30 CAMERON CAITIFF
October 26
I thought Marge was joking when she read me the address of the vandalism complaint call on Old Post Road. I knew the location well. Everyone did. It was the old Victorian house, smack dab in the middle of town. When I was growing up, all of us kids were certain that the old woman who lived there was a witch. She terrified us; always dressed in black, her gray hair long and wiry. We would ride our bikes down the narrow road past her house and see her glaring at us from her porch, her withered body hunched over so she had to turn her neck to the side to look up. Her features were as crooked as the branches on the trees that surrounded the place. Vines and twigs crawled up the porch, up the walls, and along the faded and chipped shutters along the windows. No o
