The Witch Who Isn’t There

Imperial War Museum

Bethlem Hospital, London (Photo credit: Secret Pilgrim)

I’m almost 2/3rds of the way into my new project, a dark mystery set in Victorian England – both London and St Mary’s Church in Chesham. I wanted to touch many themes, not the least being the puzzle of insanity in an age where such things were attributed to the length of ones nose. It’s the story of a man thought to be mad, his doctor, a kidnapped South American boy, and four dead young girls.

What surprised me most about writing this story was the voice my brain, my energy, my muse, chose to speak in. From the beginning it told me what kind of story this would be. How?

By giving me a poem.

It is a children’s poem, recited as a sort of talisman to ward off evil by those who feared they might be next.  It appears on Page 2 of the novel.

A man with long black hair once came

To fill the clergy’s cup with shame.

He took the girls to ring the bell

And sent them on their way to hell.

Jonny Thatch ate out their eyes,

A Florin each to leave them by.

St. Mary’s calls for those who dare,

Behold the witch who isn’t there.

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