The Witch on Marlow Lane

The pixies who normally bring me Celtic stories were in a weird mood this year. This story isn't Celtic, per se, but does delve into the realities of witches living in the modern age. It also deals with the magical importance of a person's true name. This story is not overly sexual, but if you identify with Rose as she rides the broomstick into Midnight, you just might really enjoy yourself.

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WARNING! This warning is possibly not needed for this particular story, but I am including it because it is needed for most of my stories. If you decide to read other of my stories make sure that you read the disclosures and warnings at the beginning of each story.

All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

All characters involved in sexual activity in this story are over the age of 18. If you are under the age of 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality, or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2026 by The Technician.

Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed formats is expressly forbidden.

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Agnes M. Yopher had lived at the end of Marlow Lane longer than anyone could remember. Most people thought that she had been there since before the war, but that could mean anything since each generation experiences something they will always refer to as "the war." She was there when the area was still dotted with small farms. She was there before the farms slowly failed and consolidated in an attempt to survive. She was there when every adult in the area was a small child. All of this means that she was definitely there long before Mister Huntley surrounded her house with "luxury estates."

Her strange house didn't fit in with the rest of the neighborhood. Even her deed was strange. The original deed for Agnes's property was centuries old, and yet it stated that she owned 4.05 hectares of land. Every other parcel in the whole area was measured in acres; how was hers measured in hectares?

The fact that Agnes's deed said 4.05 hectares instead of 10 acres bothered Harold Huntley. But what bothered him even more was the fact that he couldn't buy those ten acres of land. He wanted... no, needed... that land, but he couldn't buy Agnes out... and he couldn't drive her out. He had bought up acres and acres of hilly farmland all around Marlow Lane. The price he offered was two or three times the normal asking price for the marginal farmland of the area. Almost everyone immediately accepted his offer. The rest eventually sold as Harold slowly upped his price. But not Agnes. She held out even when he offered ten times the going rate for the farmland plus at least double the value of her old, but well-kept, house.

Harold Huntley didn't want to farm any of this land. No, instead he wanted to create Huntley Manor Estates, with "Luxury Homes for Luxurious People." His vision was of a tremendous upscale development that transformed the land and created a totally new town, which, of course, would be called Huntley in his honor. Huntley was in the perfect location. It would be within reasonable commuting distance of several major cities. The location looked like a stroke of genius on Harold's part. But the reality was that the only reason he was creating this project in this particular place was the fact that his late wife had owned twelve hundred acres of land on either side of Marlow Lane. The clear title to that land enabled him to leverage loans to buy more land. And once the endeavor was moving toward obvious fruition, additional banks and investors were more than willing to supply the needed capital in exchange for a percentage of the project.

It was a tremendous project of almost unbelievable scale. New roads and highways were created throughout the county. The road in front of Agnes's home was torn up for over two years. Water and electricity were shut off for months during construction while hills were leveled and valleys were filled in for miles around. Her home, and the 4.05 hectares that surrounded it, were the only parcel of land that was not yet a part of Harold's grand master plan.

That bothered him a great deal. But despite trying everything, Huntley Homes Development Corporation was not able to legally-- or illegally-- force Agnes to sell and move out. Harold briefly considered having her "taken care of." He finally decided against that, not because it was immoral, but because it posed too great of a business risk. He was wise enough to know that there was no such thing as a perfect murder or disappearance. Even if she was never found, the bad publicity would negatively impact his project. So, Agnes Yopher was here to stay... for now.

Because Harold couldn't buy her property, his engineers had to modify road and drainage plans to accommodate the fact that they couldn't lower the hill on which her house stood. And they had to move the new Marlow Lane slightly to the south so it followed the old Marlow Lane path and pointed directly at Agnes's home.

The development is now almost complete, and Agnes Yopher's strange old house stands slightly above the rest of Huntley Manor, alone on a cul-de-sac where Harold had hoped to put five luxury homes.

"Henrietta," he told his daughter almost daily, "if I don't outlive that old witch, you will. And you will buy that land for whatever it takes." Henrietta was Harold's only child. She had been a part of his business since graduating from high school and would officially become a member of the board as soon as she graduated from college.

