The Dark Tales of the Ruby Slippers

Long before Dorothy’s house touched down in Munchkinland, the Ruby Slippers weren’t just shoes — they were crafted by the Silver Guild, an ancient order of sorcerers who believed power could be bound into everyday objects. The slippers were their masterpiece: forged from the light of the first dawn in Oz and sewn with threads from the Rainbow’s end. They weren’t simply beautiful — they were said to hold the power to walk between worlds.

The Wicked Witch of the East coveted them for two reasons:

1. Control Over the Munchkins

   • The slippers were tied to the land of the East. Whoever wore them could command its people, crops, and even the skies. That’s how the Witch enslaved the Munchkins — the slippers amplified her hold over the region.
   • Every step she took in them sent out ripples of fear and compulsion, binding the Munchkins tighter under her rule.

2. The Path to Greater Power

   • The Witch believed that if she mastered the slippers fully, she could use them to cross into other realms — even the Emerald City itself without ever stepping on the Yellow Brick Road. Some whispered she wanted to walk right into Glinda’s domain and steal her magic.
   • But the shoes were never truly hers. They had been gifted to her after she struck down the Silver Guild, yet they resisted her. She could command with them, but she could not travel with them. Something — or someone — was holding the magic back.

The Munchkins whispered that the slippers were waiting for someone “pure of heart” to unlock their full power. The Witch knew this — and it terrified her. She spent years performing rituals to bind the shoes’ magic only to herself, but each spell seemed to weaken her instead.

The Day the House Fell

The Witch wore the slippers as both armor and key — a symbol of power she could not risk removing. On that fateful day, she was standing among her Munchkin subjects, preparing to announce a new decree of obedience, when a shadow grew overhead.

The house fell, and with it, fate made its choice. The slippers passed instantly to Dorothy — because the shoes themselves had been waiting for someone else all along.

The Weaver’s Hands

The Munchkins tell of Berrin the Weaver, a quiet man who spun cloth finer than moonlight. His hands were steady, his eyes kind, and the people of his village loved him — for he wove them warm cloaks in winter and banners for their festivals.

But the Witch of the East had no love for beauty. She had love only for her slippers.

One day, her shadow fell across Berrin’s door.

“Open,” she hissed, her voice sharp as a spindle.

Berrin obeyed. His wife clutched his sleeve, trembling.

The Witch stepped inside, the ruby slippers clicking against his wooden floor. The sound echoed like hammer blows.

“You are the weaver of this village,” she said.

“I am,” Berrin answered carefully.

“Then you shall weave banners for me. Red banners. Endless banners. They will hang in every street, every window, every cradle. When the people see them, they will remember who rules them.”

Berrin swallowed. “Forgive me, Witch. My loom is for the people. I weave to keep them clothed and sheltered. I cannot—”

“Cannot?” The Witch’s eyes burned like coals. She leaned close. “Do you say cannot to me?”

His wife fell to her knees. “Please, Mistress, forgive him! He meant no insult.”

But the Witch did not look at the woman. She looked at the slippers. She tapped one gently on the floor. Click. Click.

“Show me your hands,” she ordered.

Berrin lifted them. They trembled.

The Witch placed the toe of her ruby slipper against his palm. The shoe glowed, and a cruel smile curled her lips.

“Now weave,” she whispered.

Berrin staggered back to his loom. His wife cried, “Don’t, Berrin!”

But when he touched the threads, pain shot through him. He gasped. Bright red dust spilled from his fingertips, glimmering like crushed gemstones.

His wife screamed. “Your hands—what has she done?”

Berrin tried again, desperate to make a simple cloth, but the fabric that emerged bore only the Witch’s crooked mark. His blood had become her dye. His skill, her curse.

“No other work will come from you,” the Witch said coldly. “No garment, no blanket, no festival cloth. Only my banners. Day and night, you will weave my name until your bones crack. And when your hands are gone, I will find another weaver.”

Berrin sank to his knees. “Please! Have mercy!”

The Witch tilted her head. “Mercy is a thread I do not weave.”

She turned, and the slippers clicked across the floor. As she left, her laughter lingered in the air like smoke.

