I myself, just seven year old, was crouched on the floor at her feet, wearing pajamas, dressing-gown and slippers.
“You swear you aren’t pulling my leg?” I kept saying to her.
“You swear you aren’t just pretending?”
“Listen,” she said, “I have known no less than five children who have simply vanished off the face of this earth, never to be seen again. The witches took them.”
“I still think you’re just trying to frighten me,” I said
“I am trying to make sure you don’t go the same way,” she said.
“I love you and I want you to stay with me.”
“Tell me about the children who disappeared,” I said.
My grandmother was the only grandmother I ever met who smoked cigars. She lit one now, a long black cigar that smelled of burning rubber.