The way these things always start is you are lost in the deep dark woods. Then, as these things go, sooner or later, you’re bound to come upon a forlorn old hut, probably made of mud with the usual thatched roof of grasses.

Normally, you would avoid such a place like the plague (as they say), but you are tired and hungry, and so being, you’ve lost all sense of reason. Or maybe as a kid you never read, or had read to you, such dark tales, so you go ahead and knock on the door. Maybe someone inside will give you something to eat and drink, or at least tell you how to get out of these terrible woods

A hideous, almost growling voice, will undoubtedly say something like, “Who is it there knocking, knocking, knocking upon my lonely door?”

You, getting into the spirit of the thing, might say, “It is I, a lost and tired and hungry stranger, who is knocking, knocking, knocking upon your lonely door (if you only knew what awaited you inside the dark and dreary hut, you would have already made a run for it and be now dashing through the bushes and brambles, stumbling and falling only to jump back up and keep on running, with the all-but-impenetrable underbrush somehow seems to have come alive so it feels like it is trying desperately to keep you from escaping, and the patches of brambles seem to be filled with anger as they tear at your clothes until they are all in tatters, and even then the insidious scheming treacherous brambles tear at your very flesh, but nevertheless, you would still keep on running, somehow stumbling forward, by now thinking how lucky you were to escape a terrible fate—but no, you, not being able to see into the future like I can, are still standing in front of the witch’s door, waiting for whatever what will be your inevitable fate).

Waiting, you hear the sound of something dragging inside. It comes closer and closer to the door. It is someone dragging something? Or is it a crippled person dragging a damaged leg?

The door opens. Standing there is a bent-over old woman dressed in a ragged black outfit embroidered with gold stars. A tall and pointed wide-brimmed black hat hides most of her face, but you can tell she is old. (But actually, she’s not all that old. In fact, she may not be all that bad looking under that floppy black hat.) You might be wondering why she is wearing such an odd outfit, but then you ask yourself, Well, what did you expect someone living in such a sad-looking run-down hut in the deepest darkest part of the forest to look like? You smile at her, and for some reason you find yourself doing a little bow.

She too is smiling at you. Or is it a wry smirk?

“What?” she says, “You were perhaps expecting someone else? A gnarled old witch perhaps? An ugly old woman with a crooked nose and a hairy mole on her face? Well, I may not look like that kind of witch, but I am a witch, a long-standing member of Witches of the World, also known by the ridiculous acronym of WOW.”

A witch? Are witches real? Confused by her statement, you mumble, “No, not at all. I mean, well, I didn’t know what to expect. I was just looking for something to eat and drink.”

“Something to eat,” she says, followed by a pretty good imitation of a witch’s nasty cackle. “I suppose you were expecting my house to be made of cake and my windows to be made of sugar candy, so you could go ahead and eat your fill. Well, I did consider that, but the county building inspector wouldn’t go for it, so tough luck for you. You’ll have to be satisfied with a few sips of my secret witch’s brew, a lot of good it will do you.” She again does her odd nasty cackle.

“No, that’s fine,” you say, still naively not expecting anything untoward. “A bit of your witch’s brew sounds great, and then I’ll be on my way.”

The witch stares at you for a long uncomfortable moment. Finally, she says, “Now I get it. Your mother didn’t read you these kinds of stories when you were little. If this was a story, the readers would think you’ve stumbled into peril. Well, you are not in peril. I am the other kind of witch, the kind kind. I will not turn you into a frog or anything like that. Instead, I will feed you and take care of you, and we will live happily ever after.”

You are not sure what “ever after” means, but again, if this was a story, the reader would know what she meant. It would mean she’s been very lonely living out there all alone in those deep dark woods, so she intends to drug you with her witch’s brew and then bewitch you (which after all, is what witch’s do) into thinking she is not an old witch but is instead a beautiful young princess with which you want to spend the rest of your days living out there in those deep dark woods being her lover and her slave, perhaps even helping her rebuild her house out of cake in order to attract lost children, some to eat, and some to keep around as pets.

And since this actually is a story, so it will be.