Berrin’s wife tried to wipe the red dust from his fingers, but it only smeared her skin. From that day forward, his hands bled rubies whenever they touched a loom.

The villagers whispered. Some pitied him, others feared him. His once-proud banners hung above every street — not in celebration, but in chains.

And so the Munchkins tell their children: never say “cannot” to the Witch, for she weaves her curses into flesh.

The Crooked Harvest

(From The Dark Tales of the Ruby Slippers)

The Munchkins say there was a season when the rain would not fall. The skies were dry, the soil cracked, and the stalks of corn bent like old men. The people prayed in the fields, lifting their hands toward the empty clouds.

One farmer, Old Thom, dared to say aloud,
“If only the Witch would grant us water. If she can rule the skies, let her prove it.”

The words were foolish, for the Witch’s spies carried whispers faster than any storm.

That very night, the Witch came striding into the fields. Her slippers glimmered red in the starlight, each step sinking into the dirt as though the earth itself wished to swallow her.

“Who dares call my name to the clouds?” she asked, her voice carrying like thunder.

The farmers gathered, trembling. Old Thom stepped forward, though his legs shook.

“Mistress,” he said, bowing low. “We meant no insult. Our children are hungry. The land is dying. Please… grant us rain.”

The Witch tilted her head, and the gems on her slippers caught the moonlight.

“You ask for rain,” she murmured. “You shall have growth enough to choke you.”

She tapped her slipper against the soil. Click. Click. The ground shuddered.

At once, the fields sprang alive. Stalks shot upward, twisting like serpents. Corn cobs bulged and split, spilling kernels shaped like teeth. Pumpkins swelled grotesquely, their skins cracking to reveal sneering faces. The wheat hardened into blades that sliced the air.

The people cried out.

“What is this?” Thom gasped. He reached for a gourd, only to jerk back, his palm cut by its jagged skin. Black juice dripped from the wound.

The Witch’s laughter rolled across the fields. “You prayed for harvest. Here it is. Eat, if you dare.”

A woman clutched her child. “Please, Mistress, our little ones—”

“Feed them, then,” the Witch said, pointing to a pumpkin that hissed with every breath. “If their bellies can stomach my gifts, they will be strong.”

The villagers shrank back. The crops moaned as though alive, twisting their faces toward the people.

Thom fell to his knees. “Take it back! We ask no more of you! Only leave us the little we have.”

The Witch’s slipper glowed faintly as she pressed it into the soil once more. The plants writhed, then froze, their monstrous faces forever carved in gnarled stems and rotten fruit.

“You shall reap what you begged of me,” the Witch declared. “A crooked harvest for crooked tongues.”

She turned and walked away, her slippers leaving no mark, though the ground smoldered where she had stood.

That winter, the people starved — for though the fields were full, none dared eat the food. The faces of the twisted crops seemed to watch them in the night, whispering of hunger that would never be satisfied.

And so the Munchkins tell their children: better to suffer in silence than to call upon the Witch, for her gifts are curses in disguise.

 

The Songbird’s Silence

(From The Dark Tales of the Ruby Slippers)

There was once a girl named Lira who lived on the edge of the forest. Her voice was brighter than morning, softer than night, and when she sang, the Munchkins forgot their fear.

She sang at births, she sang at weddings, she sang when neighbors wept. And the people whispered, “Her voice is stronger than the Witch’s shadow.”

But shadows have ears.

One evening, as Lira sang by the well, a chill fell across the square. The crowd scattered, leaving her alone. The Witch had come, her slippers glinting red even in the dim twilight.

“So,” said the Witch, “I hear you sing.”

Lira bowed, her voice trembling. “I sing only to comfort, Mistress. Nothing more.”

The Witch’s lips curved. “Comfort is rebellion. Fear is my music. And you drown it with your foolish notes.”

Lira’s courage sparked. “Must we live in silence, then? Is even joy forbidden?”

The Witch laughed. “Joy is a weak flame. Let me show you what strength sounds like.”

She struck the ground with her slipper. Click. Click.

The sky darkened, and a thousand crows burst from the trees, their wings blotting out the stars. They circled above, cawing until the air shook.

“Sing,” the Witch commanded.

