It was still quite early in the morning on that cold first day of December and the sun had not risen very high in the sky. All the young boys and girls of Happy Hill in this quaint and charming area in Landuno, Anglia were already getting ready for school and with their bags slung over their shoulders they were hurriedly saying goodbye to their parents in the hope of catching the merciless bell that would very soon ring to summon them to class .

The same scene, with no particularly important variations, would be seen in the house of Lord Ratley, scion of one of the oldest noble families in England With his three children, his eldest son John, who was twelve years old, Susan, who was two years younger, and eight-year-old Harry, saying goodbye to the man who had looked after their every need since they were so young that they could not help remembering themselves - the family's faithful butler, Harvey.

The three children, like most brothers and sisters, differed in many things, especially in character, and their appearance betrayed these differences. John Ratley had brown eyes and hair, was quite slim, not too tall for his age, and his mischievous eyes revealed a lively nature and a great appetite for mischief. His fair-haired and blue-eyed sister, Susan, with her wise looks and quiet air of superiority, prided herself on the fact that, though younger, she was much more mature than her elder brother, and delighted in reminding him of it at every opportunity, while red-eyed Harry too young to be sure with which of his two brothers he was to be allied, often seemed indecisive, and either joined his unruly brother in mischief or allowed his earnest and pretty little sister to admonish and guide him.

The three children had just finished a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausages, hot tea, croissants and jam, and in their bag they had a neat tuna sandwich and an apple for a snack. They were dressed warmly in thick woollen socks, gloves, two warm sweaters, a coat and a scarf. You see, it was the coldest December that Leduno had seen in years and the first snow was falling outside, but the children didn't mind that at all. After all, everyone knows what a snowy December means to children all over the world. It means a white Christmas, ice skating, warm chestnuts, carrot-nosed snowmen, snowball fights, snuggling up by the fireplace with stories and all the other things that make a cold winter a proper holiday. But Jack Millow, the young blond mailman, had a different opinion and wished wholeheartedly that this December had never come. The diminutive young man had been on his feet delivering the mail since too early and had already knocked on dozens of doors, had been chased by a host of dogs, had collected very few tips and, as if all that wasn't enough, he was freezing on top of it.

It was really a sad sight to see this twenty-year-old blond young man, who was sometimes tromping around on the spot, stamping his feet, trying to warm his frozen hands with his breath, and sometimes just cursing the winter and cursing this blasted job, which relieved him more than anything else.

Jack took the letter out of the mailbag hanging on his shoulder and glanced at it: 13 Nettle Street. This was the house; he had the right address, he hadn't made a mistake but it was hard to believe that anyone actually lived in that delapidated hovel .

I am not, of course, talking about Lord Ratley's large and comfortable two-storey house, but about another house a few blocks away. This ugly hovel looked to be older than England itself but Jack was sure it had seen better days. Once,a long time ago, at least two centuries ago it must have been a classic stately home with a beautiful tree garden and swings for the children but now it looked scary and forgotten by everyone. It was almost all wood and many of the boards on the walls had come loose, letting in the frosty winter cold. But as if that wasn't enough, the crumbling roof was full of holes, the door was faded and cracked, and the doorknob was blackened and rusty. The windows were broken and the shutters were rickety hanging off their hinges. Spiders had camped on the pillars supporting the front cornice and had woven huge webs. In short, it reminded Jack of the stories of haunted houses that had made him shiver with fear when he was a boy. Whoever lives here surely doesn't have any money left over to spread around to the postmen, Jack thought, so I can forget about tipping. Learned the mountains in the snow. He sighed, shrugged his shoulders indifferently, pushed open the rusty iron patio door that opened with a snap.

It was still quite early in the morning on that cold first day of December and the sun had not risen very high in the sky. All the young boys and girls of Happy Hill in this quaint and charming area in Landuno, Anglia were already getting ready for school and with their bags slung over their shoulders they were hurriedly saying goodbye to their parents in the hope of catching the merciless bell that would very soon ring to summon them to class .

The same scene, with no particularly important variations, would be seen in the house of Lord Ratley, scion of one of the oldest noble families in England With his three children, his eldest son John, who was twelve years old, Susan, who was two years younger, and eight-year-old Harry, saying goodbye to the man who had looked after their every need since they were so young that they could not help remembering themselves - the family's faithful butler, Harvey.

