‘Misty,’ I hiss. There’s no response from her. I try again: ‘Misty!’
I curse her under my breath, but I’m really just afraid. It’s 3am. There’s no traffic on the road outside the field and if I cried for help, I doubt my sleeping parents would hear me. I cast a covetous look back at the house and my own bedroom lit by a low light. I should be safe in there, not out here in my pyjamas and boots, looking for an errant cat that doesn’t realise it’s in serious danger.
‘Misty!’ I whisper urgently, ’the blob is going to get you!’
When I say blob, I mean a literal blob. I’ve only caught glimpses of it from my bedroom window when I’ve dared to look at the field late at night, and sometimes it’s very big, sometimes about my height, but it’s always an indefinable thing, a ball of malice. I hate it and I fear it and nobody would understand, because they can’t see it.
So people would probably call me a witch, though I don’t like that at all because to me a witch casts spells and probably has a green face and all. I do have a cat (that would be Misty) but she’s a lazy moggy who can’t be told what to do, so she’d be the worst familiar. continue reading…