Lira tried. She lifted her voice, clear and pure — but the moment the note left her lips, the crows shrieked louder. Their wings thrashed, drowning her in a storm of sound.

The villagers peeked from their windows, but they could not hear her song — only the Witch’s cackling and the deafening cries of birds.

“Again,” said the Witch.

Lira sang louder, tears streaking her face. Again the crows screamed, beaks snapping, wings beating so violently the well’s water churned.

Her voice broke. Her song vanished.

The Witch leaned close. “You will never be heard above me. Every note you sing will summon them. And they will answer with screams louder than yours.”

Lira fell silent.

The Witch turned, slippers gleaming, and the crows followed her into the night.

No one ever heard Lira sing again. Some say she tried — that she walked deep into the forest and lifted her voice once more, only for the crows to descend and carry her away. Others say she lives still, too frightened to open her mouth, her songs locked inside like caged birds.

And so the Munchkins tell their children: do not raise your voice against the Witch, for she will silence it with wings and screams.

The Bargain of the Mill

(From The Dark Tales of the Ruby Slippers)

Once there was a miller named Darnel, who ground the people’s grain by the river. He was poor, but kind, and his son often gave away bread to those who had none.

One evening, the boy was caught stealing a crust from the Witch’s tax wagon. He was dragged before her, trembling.

“Thief,” the Witch said, her voice colder than the river. Her ruby slippers gleamed in the torchlight. “Do you know the price of stealing from me?”

The boy’s father fell to his knees. “Mistress, mercy! He is but a child. Take me instead.”

The Witch’s smile was sharp. “One life for another, you say? Very well. But the choice is mine.”

She tapped her slipper on the ground. Click. Click. The mill behind them shuddered. Its waterwheel burst into flame, spinning with fire instead of water.

The villagers gasped.

“No!” Darnel cried, clutching his son. “Please—anything but this!”

The Witch turned her slipper toward his wife, who had run from the house, skirts trailing.

“You,” the Witch said softly, “will pay his debt.”

The woman froze. “Mistress, I beg you—”

But the slipper glowed, and the fiery wheel spun faster. Sparks flew like screaming stars. A sudden wind seized her, dragging her toward the blaze. She shrieked as the fire swallowed her whole, her voice echoing through the valley.

The boy clung to his father, sobbing. “You said you would take her place! Why didn’t you stop her?”

Darnel wept, pounding his fists against the dirt. “I offered myself! I would have—”

The Witch raised her hand for silence. “Do not blame me. It was his bargain that doomed her.” She nodded toward the boy. “Remember, child: every plea has a price.”

She turned, her slippers hissing as if wet with blood, and vanished into the night.

The fire burned until dawn. The mill was nothing but blackened stone, and the family was broken forever.

And so the Munchkins tell their children: be careful what bargains you make with the Witch, for she always chooses the crueler path.

The Glass Path

(From The Dark Tales of the Ruby Slippers)

At the edge of the Witch’s keep lay a path no villager dared to cross without trembling. It was made not of stone, nor earth, but of glass — long slabs conjured from the strike of her ruby slippers.

Clear as ice, sharp as razors, the path stretched to her throne. Whoever came before her was forced to walk it barefoot.

They said the path had a voice of its own: when the guilty stepped upon it, the glass would moan, and crimson cracks would bloom beneath their feet.

One day, a merchant named Pell was accused of hiding coins from her taxes. He denied it, swearing his honesty.

The Witch summoned him. “Walk,” she commanded, her slipper tapping the start of the glass. Click.

Pell hesitated. “Mistress, surely—”

“Walk,” she said again, her eyes narrowing.

He removed his shoes. The first step was cold. The second cut him. He winced.

“I told you, I kept nothing!” he shouted.

The Witch’s slipper tapped again. Click. The glass beneath him cracked with a high, keening note. Blood welled from his toes, staining the clear surface red.

His wife cried out from the crowd, “Please, Mistress! He is a good man!”

“Then his feet will carry him to safety,” the Witch said coolly. “If he speaks true, he will not bleed.”

But with every step, the glass split further. Pell cried out, his footprints trailing red behind him.

