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© 2026 J.C. Harris. All rights reserved. This extract may not be copied, reproduced, distributed or used for AI training without written permission.
CHAPTER ONE
I swear there's going to be another murder at the witch’s house.
Staring out the window, I spot them again. Three this time. Circling under the jacaranda tree, droning that same stupid chant into the dark like they're stuck on repeat.
'Ruby Hive used to thrive.'
They’ve all got this hollow, sing-song sound to their voices, like they all belong to some creepy club. Do they actually practise this stuff? That’s a lot of effort to creep me out. Sneaking a look through the curtain, I try to catch their faces in the fading light.
Amy Plim and her plastic posse? Doubt they’d waste time practising anything. Those girls wouldn’t get their heels muddy without a ring light and a string of hashtags. And anyway, surely, they don’t care about me enough to become my personal stalkers. Unless you count the rumours. The ones about me being a witch. That is hilarious, considering Mum won’t even let me near anything remotely witchy. I’m not even allowed to wear black anymore, not since that one-time-only deal. And, of course, she made me peel the crescent moon sticker off my laptop because it looked witchy. Even mentioning tarot cards or crystals makes her lips go all thin and tight.
You’d think I was summoning demons, not just following my socials. Between her witch-ban and the local kids chanting about souls and shoes, I’m the only one not obsessed with this whole creepy witch house.
Slamming the curtain down, I stamp my feet as hard as I can in my slippers. The loose floorboards beneath me groan in protest. Flopping into Mum’s old armchair, I cup my hands over my ears.
‘At home with a key.’
I’ve got a key alright, and it’s about to fly through the window at their chanty little heads if they don’t shut up. Too bad Mum would lose it if I broke anything.
‘But they took her soul.'
Fudge. All I’ve got is a pillow, and that’s not exactly a weapon.
‘A witch she’ll forever be.’
I peg the pillow as hard as I can. It hits the glass and drops to the floor with a pitiful plumpf. The chanting stops. Suddenly, there’s a strange hush, as if the air all around is holding its breath. But it’s not like they’re bored. It’s more like something, or someone else, has heard them.
Sitting completely still, I listen hard for any sound from the three chanty-heads out the front. Have they packed up and suddenly gone home? My eyes catch on the old mirror next to the fireplace. I flick my dark red hair over my shoulder and stare hard at myself.
I’m not scared. I’m curious. That’s it. Curious.
A heartbeat later, the chanting starts up again, louder than ever, sending me storming off to find Mum.
‘So, hide a shoe, up a flue.
Trap the witch before she gets you!’
***
© 2026 J.C. Harris. All rights reserved. This extract may not be copied, reproduced, distributed or used for AI training without written permission.