Only her father called her Henrietta. Since late grade school, she had switched to using her middle name, "Rose." That had been her grandmother's name, and that was what her mother often called her. Mom always smiled when she called her that. She would then almost always say, "Rose is your flower name. You will find it useful later in life." Little Henrietta never understood what her mother meant by that.

It was after her mother's tragic death in a runway collision of two jumbo jets that Henrietta Rose Huntley began asking everyone to call her Rose. And it was after her mother was no longer around to temper her father's avarice and greed that he began to teach her the business-- his way.

Rose was normally a rather pleasant person with a warm heart. She greeted everyone with a smile and in all business dealings treated everyone fairly-- or as fairly as her father would allow. But somehow, her father had been successful in chilling Rose's heart toward one person-- the witch, Agnes Yopher. Rose spent many hours investigating obscure laws in the hope of somehow getting rid of "that old witch." Finally, she decided that if she couldn't get rid of the old witch, she could at least turn the new city against her.

It was the year after the Huntleys moved to their new luxurious house in Huntley Manor that Rose devised her great plan to turn the rest of the residents of the estate against Agnes Yopher. The plan was diabolically simple. She would cause everyone to believe that Agnes was truly a very evil, very ugly old witch. And all it would take would be for her to buy one of those huge Halloween witch figures and put it up in Agnes' yard on Halloween with signs that said, "Go Away Witch!" and "No Witches in Huntley!" She had even gotten a battery power system for the witch's movements and a large amplifier so the witch's maniacal cackling would be heard throughout the estate. The witch would appear to be riding her broomstick as she cackled through the night. That would plant the seed of distrust and eventually hatred against Agnes Yopher.

Rose had carefully calculated that the tall witch figure could be set up in front of the large evergreen tree in Agnes's front yard. That way, it would not be seen from within the house during the day on Halloween, and Rose knew that Agnes almost never left her house. She was certain of that because she had paid detectives to watch Agnes for several months. In that time, Agnes left her house only twice each month-- on the first and on the fifteenth. On those days, she would drive to a nearby town in her old-- almost vintage-- car and go to the bank to withdraw money from her account. Then she would stop at several small shops in town, including the grocery store.

Just before dawn on Halloween, when it was not quite yet light, Rose drove with her lights off to the end of Marlow Lane. There were no lights from the house as she pulled up, so she wasn't worried. Besides, her detectives had informed her that Agnes apparently almost never rose before mid-morning. She quickly assembled the six-meter-tall figure and began to lift it into place on its heavy stand. That's when the unexpected occurred. The long aluminum pole which was supposed to support the witch's upper body bent and then broke.

Rose stomped her foot in fury. Her plan was foiled by bad design-- no, it wasn't bad design, it was a very poorly written set of instructions. When she quickly scanned the instructions, hoping to find what she had done wrong and perhaps correct it, she found her error. There, on the bottom of the very last page, it said in the very stilted English of the entire set of instructions, "Remember, boomstick heavy. Must be inserted ONLY after witch is upright standing."

"Who wrote these instructions?" Rose muttered under her breath as she examined the crumpled support pole. There was nothing to do now but disassemble things and go home in defeat. Then she saw the ladder.

It was one of those really old-fashioned ladders that come to a point at the top. The rungs got smaller and smaller as you went up until the two side pieces joined in the middle. This ladder was leaning against the side of the house between two of the second-story windows. Rose's practiced eye could tell that it was about the same height as the bent pole. If she balanced the upper part of the witch on the top of the ladder, it would be almost exactly the same height as if it were supported by the pole. The only problem was that it wouldn't stand upright by itself. But that was easily solved by leaning everything against the evergreen and tying it in place, and there was more than enough rope in the trunk of the car.

She quickly brought the ladder over to the front of the tree and then balanced the witch on the ladder with the broomstick tied to the peaked top. The small motor, which caused it to bob up and down, was left with the crumpled pole. But Rose put everything else in place and wound a heavy piece of rope around the waist of the witch figure. After quickly tying that rope to the trunk of the tree, she stepped back to inspect her work. Everything looked just like it was supposed to look. She took the broken pole back to her car. Then she quickly pinned her signs, which she had painted on scraps of bedsheets, to the long skirt, and everything was ready. Once the figure was activated, the witch's cackle would draw people to the end of Marlow Lane, and the signs would plant the seeds of hatred that would blossom within the community.

