There was once a farmer who suspected that his maid was up to no good. She finished her work not only sooner than everyone else but better, too. Most farmers would have been glad to have such a diligent and energetic maid, but this one was not. He had once moved the broom she used to sweep the floor, and when he touched the wood, he felt evil resided in it. A strange, wild energy also surrounded her. Something mysterious. Dark. Otherworldly. Something he didn’t want to have anything to do with.

So, the farmer commanded his daughter to sleep in the maid’s room, but she wasn’t allowed to close her eyes. She had to stay awake and report every occurrence, no matter how small, to him. The farmer’s daughter dutifully obeyed and crawled underneath the sheets next to the maid. The maid got out of bed at eleven o’clock and left the room. But that wasn’t what confounded the farmer’s daughter. The maid was still there beside her, though she didn’t seem to breathe. Her body felt cold. The daughter tried to shake her awake, but the maid didn’t move. She stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. The trembling girl considered running to her father’s bedroom and waking him up. What if the figure she had seen walking out of the room was the maid’s spirit, and the maid was now dead? It seemed the only logical explanation.

But witches don’t like logic. At four in the morning, the spirit suddenly came into the room and returned to bed. The dead body that had been lying lifelessly beside the farmer’s daughter vanished, and to be sure that she wasn’t imagining things, she touched the maid’s bare arm. Warm. Definitely not a dead body.

‘Where have you been? What happened? Why was there…?’ the farmer’s daughter had more questions than a beehive has bees, but the maid shushed her.

‘If you promise not to betray me, I will show you this evening,’ the maid said. The farmer’s daughter promised. When daylight broke, she told her father that nothing odd had happened, but that she would like to sleep in the maid’s room for just one more night to be sure. The farmer agreed, proud that his daughter took this holy duty so seriously.

That night, both women snuck out. In the garden, a big, black dog waited for them. Its sharp teeth were barred, and spit flew out of the canine’s mouth as it growled, but when the maid stroked its forehead, the dog’s eyes showed only love and admiration. The two women sat on the animal’s back, and the dog took them deep into the woods.

There, they found themselves in the company of women who wore silver dresses and black flowers in their hair. They danced and sang to the most beautiful music the farmer’s daughter had ever heard. Cats chanted in the trees, hares hopped around mushroom circles, and there was even a ghost playing an enchanted melody on the violin while the being floated melancholically through the night sky.

‘Lord, Jesus!’ exclaimed the young girl, ‘how wondrous this place is!’

It was. And then it wasn’t. The name of the Son of God had barely left her lips when everyone suddenly vanished. The farmer’s daughter was alone. Wolves howled in the not-so-far distance, and they weren’t happy. Rodents rustled through the leaves and every now and then she thought she heard a fox move through the undergrowth.

The next morning, she saw people passing by and asked them for something to eat, but they didn’t understand her and she soon realised that she must be further away from home than she had initially thought. She was hungry and lost. Somewhere there had to be a friendly face who would offer her a cup of tea in front of the hearth, but she didn’t dare to stray from the place where the witches had vanished.

Then, the clock struck eleven again. To her relief, the beautiful women returned, and so did the maid. As always, she arrived in style on the back of a dog, but her face was red with anger.

‘I don’t want to hear you make a single sound,’ the maid said, ‘don’t even cough or sneeze. If you do, they will break your neck, and I will be happy to help.’

The farmer’s daughter didn’t even dare to whisper ‘I promise.’ She watched as the witches feasted. A woman who had not been there the night before arrived in a carriage, was bathed in a spring the witches said was unholy, and therefore, very powerful, before being welcomed into the coven.

When morning came, the maid and the farmer’s daughter travelled back on the dog to the farm. No one knows what became of the farmer’s daughter after that night. It is assumed that she held her tongue and lived a long life. Others whisper that she learned the witches’ songs and never spoke a holy word again.

Featured art: Victor Gabriel Gilbert