The three children, like most brothers and sisters, differed in many things, especially in character, and their appearance betrayed these differences. John Ratley had brown eyes and hair, was quite slim, not too tall for his age, and his mischievous eyes revealed a lively nature and a great appetite for mischief. His fair-haired and blue-eyed sister, Susan, with her wise looks and quiet air of superiority, prided herself on the fact that, though younger, she was much more mature than her elder brother, and delighted in reminding him of it at every opportunity, while red-eyed Harry too young to be sure with which of his two brothers he was to be allied, often seemed indecisive, and either joined his unruly brother in mischief or allowed his earnest and pretty little sister to admonish and guide him.

The three children had just finished a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausages, hot tea, croissants and jam, and in their bag they had a neat tuna sandwich and an apple for a snack. They were dressed warmly in thick woollen socks, gloves, two warm sweaters, a coat and a scarf. You see, it was the coldest December that Leduno had seen in years and the first snow was falling outside, but the children didn't mind that at all. After all, everyone knows what a snowy December means to children all over the world. It means a white Christmas, ice skating, warm chestnuts, carrot-nosed snowmen, snowball fights, snuggling up by the fireplace with stories and all the other things that make a cold winter a proper holiday. But Jack Millow, the young blond mailman, had a different opinion and wished wholeheartedly that this December had never come. The diminutive young man had been on his feet delivering the mail since too early and had already knocked on dozens of doors, had been chased by a host of dogs, had collected very few tips and, as if all that wasn't enough, he was freezing on top of it.

It was really a sad sight to see this twenty-year-old blond youth, who was sometimes tromping around on the spot, stamping his feet, sometimes trying to warm his shaven hands with his breath, and sometimes just cursing the winter and cursing the time and moment he got this job, which relieved him more than anything else.

Jack took the letter out of the mailbag hanging on his shoulder and glanced at it: 13 Nettle Street. This was the house; he had the right address, he hadn't made a mistake but it was hard to believe that anyone actually lived in this half-ruined ruin.

I am not, of course, talking about Lord Ratley's large and stately two-storey house, but about another house a few blocks away. This ugly hovel looked to be older than England itself but Jack was sure it had seen better days. Once,a long time ago, at least two centuries ago it must have been a classic stately home with a beautiful tree garden and swings for the children but now it looked scary and forgotten by everyone. It was almost all wood and many of the boards on the walls had come loose, letting in the agias and frost. But as if that wasn't enough, the crumbling roof was full of holes, the door was faded and cracked, and the robe was blackened and rusted. The windows were broken and the shutters were rickety hanging off their hinges. Spiders had camped on the pillars supporting the front cornice and had woven huge webs. In short, it reminded Jack of the stories of haunted houses that had made him shiver with fear when he was a boy. Whoever lives here surely doesn't have any money left over to spread around to the postmen, Jack thought, so I can forget about tipping. Learned the mountains in the snow. He sighed, shrugged his shoulders indifferently, pushed open the rusty iron patio door that opened with a snap.

The trees in the garden, black and mournful, rose menacingly around the lad and stretched out their branches like skeletal arms as if they wanted to snatch him away, but Jack had a strong sense of duty and he wasn't going to coward like a woman's wife. He would only leave after he had finished his work, the world would be a mess.

He climbed the few steps leading up to the old door and rang the bell, which of course was broken. "What a surprise!" he muttered, and grasping uncomfortably the unpleasant, blackened robe, he rang three times loudly. 'Everything about me must be accidental,' grumbled the postman. If anyone lives here, I'll change my name.

- Who is it? a strange old and unpleasantly shrill voice was heard to ask.

- You 've got to be kidding, Jack thought, someone is living in this damn place after all. I'd better talk.

- Postman! he shouted loudly, does a Mrs. Edna Ward live here? I have a letter for her.

- 'Just a minute, my lad,' replied the same voice.

Footsteps were heard approaching, a key turned in the lock, the door opened to reveal a creature that could hardly be described as human. An old woman so hunched, wrinkled, and ugly that the young man, at the first glance of her, felt a strong desire to run away. She was full of huge hairy moles, fuzzy, bony, with a protruding jaw and a long hooked nose. As if that weren't enough, it stank and smelled so awful that Jack wished wholeheartedly that it didn't have a nose.

