
However, another hero beat her to it. A few months before she secured her room at the Spinster’s house, the equally mysterious Pieter Bakkers stepped out of nowhere to help the ailing Baron. He was a powerful businessman who seemingly could not be bullied. He saved the day by buying up much of the estate’s remaining lands, promising to restore it to its former glory and never to sell off any further land. The loss of these ancestral lands and properties was tempered by the knowledge that they would be in the hands of someone with a genuine desire to keep the estate and restore it to its former glory.
Bakkers ‘discovered’ rare butterflies breeding in the meadows that the new road was set to go through, and quickly ensured the fields were designated as Sites of Special Scientific Interest, which meant that they were legally required to be maintained as they were. The proposed road plan was dead in the water. Mr Shady was no doubt grossly put out that his scam had failed but, rather than fight it in the way the villagers thought and feared he would, he instead decided to accept an offer from Bakkers for all the property and lands he had screwed from the Baron.
The price paid was apparently more than generous, an offer that simply could not be refused, although how anyone knew this, other than the protagonists and perhaps a single solicitor, was unclear. Maybe grateful locals were just quick to swell the legend of their saviour. Whatever the truth, Mr Shady sold up and slipped away without a word, leaving a new lord of the land in place, one who saw to it that the farmers were charged a fair rent again and that the village would never again come under threat.
Mimi was elated that Shady had been defeated but sad that her story had evaporated along with him. She would have loved to do a piece about the new hero but the man just seemed to be a ghost. No one ever saw him and no one could understand his vast generosity. The only explanation was that he was a true philanthropist, a lover of tradition and beauty and of the quiet, perfect villages quaintly nestling so far from his South African homeland. He made sure that buildings were properly maintained and, where necessary, renovated. He provided money for the church roof. He used his influence to ensure the post office stayed open, at a time when so many others fell under the axe.
Like most South Africans he was rugby mad, and he also came to the rescue of a local amateur rugby club who found themselves without a home. Not only did he assign an area to be used as a pitch, and build changing rooms and even some seating for the crowd, he designated other estate buildings as the clubhouse, to be used gratis by the team members for functions, and as a centre for the players to participate in outdoor leisure pursuits such as cycling and hiking, all great for building team spirit.
It was rumoured that the man himself secretly watched his new amateur side play, although no one seemed to know him by sight so no one could confirm this. It was said that he was away almost permanently on business, but it remained unclear why he never showed himself in person. Perhaps the weight of being so much the hero was too much for a genuinely generous man to carry. All dealings were overseen by an estate manager, and journalists’ requests for interviews with the Great Man were politely declined. Mimi knew she would win few friends by trying to unmask a beneficiary who wished to remain anonymous.
With the status quo returned, the village lapsed back into its tranquillity. Mimi even found herself a little isolated, particularly in the winter months. Her naughtiness seemed to increase exponentially with her boredom, and since Dominic was usually otherwise engaged or unreachable she had to resort to her fingers to sate her needs. Once in a while she found herself alone in the house and could dig out the carefully secreted vibrators. But on most nights the landlady stayed resolutely at home and Mimi came close to tearing out her hair with the frustration of not daring to reach for her toys. One overheard buzz and it would be all round the village before breakfast.
Her fingers were willing substitutes, seemingly working to their own plans as soon as her bedroom door was shut. Soon even the thought of another night in her room trying to avoid the Spinster’s incessant chatter had the strange dual effect of making her chest heave and her pussy tingle with anticipation. She seemed to spend all her leisure hours lost in either sticky-fingered escapism or guilt at her own wantonness. Her fantasies became more extravagant and drawn out, her head full of images of her being pleasured or, more commonly, abused by ever greater numbers of the most immoral people imaginable.
She tried to escape the slavery of masturbation by focusing on anything that might involve her in social life and keep her from her room and her mocking sex toys. She scanned the local paper for events or clubs she might join – anything that might prove more enticing than frigging while thinking about being held down and desecrated. Then one day she saw it, a barely noticeable advert in a little box buried within the classified section of her own paper.
‘The Ana Lucia Plan: a magical way to lose weight. For girls 18–30.’
Mimi didn’t know if the figures referred to size or age, nor had she ever heard of this Ana Lucia. But that wasn’t the name that struck her most. The one below it was; the one given as the contact, with a phone number beside it: Morgana Innamorato. Mimi thought the name so exotic that she repeated it over and over in her head and then felt compelled to say out loud, just to hear it roll off her tongue. The Spinster broke off from her TV-induced trance at the sound of the words, a deep frown forming as if it were sacrilege for that name to be spoken under her roof.
‘She’s a witch,’ she said, and meant it.
The landlady felt that no other qualification was needed and went back to her soap opera. Mimi’s imagination had already been captured and so, ever the journalist, she probed further. Apparently the charge had been levelled against the woman and had never been denied. It was said that she ran a coven from her house tucked away within the estate lands, and brainwashed accomplices to help her ensnare other victims. Wicked rites were performed including ritual sacrifice. Curses were laid upon any who dared to go against them. Money was extorted from landowners all around the county in exchange for spells to bring good crops and healthy livestock. Worst of all, it seemed, was her refusal to let women either too old or too fat into her slimming club to learn the magical weight-loss secrets of the Ana Lucia Plan.
‘I’ve tried to join several times,’ huffed the portly spinster, ‘but she don’t ever allow it.’
Mimi smiled to herself, convinced now that Miss Innamorato was no more evil or insane than any of the villagers. Her heart was pumping though, enlivened by unfounded tales of sorcery by an exotically named local beauty who ran a Fat Class that banned overweight old women who talked too much. That kind of club, Mimi mused, was one that she definitely needed to seek out. And so she did.
He watched silently, stroking his pointed goatee. He liked the goatee. Very few could carry off such a devilish beard, and he was definitely one of them. Not only did it bring length and sharpness to his already strong jaw, but the sheer blackness of it seemed to make his steel-blue eyes even more piercing, if that were possible. His eyes defined him. They were mesmerising to all. Once people stared into them, and this was something they couldn’t help but do, his word became their command. It had been so since his earliest days.
‘Take that prick from your mouth and move on to the next one,’ he said, and she did.
He could see that her eyes were bright, manic even. He allowed himself a smirk of satisfaction. Always look at the eyes. All truth is stored there, on display to everyone, all of the time. His were the only exception; his only ever said, Be very scared. A silver thread of saliva joined her lips to the erect penis she had just been sucking. The wet shaft bore testament to the fact that she had avidly swallowed the whole slender length of it. She was breathing loudly