“I look after my daughter well!” the woman snapped angrily. “I wouldn’t allow her to wander off and get into danger. Yesterday, just after dusk, I went into the garden through the back door to peg out some washing. I’d left her sitting on her little stool by the kitchen hearth, eating a biscuit. I wasn’t away more than a couple of minutes. When I got back, she was gone. The witch had come in through the front door and taken her. The door was blowing in the wind, slamming back against the bricks. That door had been locked.”

Tom stared at her silently. I could sense his concern growing.

“What’s your daughter’s name?” I asked.

“Katie, her name’s Katie, and she’s only three.”

I began to wonder if this might be the work of another Kobalos beast, but the woman’s reply to Tom Ward’s next question confirmed that it was indeed a witch.

“You’ve searched the whole area thoroughly, no doubt?” he asked.

The woman nodded, tears streaming down her face. “We know where she is, but nobody dares go there. Even the men are scared. Five of them, led by my husband, set off with dogs to track Katie. They found the witch’s cottage, all right, but could do nothing. Ahead of them, they heard the dogs howling in the darkness, as if they were being skinned alive. Then they fell quiet, and before the men knew what was happening, something truly monstrous attacked them. When they returned to the village, my husband had to be carried. He’s maimed for life—his kneecap’s shattered and his leg’s broken in three places. They spoke of a huge invisible creature that came through the trees and smashed his leg. It’s made a cripple of him. He won’t be able to do farmwork anymore. How will we live?”

I’d been looking forward to going out on a job with Tom, but this was beginning to sound really scary.

“Who is this witch?” Tom asked, frowning. “What does she call herself?”

“She calls herself Bibby Longtooth and she’s an incomer. She’s only been in the area for about a month. She talks funny. Somebody said she was from down south, somewhere in Essex.”

Without delay, we set off for Ribchester with the woman, whose name we learned was Margaret. We didn’t talk much, but Margaret continued to sob all the way. She was so upset that I found it difficult to be near her. Her anguish seeped into my mind. I experienced her sorrow and torment as if it was my own; I couldn’t keep it at bay.

When we reached the village, we talked to Margaret’s husband. He kept breaking down and crying too. I don’t like watching men cry. They try to be strong most of the time, so when they go to pieces like this, you know it’s really bad. Mostly, I knew, he was crying for his missing child, who he didn’t expect to see again, but he also cried for himself and for his hopeless future.