'You might as well take a closer look, lad,' said the Spook, 'so that you can see what we're dealing with. Hold up your candle and look down but be sure to keep your feet well back!'
I didn't want to do it but the Spook's voice was firm. It was a command. To look down into the pit was part of my training, so I had no choice.
I leaned my body forwards, keeping my toes well back from the bars, and held the candle up so that it cast a flickering yellow light down into the pit. At that very moment I heard a noise from below and something big scuttled across the floor and into the dark shadows in the near corner. It sounded wick with life, as if it could scamper up the wall of the pit faster than you could blink!
'Hold your candle right over the bars and take a proper look!' commanded the Spook.
I obeyed, holding it out at arm's length. At first all I could see were two large cruel eyes staring up at me, two points of fire reflecting the candle flame. As I looked more carefully, I saw a large gaunt face framed by a tangle of thick greasy hair, and a squat scaly body below it. There were four limbs and they were more like arms than legs, with large elongated hands that ended in long sharp claws.
I shuddered and my hand trembled so much that I almost dropped the candle through the bars. I stepped back too quickly and nearly fell over, but the
Spook caught hold of my shoulder and steadied me.
'Not a pretty sight, is it, lad' he muttered, shaking his head. 'What we've got down there is a lamia witch. She looked human enough over twenty years ago when I first put her there. Now she's become feral again. That's what happens when you put a lamia witch in a pit. Deprived of human companionship, she slowly reverts to type. And even after all these years she's still strong. That's why I have the iron gate on the stairs. If she ever managed to get out of here, that would slow her up for a while.
'And that's not all, lad. You see, a normal witch pit isn't good enough for her. There are iron bars on the sides and bottom of the pit too, buried under the soil. So she's really in a cage. That and a layer of salt and iron beyond that. She can dig fast and deep with those four clawed hands as well, so it's the only way we can stop her getting out! Anyway, do you know who she is?'
It was a strange sort of question. I looked down and read her name from the stone.
The Spook must have seen the expression on my face as the penny dropped because he smiled grimly. 'Aye, lad. That's Meg's sister ...'
'Does Meg know she's down here?' I asked.
'She did once, lad, but now she can't remember; so it's best to keep it that way. Now come over here - I've got something else to show you.'
He led the way between the stones to the far corner, which seemed to be the driest place in the cellar; the ceiling above seemed mostly clear of cobwebs. It was an open pit, ready for use, and the cover lay next to it on the ground, waiting to be dragged into position.
I saw then, for the first time, how the cover for a witch pit was made. The outer stones were cemented together in a square and long bolts went through them from end to end to make sure they stayed in place. The thirteen steel bars were also really long bolts too, which were tightened by nuts recessed into the stones. It was all quite clever, and a stonemason and a smith, working together, would have needed a lot of skill to make it.
Suddenly my mouth dropped open and stayed that way just long enough for the Spook to notice. This time there was no sign, but a name had already been carved on the nearest cornerstone:
'Which do you think's the better way, lad?' the Spook asked. 'Herb tea or this? Because it's got to be one or the other.'
'Herb tea,' I said, my voice hardly more than a whisper.
'Right, so now you know why you can't afford to forget to give it to her each morning. If you forget, she'll remember, and I don't want to have to bring her down here.'
I had a question I wanted to ask then, but I didn't because I knew the Spook wouldn't like it. I wanted to know why what was good enough for one witch wasn't good enough for them all. Still, I knew I couldn't complain that much: I would never forget how close to the dark Alice had once got. So close that the Spook had thought it best to put her in a pit. He'd only relented because I'd reminded him of how he'd let Meg off.
That night I found it difficult to get to sleep. My head whirled with what I'd seen and the realization of where I was living. I've seen some scary things, but living in a house with witch graves, bound boggarts and live witches in the cellar didn't make me rest easy. In the end I decided to tiptoe downstairs. I'd left my notebooks in the kitchen and I wanted my Latin one: I knew that half an hour staring at boring lists of nouns and verbs would be sure to send me off to sleep.
Even before I reached the foot of the stairs, I heard noises that I didn't expect. Someone was crying softly in the kitchen and I could hear the Spook talking in a low voice. When I reached the kitchen door, I didn't go in; it was slightly open and I saw something through the crack that halted me in my tracks.
Meg was sitting in her rocking chair close to the fire. She had her head in her hands and her shoulders were heaving with sobs. The Spook was leaning over her, speaking softly and stroking her hair. His face, lit by candlelight, was half turned towards me and wore an expression on it that I'd never seen before. It was similar to the way my brother Jack's big, craggy face sometimes softens when he looks at his wife, Ellie.
Then, as I watched, to my astonishment, a tear leaked from my master's left eye and ran all the way down his cheek to reach his mouth.