- Well, cried the old hag, where is my letter? "Are you Edna Worth?" asked the young man, unable to restrain a grimace of dislike and disgust at the contact with this disgusting old man.

- 'I am, prettty boy,' cackled the old woman; ' I have a letter for you, replied Jack, , whose only thought was to get up and go as fast as he could.

- 'Here it is,' he said, holding out his hand with the envelope for the old woman to take.

She snatched it from his hands and cackled.

- 'Don't leave yet; 'something tells me you don't like me, and that hurts my feelings. I'm a sensitive girl. A little tip might change your mind.

Jack had a bad feeling, but a tip for a postman is always welcome no matter who it comes from. So he extended his hand once again. The old woman laughed stretched her arm and placed something on his palm. Jack shuddered all over as something slimy and round with an unpleasant texture touched his hand. Immediately, with an unpleasant feeling he pulled it away to see what he was holding. For a moment he was shocked all his hairs stood up. He had frozen in terror and he could not react. What the crone had given him was nothing else but the huge, bulging, vein-filled bulb of an unnatural eye that was moving as if it were alive staring around with malice. Its iris was bright red and glowed demonically.

Filled with horror the postman gave a howl and threw the disgusting thing away.

- You threw away my tip, the old woman squealed, looking offended. Now you've hurt me and I'm going to be angry. And straightway she muttered something unintelligible and smiled horribly.

Horrified, Jack saw her already ugly and horrible face deform even more, until it became truly monstrous. In a few moments pointed teeth sprang out of her gaping mouth; her eyes bulged like an owl's; a huge forked tongue emerged from her lips; her fingers lengthened and her nails tripled until they were like the claws of a wild animal.

-Come, my pretty one, give us a kiss, said the monster in a slobbering terrible voice.

That's it! Jack, abandoning the last vestiges of courage left to him, screamed with all the strength of his voice, crossed the cobbled lane with lightning speed and, covered in sweat, rushed like a madman to the rusty courtyard door, shrieking in terror for help.

- "Kiss me, kiss me pretty boy," came from behind him, and these words were followed by a terrible evil laugh.

As soon as the postman had disappeared the old woman, whose name, as we already know, was Edna Wart, assumed her first form, and bursting out laughing, entered the wretched ruin that served as her home.

Jack was old enough, and had long since ceased to believe in fairy-tale creatures. So for a long time after this incident he had no idea if it had really happened or if he had dreamed it, but he resolutely refused to deliver a letter even three blocks away from the strange house. Soon he even quit his job and took a job in a shoe store. The explanations that this nice young mailman tried to give for what had happened to him were the kind of explanations that people usually give in such cases: Concussion, trauma, hallucinations, overwork, and at most, an alien invasion. Of course, if he were a little younger, he would have no trouble guessing the truth:

The old woman who had opened the door for him that day was nothing but a perfectly ordinary, wicked witch.

There are several books that argue with great authority that witches are different from what traditional fairy tales describe them and give various descriptions, but the truth is different. Wicked witches are exactly as the old stories describe them. Black-robed old women with black hair, hunched and full of moles, with pointy hats, magic books and flying brooms. The meaner, the uglier they are as if the blackness of their souls comes out on their faces and disfigures them. But Edna Worth was one of the worst that were around in England at that time, she was the most wicked ugly and cunning witch you could meet, she was more than just evil, she was so horrible that the other evil witches held her up as a role model and she would have been a permanent chairman at their meetings if it hadn't been for another witch just as awful, Meg, who always claimed the same position.

I can't describe the excitement of this twisted witch when she opened the letter Jack brought her and read it. Her little buttonhole-like, devilish eyes shot sparks. "Yoo-hoo!" cried the old hag, and mad with joy she began to leap and dance in the steamy, dusty old-fashioned furniture-filled hall.

There is an infallible way to tell a witch from a merely ugly old woman without her displaying any of her magical abilities. Wonder how one can do that? What gives her away is her formidable agility and unyielding stamina. Witches may be wrinkled, hunched, wrinkled and look frail and sickly, but that's just their cover. A true witch can, if she wants to, balance herself on a tightrope wearing her thick shoes. Jump without effort as high as a champion skilled pole vaulter. To dance and bounce for three days and three nights without getting out of breath, and all without using a spell. It's as natural to her as walking is to us.