“Confess,” the Witch demanded.

“I have nothing to confess!”

The glass shrieked. Shards rose like teeth. Pell staggered, screaming, as blood poured from his feet.

“Confess,” she whispered again, her slipper glowing faintly.

At last Pell collapsed. “Yes! Yes! I hid coins — a handful, only to feed my children!”

The glass stilled.

The Witch leaned down, her slippers gleaming in his blood. “A handful becomes a mouthful. A mouthful becomes rebellion. Let your body remind them of the cost.”

She turned her heel and left him crawling, bleeding, on the path. His children watched as the guards dragged him away.

From that day, the villagers whispered that the glass path was thirstier than the Witch herself — for it drank only from liars.

And so the Munchkins tell their children: beware the glass path, for every step hides a secret, and the slippers will reveal it.

The Farmer’s Fields

(The Witch confronts a humble farmer whose land is green and fertile, while all around her domain is dry and cursed. She demands his secrets… but the man refuses.)

The wind blew hard across the Wicked Witch’s barren hills. Nothing grew there—just twisted weeds, gray soil, and the faint stench of rot. Yet beyond the ridge, a man’s farm stretched with bright corn, fat pumpkins, and a patch of red poppies that swayed like fire in the breeze.

The Witch narrowed her eyes.

Wicked Witch (hissing):
“How dare he? Nothing is meant to bloom in my realm.”

She swept down the hill, her long cloak dragging ash across the dirt. The farmer, a tall man with weathered hands, looked up as her shadow crossed his rows.

Farmer:
“I’ve no quarrel with you, Witch. This is honest soil and honest work.”

Wicked Witch:
“Honest? Ha! You dare let this land defy me? Everything under the sun here is mine. Tell me your secret, farmer, or I’ll see your corn rot in your hands.”

The man swallowed but held his ground.
“My father tilled this soil, and his father before him. The secret is not mine to give—it is the land’s gift.”

The Witch’s voice grew sharp.
“Lies. You’ve struck some bargain. Show me the charm, the spell, the talisman that keeps this ground alive!”

The farmer shook his head.
“You mistake me. The only charm I have is sweat on my brow.”

Her eyes gleamed red as she glanced down at her slippers. With a flick of her heel, sparks leapt from the ruby stones, searing into the farmer’s field. The nearest row of corn blackened instantly, crumbling to ash.

Wicked Witch:
“Tell me… or I’ll burn it all.”

The man gritted his teeth. “If you do, Witch, you’ll learn the truth too late—this land feeds not only me, but the people beyond the hills. Starve me, and you starve them.”

The Witch let out a screech of laughter.
“Let them starve! Let them crawl to me on their knees! That is what I want!”

She raised her foot again, fire swirling around the ruby slippers. But suddenly, the farmer’s wife stepped forward, clutching a single seed in her hand.

Farmer’s Wife:
“This is all we have left of last year’s harvest. If you take our field, you’ll take our future. Is that what you want, to kill tomorrow?”

The Witch paused. For just a flicker, her eyes darted toward the seed. She wanted it. Needed it.

Wicked Witch:
“Give it to me.”

The wife shook her head.
“This seed is life. You wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

The Witch leaned closer, her breath hot with rage.
“Then I’ll grind it beneath my slipper, and no one will ever eat again!”

But as her foot rose, the farmer’s young daughter darted forward, faster than the Witch could strike. She snatched the seed and stuffed it into her mouth, swallowing hard.

The Witch screamed in fury, the sound echoing across the hills. She could not burn the seed now—it lived within the child. She had been cheated.

Wicked Witch (pointing her clawed finger):
“You’ll pay for this! Your fields will wither, your animals will sicken, your days will darken. And when hunger finally breaks you, you’ll come crawling to me… begging.”

With a swirl of her cloak, she vanished into the air, leaving the family trembling in silence.

The farmer looked down at his daughter, who clutched her stomach. “That seed will grow in you now,” he whispered, more to comfort than belief. But in the days that followed, the girl began to dream of red flowers, growing even in ash and shadow…

And the Witch never forgot her.