Later in the morning, when Rose went into the office, everyone commented on how happy she looked. She replied, "It's Halloween; how could I not be happy?" That statement surprised even herself, but she repeated it several times during the day in response to people noticing how happy she was. A little before three o'clock, she told her secretary she was going home early to prepare for the trick-or-treaters. Actually, everything was set for the little beggars. Rose had arranged for one of the office girls to come over and take care of handing out candy to any children who might come to the door. What she really left work for, and what she really needed to do, was to activate the witch at Agnes's house.

She again slowly drove down Marlowe Lane until she was close enough for the remote to activate the witch and the recorded cackling. As she raised the remote and prepared to press the button, a strange warmth seemed to flow through her body. Then the warmth became almost fire-hot. She felt like she was swirling through the air directly toward the house-- no, not toward the house, toward the huge figure of a witch. She seemed to be whirling... and whirling... and whirling... and then she was suddenly looking out toward Marlowe Lane. She could see her car parked on the far side of the cul-de-sac. She tried to lift her arms, but her hands were somehow bound to the big wooden broomstick which stuck straight out in front of her body.

She tried to kick her legs, but they were held firmly in place by... something. After a few moments of confusion, the feeling of rough wood against the inside of her legs made her realize that she was tied in place at the top of that old ladder that she had used to hold the mechanical witch figure up in the air. And the fact that the rough wood was rubbing her legs almost to the top of her thighs told her that she was naked. No, she wasn't naked. She was wearing the black witch's outfit with the long dress that hung all the way down to the ground. But under that long dress, her naked flesh was rubbing against the rough wood of the ladder. It wasn't until the broomstick began to wobble up and down that Rose realized that she was also naked between her legs, and the broomstick was rubbing against... everything. A strange wet, slimy feeling told her that something was smeared on that broomstick. And whatever it was seemed to be slowly warming her body.

About an hour later, children started arriving in their costumes. Their parents stopped in front of the house and walked with them to the sidewalk where Agnes stood in a light blue witch's costume of some sort. There was a table on which sat small piles of candy bars of all sizes and descriptions. "Pick one or two of your favorites," Agnes would say with a smile. Then she would smile at the parents and say, "It's so good to have neighbors again after all these years." There would often be a quick conversation exchanging names and so forth before the children scampered back into the car to go to their next stop.

"This isn't how this was supposed to happen," Rose tried to say, but the words never formed. She couldn't talk. She could only silently ride her broomstick as it bobbed up and down like some giant teeter-totter. The children came and went. The parents smiled as Agnes greeted them as newfound friends. And the warmth slowly spread through Rose's body.

Slowly it began to get dark and the children stopped arriving. "Am I going to be stuck up here all night?" Rose muttered angrily. Then she startled. She had spoken those words aloud. Her voice was back. She opened her mouth to call for help, but what came out was not a scream or a yell. It was a low moan as the broomstick itself seemed to become warm, almost hot between her legs. Then she noticed for the first time that her nipples were rubbing softly against the rough, black cloth of the witch's outfit. The cloth also seemed warm... no, it seemed like it was filled with static electricity which was sparking to her nipples... no, it seemed like the cloth was wrapping itself around her nipples and tweaking and pulling and pinching.

Her low moan became a deep, rough cry of passion. She could feel herself climbing higher and higher and higher. Then everything stopped. The night was totally quiet. In fact, it was so quiet that Rose could hear the tower clock, which her father had put in the bank building downtown, chime the quarter hour. After a minute or so of silence, the broom again began to feel warm, it again began to rock up and down, and the black cloth again began to caress her nipples.

Once again Rose began to climb orgasm mountain. She thought, but did not say aloud, "God, I'm going to orgasm here in public in front of the old witch's house." A soft voice-- perhaps it was only in her head-- said softly, "Not yet, my child, we must wait for the witching hour."