As soon as the postman had disappeared the old woman, whose name, as we already know, was Edna Worth, assumed her first form and, laughing her head off, went into the wretched ruin that served as her home.

Jack was quite old, and had long since ceased to believe in fairy-tale creatures. So for a long time after this incident he had no idea if it had really happened or if he had dreamed it, but he resolutely refused to deliver a letter even three blocks away from the strange house. Soon he even quit his job and took a job in a shoe store. The explanations that this nice young mailman tried to give for what had happened to him were the kind of explanations that grown-ups usually give in such cases: Concussion, trauma, hallucinations, overwork, and at most, an alien invasion of Leduno. Of course, if he were a little younger, he would have no trouble guessing the truth:

The old woman who had opened the door for him that day was nothing but a perfectly ordinary, nothing special wicked witch.

There are several books that argue with great authority that witches are different from what traditional fairy tales describe them and give various descriptions, but the truth is different. Wicked witches are exactly as the old stories describe them. Black-robed old women with black hair, hunched over and full moles, with pointy hats, magic books and flying brooms. The meaner, the uglier they are as if the blackness of their souls comes out on their faces and disfigures them. But Edna Worth was one of the worst that were around in England at that time, she was the most wicked ugly and cunning witch you could meet, she was more than just evil, she was so horrible that the other evil witches held her up as a role model and she would have been a permanent chairman at their meetings if it hadn't been for another witch just as awful, Meg, who always claimed the same position.

I can't describe the excitement of this twisted witch when she opened the letter Jack brought her and read it. Her little buttonhole-like, devilish eyes shot sparks. "Yoo-hoo!" cried the old hag, and mad with joy she began to leap and dance in the steamy, dusty old-fashioned furniture-filled hall.

There is an infallible way to tell a witch from a merely ugly old woman without her displaying any of her magical abilities. Wonder how one can do that? What gives her away is her formidable agility and unyielding stamina. Witches may be wrinkled, hunched, wrinkled and look frail and sickly, but that's just their cover. A true witch can, if she wants to, balance herself on a tightrope wearing her thick shoes. Jump without effort as high as a champion skilled pole vaulter. To dance and bounce for three days and three nights without getting out of breath, and all without using a spell. It's as natural to her as walking is to us.

You should have stood in a corner and watched this haggard and unkempt little grizzly sucking and prancing like a wildcat in her dilapidated house, doing incredible dance moves, clucking like a chicken, shrieking in a state of frenzy and even frightening her bat, Yak, who was used to seeing all sorts of strange things from her, without wonder or surprise.

The cause of all this mad frolic of the villainess was the letter she held in her hand.

- Do you see it, Yak?" she screamed, waving the letter proudly before the face of her jet-black bat. 'This paper I hold in my hand is my long overdue triumph, the recognition of my superiority by those miserable hags of the Council of Wicked Witches of Gaul, and the utter crushing and embaressment of my ill-fated rival, that pathetic magpie called Meg, who has been competing with me for nearly two centuries and trying to prove herself superior to me in wickedness. Who? Me, the most horrible, most evil and most terrifying witch . Here it is plainly written. My pathetic co-witches are almost on their knees begging me to preside over the next meeting.

Yak, remaining icily indifferent to all this, devoured a plump insect and looked at Edna with an almost condescending look.

- 'What is the meaning of this please?' she said angrily; 'you doubt that the old crones are humiliated before me.

Here it says it plainly:

"Dear Edna Wart,

...you have been chosen to preside at our next meeting on January 13th."

and they all have signed it .What more can they do? Crawl? The only thing I'm worried about is that the slimy caterpillar Meg, will try to influence them, she will make up some list of imaginary evil deeds to prove she's more wicked and evil than I am. That would humiliate me.

- And what are you thinking of doing?" asked Yak indifferently, chewing appetizingly on a plump fly.

- 'I'll tell you exactly what I'm going to do,' Edna spat hostilely, pouting her wrinkled and incredibly puckered lips. 'I'll put on my pointy hat, ride my flying broom and with my spell book in hand I'll fly over the city and cast my most deliciously spicy and wonderfully evil spells. The denizens of Lendunu will remember this day, but most importantly, I will put the glasses on all the other hags and make a fool of that dimwit viper Meg.