The 

Blacksmith’s

Bargain

The village of Iron Hollow lay at the edge of the Wicked Witch’s territory, where smoke from forges often mingled with the sulfurous scent of her magic. At the center of the village was Branik, the blacksmith, whose arms were thick as oak branches and whose hammer rang out like thunder each morning. He was a practical man, not prone to fears or fairy tales—until the Witch herself stepped into his forge.

Her shadow stretched across the stone floor before she appeared, her green fingers brushing the doorframe. She wore the slippers that glimmered faintly in the dim firelight.

“Blacksmith,” she purred, her voice like oil slipping through cracks, “I require a weapon worthy of my power.”

Branik set his hammer down. “I forge plowshares, nails, hinges. Weapons I do not craft—our village has no need for them.”

Her smile was a slash. “Do you think I ask? No. I command.” She leaned close, her breath cold despite the forge’s heat. “Forge me a chain of black iron. It must hold even the strongest beast—or the most defiant soul.”

Branik’s jaw tightened. He thought of his wife and children asleep in their cottage. Defiance was costly in these parts. “And if I refuse?”

The Witch flicked her wrist. Instantly, the forge fire flared green and Branik’s hammer lifted itself, slamming against the anvil with deafening force. Sparks danced like mocking sprites. “Then,” she whispered, “your arms will twist useless as clay, and your children will beg in the dirt.”

Branik swallowed his fear. “Very well. A chain you’ll have. But such iron requires blood to temper it. That is the old way.”

Her eyes gleamed. “Whose blood?”

He tried to sound steady. “Yours. If you want it bound to your will.”

The Witch studied him, then pressed her palm to the glowing forge. The flames hissed and licked her skin, but no blister rose. When she pulled her hand away, black smoke curled where bloodless cracks had formed. “Take what you need, smith.”

Reluctantly, Branik hammered the iron, binding it with strands of her essence. Each strike sang with an unholy hum. The chain glistened blacker than night, colder than stone, as though shadows themselves had been smelted.

When at last it was finished, the Witch coiled the chain around her arm. It slithered like a serpent, tightening and loosening as if alive. “Perfect,” she hissed. “With this, I’ll bind even the winds themselves.”

Branik wiped sweat from his brow. “You have what you asked. Leave us be.”

But she lingered. “You’ve served me well, smith. For that, I give you a gift.” She lifted her slippered foot and tapped the earth. The ground beneath Branik cracked, and from the fissure sprang a silver coin, glowing with unnatural light.

“Spend it, and your every wish will be fulfilled,” she said.

Branik hesitated, staring at the coin. “And the price?”

Her grin widened. “Every wish has a price, does it not? But you’ll learn that… soon enough.”

With a whirl of smoke, she vanished, leaving the chain’s echoing rattle behind.

That night, Branik hid the coin in a wooden box, vowing never to use it. But he dreamed of his wife dressed in silks, of his children dining like kings, of Iron Hollow rising from mud to marble. And always, in the dream, the Witch stood at the forge, her ruby slippers glinting as she laughed.

The villagers whispered that the blacksmith’s forge never sounded the same again—his hammer slower, his fire dimmer. Some said the Witch returned often to collect his services, for the chain she wore needed constant strengthening. Others claimed Branik finally used the coin, and that his wish brought a doom so great it was never spoken of again.

Only one thing was certain: the chain she bore, forged from his unwilling bargain, was wrapped around her when the house from the sky fell upon her. And perhaps, just perhaps, it was the blacksmith’s hammering that cursed her fate long before Dorothy’s house came crashing down.

The Widow’s Curse

The village of Harrowmere had long whispered about the woman at the edge of town. Her veil was always black, her steps heavy, her gaze a dagger that pierced even the bravest men. They said she had outlived three husbands, each one dying suddenly and horribly, each funeral accompanied by her unflinching silence.

One autumn evening, a traveler seeking shelter knocked on her crooked door.

Traveler: “Good evening, madam. I saw your lamp. Might you grant a stranger a place by your fire?”

Widow (without lifting her veil): “Strangers don’t knock at my door. They stumble here. Fate sends them. Sit, if you dare.”

The traveler, shivering, obeyed. The hearth crackled, but the air never warmed.

