The Witch’S Egg

By P.J. Bolwerk

When their fathers work brings them to Fremantle, the Thomas children find themselves living next to a very spooky house, complete with a turret. Eight year old Becky thinks she sees a witchs face at the window and after all, Becky is a trained witch spotter

Of course the rest of the family knows theres no such thing as witches.

But when the childrens sitter turns out to be one of the mysterious old ladies living next door, they begin to have doubts when strange things start to happen.

And what happened to Captain Prosser who so mysteriously disappeared?

And will they discover the secret of the witchs egg?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Feb 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781452589695

P.J. Bolwerk

P.J. Bolwerk lives in Mandurah Western Australia. She has had several short stories published in Australia and the UK and broadcast on ABC radio. ‘The Witch’s Egg’ is her first children’s book.

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Copyright © 2014 P.J. Bolwerk.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-4525-8968-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-8969-5 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 02/10/2014

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

THE FACE AT THE WINDOW

CHAPTER TWO

MISS ADELINE PROSSER

CHAPTER THREE

THE WITCHES OF SULLIVAN STREET

CHAPTER FOUR

THE SHIP’S LOG

CHAPTER FIVE

A TASTE OF WITCHERY

CHAPTER SIX

THE TURRET

CHAPTER SEVEN

UNDERGROUND

CHAPTER EIGHT

TOMMY ALONE

CHAPTER NINE

THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS WITCHES

CHAPTER TEN

THE WITCH’S EGG

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CHAPTER ONE

THE FACE AT THE WINDOW

The breeze whistled up from the harbour with sea-weed on its breath. It blew all the way up the hill to Sullivan Street and tweaked the tail of the black cat lying on the wall outside number 13.

Becky Thomas dug an elbow into her sister Hannah, and jostled her for space at the window of number 14.

‘See’, said Becky, breathing hard and leaving a faint hazy smudge on the window, ‘there’s even a black cat!’

Hannah rubbed at the spot on the window with the sleeve of her jumper. The black cat was washing its face, one perfect inky paw polishing around its whiskers, up its ears, and down its neck, before leaping from the wall like a length of licorice and stalking down the overgrown garden path like a model on a cat-walk.

Hannah climbed down from the window sill and straightened out her green plaid skirt. Her hair was the colour of corn ears on a summer day and she pulled it back more severely in to the pony tail that was trying to escape from a thick rubber band.

‘Remember Miss Mills, Becky?’ said Hannah. ‘You were wrong about her!’ Miss Mills had been Becky’s form teacher at Sydney Primary School.

Becky tilted her head to one side as she always did when she thought that she might have been just the slightest bit wrong. Her big chocolate coloured eyes opened wide and her curls, the colour of pulled toffee, stuck up around her head like teased raffia. She flopped on the un-made bed, scattering books and sweaters and socks and jackets on to the floor.

‘Miss Mills was a kind of a witch, Han… she acted like one…well, okay, maybe she wasn’t.But this time, I really did see a witch at that window.’

Becky pointed out of the window to the strange turret that perched on top of number 13 Sullivan Street. It was stuck on top of the strange old house like an after- thought, with windows on three sides. A weather vane shaped like a griffon crouched ominously on top, its curved beak pointing portentously towards the sea. As the girls looked, it began to spin like a whirligig.

‘She was there, Han, honestly, in that window.’ Becky’s eyes were wide and glittering.

‘Well, there’s nobody there now, Becky,’ said Hannah firmly. Hannah was thirteen months older than her sister and much more sensible. She knew that there were no such things at witches. But Becky seemed so sure, and the house next door did look very spooky.

Becky was rummaging under a pile of discarded clothes jumbled in a heap on