There's a witch living in the neighborhood.
A real one.
The sort that, when the wind is just right, you can smell the sulfur.
The sort that steals little children and cooks them in a cauldron that she keeps in the basement. Then eats them.
The sort that the Brothers Grimm wrote about.
The witch is pure evil, through and through. She's mean and lives in a cottage painted a hideous shade of green. To match her skin.
She's reported to have had children, so I know for a fact that she can cast an evil spell on men.
I've never heard her say a kind word about anyone.
She accuses anyone who ever showed her the most minuscule kindness of all sort of misdeeds.
What she doesn't know is that everyone know she's a witch. She can't hide it.
You can tell just by looking at her.
She might as well wear a sign.
When she dies, we'll have a party in the street with a bonfire.
And sing “Ding Dong the Witch is Dead” until the sun rises the next day.