At first they thought the house next door was empty.

Mrs. Seymour the clairvoyant spent many hours in seclusion behind curtained windows. By day there was respectable, old-fashioned white lace. At night the purple velvet drapes closed in her world as she read the cards for her clients. Strangers came to the house, usually in the evening. All were quite old, though rarely as old as Mrs. Seymour herself. Most visitors came alone. All were soberly dressed. They would walk at a measured pace, and with such grave faces they seemed to bear within their hearts some sad truth they were hiding from the world.

The girls knew for certain Mrs. Seymour was a witch. It was possible her visitors were spirits returning from the dead. Certainly they had about them a look which was not of the living world.

Most visitors came alone. All were soberly dressed. They would walk at a measured pace, and with such grave faces they seemed to bear within their hearts some sad truth they were hiding from the world.

When the girls first saw Mrs. Seymour’s house they understood at once that it was different. Even on a sunlit day in early summer the house had a dread in the impenetrable windows and the dark paint of its wood. The stone was no darker than any house in the street, but they seemed darker. The stone surely would be cold to touch. No one dared walk through the garden to the house itself to feel how cold and strange the stones were. Once you opened the garden gate, and stepped inside, the gate would close behind you. The garden hedges were high. There was no knowing what secrets they hid. But one thing was sure: an intruder would disappear. The thought was terrible, unimaginable, and darkly thrilling. Picturing the secret world of a witch was a stimulating topic.

The girls hoped that one day the curtains might part, that fresh wind would blow through the house and so reveal all the unknown things that were happening in the darkness and silence. These things were unimaginable, of course, and were likely to prove terrifying. From a distance the speculation was endlessly fascinating.

“Mrs. Seymour is quite old,” their mother explained. “She isn’t a witch, just a little strange. But you must never say anything to her.” They did not dare. On the rare occasions they saw Mrs. Seymour the girls always looked away if she turned in their direction. They did not go near. They made loud excuses to cross the street, and so avoid her, were she walking towards them at any time. It did not occur to the girls that a clairvoyant who knew secrets might know what they were thinking. It did not occur to the girls that their behaviour was obvious to anyone. Nor did they suppose strange old ladies to be perceptive.