A long time ago, the quiet town of Blackmere was on the brakes on the misty hills of northern England. Blackmere was a secret place. And no one whispered more than the history of the witch that once followed his shadow. Her name was Elsbeth. She lived in a home of only curved stones and branches, just behind the river.
Some say she was over 100 years old, even though her face remained young. The harvest was accumulated near her country, the animals were healed in their presence, and the storm appeared to bend to bend the house. But fear won - and they called them witches.
The whisper was used when the mayor's daughter became mysteriously ill and the village healer did not heal her. It's Elsbeth," they said. She cursed the child. Frightened people, hungry for control, marched into the forest with torches. They dragged Elsbeth out of her house, her eyes calm and her voice was stable. "I warned you," she said, fear would become your true curse. They tied them to the stakes in the square.
As the flames rose, lightning broke through the sky. The rain passed, but the fire didn't go out. Her final words echoed through the smoke: *The city will never again recognize peace when it sees it with a clearer eye. * * Years have passed. The cultures died, the rivers dried, and the mist thickened. Blackmere has become a spirit. Even today, on stormy nights, travelers insist that women in the forest, their hair whisper like fire, and trees. Some say she looks and waits for the city to remind her of its magic, but she waits for the cruelty. And Blackmere is still waiting for the mist to lift.
