An old lady with long white hair sat inside a quint old cottage out in the Lake District of the North West of England. She had a rather youthful look on her face however, that made look nearly almost for her to be in-between her  20’s to mid 30’s at least. She had very pale green eyes, she was 5ft and fin tall when standing, but for now, she was sat upon a cream off-white sofa that had on it four assorted cushions, one of which was almost tartan like with its red and partial green stripes.

The other 3 cushions were of different floral designs, with a couple of magazines between the two front floral cushions, with the third one directly behind them and next to the sofa was a lovely open fireplace with a real log fire.

(Cottage Living Room)

The only thing that indicated that the lady who was sat down on the sofa, was old, was her very long white hair. Her name was Molly and she in actual fact was 90 years old. No one would know simply by looking at her and she definitely did not dress like one of your regular old ladies too, she wore a black leatherjacket that matched her black leather skirt, she wore a plain white top, white tights that almost looked like little girls tights and upon her feet she had of a pair of bunny shaped slippers.

(Molly)

The outside of Molly’s cottage, was quite quaint indeed, it had 14 windows in total, four at the main front of the house, with two smaller ones on either side of it with two matching windows and another set of 4 large windows at the back of it. There was 3 chimneys, a front door and a back door. All over the cottage was various shades of moss on the walls, one with two different shades of green and one very lovely rustic kind of red.

(Molly’s Cottage)

Molly picked up the two magazines that were on the sofa and then she went over to the bookcase that was directly behind her and she picked out a large leather bound book and then she brought it with her, as she sat back down on the sofa. She then opened it up and then looked directly up away form the book itself, as though she was looking at someone.

‘Well hello there. Yes, I am talking to you, yes you and yes I am aware of you sat there watching me. Don’t ask silly questions, to put things simply to you, I am a Witch and as such, I am very much well aware of you. By the way, welcome to my humble abode.’

‘Why are you here? I hear you ask? Well. . . I invited you over here silly. I am going to read to you a story, it is about vanishings. Now please do be quiet, while I read it to you. Are you sitting comfortably? Good, then I shall begin. We start this story being in the nineteenth century, it was Friday the Thirteenth on the third of march nineteen thirty six and there once was a man called Giovanni Rinaldi. He was 20 years old, he stood at 6ft tall with a slender frame, he had swept up short black hair, he had black pools for eyes and he had a black moustache and a small black beard upon his chin. ‘

‘He wore a greyish like brown frock coat with a matching waistcoat and trousers. With that, he had on a pristine white shirt with a black cravat. On his feet were a pair of white socks and black shoes. On his hands, he wore off-white gloves and he held a cane. It was the year nineteen thirty six, as he looked at his son in annoyance for not keeping still, while he was painting a portrait of him.

Giovanni Rinaldi

“Father. Must I really wear these girly clothes and look like a little girl?” Stated Angelus in annoyance, who looked completely identical to his father, except for the fact that he was 18 years old, and that his hair was now held underneath a hair net and that he was wearing a long blonde wig in the style of two cute pigtails and he now looked nothing quite like his age, wearing a ridiculous cross between a maids dress and a little girls dress all in one design, it was very short in length and it barely covered his frilly knickers, which seemed almost out of place somehow.

On his legs were two pairs of white stockings, over the bottom part of those were a pair of ankle length frilly laced socks and atop of those were a pair of pink shoes. Oddly enough on the top part of his left thigh was a frilly white garter. “Paintings of boys your age do not fetch much in the art world, paintings of little boys I have already done, but nothing sells better and are more sought after are paintings of little girls.” Replied Giovanni, sounding quite annoyed with his son, who looked a litte confused about the actual garter, little girls are not suppsed to wear those, but the garter oddly came as part of the whole entire little girl costume.

“Where on Earth did you get this unusual costume set from Father?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that.” Replied Giovanni, hoping that his son would simply keep still. “Why not?” Asked Angelus in shear defiance. “Keep that up and your fidgeting and I will give you a flogging. That matter is of a private affair and it is best that you leave it at that. Now stop fidgeting will you!” Replied Geovanni.

“These clothes feel really strange on me father, they are quite unlike any kind of little girls clothes that I have ever seen.” Replied Angelus not at all as to the affect by wearing  such girly clothing was having on him. “They are merely just part of the costume, don’t smile, I need to you look very natural.” Said Geovanni. “I’ll try father.”

Replied Angelus not at all sounding too happy. He hated the fact that he had been asked to dress like a little girl, Angelus almost had a fit when he saw what his father wanted him to wear for the portrait painting. He finally managed to strike the right pose as the saying goes, just then, his father oddly gave his son a wicked grin, suddenly and unexpectedly a strange white mist seem to appear from nowhere and it was slowly filling up the entire room that he and his father was inside of, which was the main living room.

Angelus let out oddly a girlish shriek, followed by his father who bellowed out a loud menacing crack of heavy laughter. Ha. . . Ha. . . Ha. . . Ha.”

‘This is not the end of the story my dearies, oh no. . . Far from it. This is just simply but the beginning. To Be continued, Next time my dearies. Next TIME.’