And so it continued. The broomstick and black cloth would take Rose to the very edge of orgasm for fourteen minutes. Rose would be panting and squirming and groaning in passion. Then everything would stop. While Rose was whimpering, "Please let me cum. Please let me cum. Please let me cum," the bank tower clock would chime. It was nine o'clock... and then ten... and then eleven. Again and again and again, the fire would be lit between her legs and in her breasts. And again and again and again, it would be quenched.

The soft voice returned. "My child, the witching hour is almost upon us. You will fly. And you will know. And you will become who you have always been."

For a very brief moment, Rose thought, "What the hell?" But soon, coherent thought was not possible. It was like the broomstick was on fire. It was bucking and heaving, causing it to drive into her almost rhythmically. The ointment, or whatever it was that coated the broomstick between her legs, seemed to flow like molten fire into her body. The black cloth was pulling her nipples so tightly that it felt like there were clamps pulling and twisting. The sensations were overwhelming. Rose could hear herself crying out in passion. Her screams were so deep and so loud that she was sure that her moans and cries could be heard throughout the town. But she didn't care. The soft voice had promised that she would fly, and she was more than ready for liftoff.

Then everything again stopped. Rose could hear herself wailing loudly, "No, no, no, no, no." Then the bank tower clock began to chime midnight. Rose gasped as on the first chime, an electric pulse ran through her entire body. With each chime, that pulse became stronger and stronger. Rose could feel her legs attempting to flail, but they were held tight to the ladder. She so wanted to lift her hands from the broomstick so that she could maul her breasts, but they, too, were held tightly in place.

She could sense something massive, black, and unseen rushing toward her. It came closer and closer, and became stronger and stronger with each chime of the clock. Just before the twelfth chime, the soft voice said, "It's time, my little flower," and as the clock chimed for the twelfth time, Rose exploded. She could feel herself shaking the broomstick. She was even shaking the ladder. Then she was flying. She was flying high above Huntley, naked on her broomstick. The town below her looked like the model that sat in the lobby of her father's office. Slowly she realized that there were others flying with her. Someone drew alongside her. It was Agnes-- only she wasn't old. She was young and beautiful.

Agnes smiled at Rose and said, "My daughter's name was Rose. Her daughter was named Violet. Her daughter was named Henrietta Rose. When you claimed your flower name, my child, you claimed your heritage even though you didn't know it. You are a witch, like your mother and her mother... and me. I think it is time for you to learn of your heritage and bloodline."

Then everything faded. For a moment, Rose was again on the top of the ladder. Then she was standing in front of it... naked. For a brief instant, she looked at herself in shock, and then suddenly, she was clothed as she had been when she arrived to activate the witch figure.

Rose looked up at the witch figure. It was just as she had left it. The big signs were hanging on the front, but the wording was different. The signs said, "Welcome to Witch Agnes's Halloween Celebration."

The soft voice spoke. Rose turned to see Agnes standing beside her. "Someday this will all be yours," she said in her soft voice. Then Agnes laughed softly. "A witch like me has great magic, but even I can only live for so long. If you wish, I will teach you everything you need to know."

"Why... why... why..." sputtered Rose. "Why did you torment me on the broomstick?"

Agnes again laughed softly. "It wasn't really torment, was it?" she asked, and Rose blushed furiously. Then Agnes began to explain, "In the moment of orgasm, the mind is totally blank. If the orgasm is great enough, a person can even suddenly become aware of the realities of the universe... or perhaps the realities of themselves." She smiled at Rose and said, "You now know that you are a witch. You now know that you are a descendant of a long line of witches. And what is known can never be unknown."

A fog suddenly descended over Rose. She awoke with a start and looked around her. She was back sitting behind the steering wheel of her car. It was morning. Before her, the witch figure was still tied to the tree. The cloth signs-- whatever they had once said-- were gone.

She started her car and then shut it back off. After sitting perfectly still for a long time, gripping the steering wheel and staring at the witch figure, she got out and walked across the cul-de-sac, down the sidewalk, and up to Agnes' front door. Agnes opened it almost immediately after the knock. Rose looked up at her, sighed, and said, "Do I call you Agnes, or Grandmother?"

"My middle name is Marigold," Agnes answered with a smile. "That is my flower name. Call me Mary... or Grandmother... whichever you wish." Then they both went into the house and talked for the rest of the day.

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END OF STORY

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