Mad Witch

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They called her a witch. She ate children, not sparing even the good ones. Those were her favourite since they were the sweetest. Any child who went into her flat was never seen coming out. When asked where was that cute little girl, the witch would just shrug while smacking her lips.

"Not only that, she's also gila, not right in the head," concluded Raihan, sitting on the stairs leading to the fourth floor.

"Come on, lah, where got witches nowadays?" Bilal folded his arms in stubborn defiance.

"You go ahead then. Her unit's right over there. Say hi to that witch - if you dare."

"Of course I dare." Bilal smirked. "But with a six month's supply of your mother's chicken curry."

"Three months or we'll label you a chicken until PSLE is over."

"Deal."

They sealed it with a fist bump, both grinning wide.

Anyone could tell instantly where the witch's home was. Evil-beings didn't have time for interior design, too busy scheming their evil deeds. So the dirtiest unit was likely hers. The one with the piles of damp cardboard boxes, disarrayed potted plants and other unknown junk scattered outside. The one that had its door slightly ajar as if beckoning all children to go inside. The inside which was ominously dark on a bright sunny afternoon.

Bilal swallowed hard. This was too much like a horror game he had once played. If he pushed the door further back, there was highly likely a jumpscare. He nearly screamed when Raihan elbowed him in the ribs.

"Go in already," urged him roughly.

That chicken curry didn't seem too tasty now. Maybe he should back out.

But his best friend was already snapping away with his smartphone. Then with a swipe on his screen, he announced, "And we're live, people."

Crap, no backing out now. The entire school was watching him. He didn't miss the mocking chicken noises either. Bilal looked around. When entering a horror game, you were always equipped with a weapon. He found a badminton racquet amongst the pile of newspapers. Raihan gave him a face. But it was better than nothing.

With his own phone light, Bilal sneaked in first, stopping short when the door whined. Sensing no movement, they proceeded on. It was a poorly lit home. The windows were closed and heavily tinted. No sofa or coffee table in the living room. Instead there was a working table, cluttered with colourful fabrics, wooden pieces and small metallic bits. Some had been put together to form strange puppets. A wall nearby was lined with various sizes of screwdrivers, a heavy duty cutter, a power drill -

"You think she cut children with them?" Raihan whispered.

Bilal shone at the table. None of its stains looked like blood. The rumours did say she was always tinkering with something. In the nights, neighbours often hear a bizarre hissing, small popping explosions, a cat meowing and then a baby crying. The last part had made the neighbours called the police. But no baby was found, save for a headless doll.

"Wait, bro, are - are those bones?" Raihan gripped his arm. He pointed to a stool.

A plastic food container laid open on it. Several tiny bones were in it. A huge one in particular was sticking out from it. Did human bones look like that? Children's bones were quite small. Bilal had to be sure. Trembling, he shone his light to it.

The kitchen toilet flushed.

"I'm outta here!" Raihan shoved him hard to the floor.

And Bilal couldn't get up in time. Fear made him too slow to rush after his friend. The metallic toilet door was already swinging open, groaning like a monster hungry for young intruders. If he didn't hide now, he was going to be eaten raw.

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