Traveler: “They say the Widow of Harrowmere keeps secrets darker than night. That her house eats the living.”

Widow (smiling thinly): “And still you entered. Perhaps you hunger for the same curse that devoured my husbands?”

Traveler: “I do not fear curses. Only lies.”

The Widow drew off her glove. Her hand was white as bone, each finger tipped with nails like needles. She placed it gently on the traveler’s shoulder.

Widow: “Then hear the truth. Each man I loved betrayed me. Each whispered another’s name in his sleep. So I took their vows back… with blood.”

The traveler froze.

Traveler: “And me? I have spoken no vows to you.”

Widow (leaning closer): “But you have sat at my table. You have tasted my bread. The curse spreads through touch, through food, through breath. You will carry it when you leave. Your bones will ache, your lungs will drown in shadows, and your name will be forgotten before the year is done.”

The traveler rose to flee, but the door slammed shut on its own.

Traveler (shouting): “Release me!”

Widow (laughing bitterly): “You think I hold you? No, boy… my grief does. My curse is the hunger of a widow who can never rest. You chose my fire. Now my fire chooses you.”

The lamp flickered. The traveler’s scream was swallowed by the dark. By morning, Harrowmere’s fields were silent, and the Widow’s veil fluttered in the wind like a funeral banner.

The Shadow Feast

The Witch’s castle rose like a jagged tooth from the darkened hills, its windows glowing faintly as if the walls themselves breathed. Every year, she sent out invitations to travelers who wandered too close to her domain. None returned unchanged.

One night, three villagers stumbled to the gates, cold and starving. A tall, thin man, a merchant with a crooked nose, and a young girl clutching a loaf of bread begged for shelter.

Witch (appearing at the doorway, ruby slippers glinting): “Welcome, little lost ones. You smell of fear… and hunger. Come in. Sit. Eat.”

Tall Man: “We… we only seek warmth, mistress. Just a roof for the night.”

Witch (smiling): “And warmth comes with a feast. My kitchens never rest. You’ll find more food here than you’ve ever known.”

The travelers hesitated, but hunger clawed at their stomachs. They entered the great hall. Long tables groaned under platters of golden meats, bread steaming like clouds, fruits glimmering like jewels. Candles flickered and danced without flame.

Merchant (whispering): “It smells… too perfect. Nothing this fine should exist for us.”

Witch (leaning down to him, voice soft and sweet): “Perfection is for those who dare taste it. Eat. Eat all you wish.”

The villagers ate, greed overtaking caution. The bread was warm and soft, the meat melted on their tongues, the wine flowed endlessly. But with each bite, shadows on the walls thickened, crawling, stretching, growing fatter. The shadows of the villagers themselves began to twist and lunge, writhing as though alive.

Girl (pointing at the wall): “Look! Our shadows… they’re moving!”

Witch (laughing): “Oh, my dears. They move because they live. They hunger. And they are mine now, as are you. Every mouthful you devour fills the feast… and empties you.”

The tall man dropped his knife. “You… you’re eating us! Taking our souls!”

Witch (gently tapping her ruby slipper on the floor): “Only the part you no longer cherish. Shadows are the essence of greed, fear, and desire. Eat, or starve. Refuse, and watch the feast consume itself without you.”

The villagers froze, terror rooting them to the floor. The young girl thought quickly, hiding the last piece of bread in her cloak.

Girl (whispering): “We can’t finish it. We must leave before it takes everything.”

Witch (smiling wider): “Ah, clever little one. Refusing the feast… then you will live to remember it, to warn the next gluttonous traveler. But do not think you escape entirely. Shadows linger. They follow. They whisper. Always.”

By dawn, the table was empty. The villagers fled the castle, their skin pale, their eyes hollow. Behind them, the Witch’s laughter rolled through the halls like thunder, and the shadows on the walls slowly sank back into the stone, bloated and waiting.

The Clockmaker’s Debt

In the village of Ticking Hollow, a humble clockmaker named Gideon labored day and night, crafting timepieces for villagers who prized his skill above all else. His clocks were beautiful, precise, and whispered secrets of the hours like old friends.

One cold evening, a shadow darkened his workshop. The Wicked Witch stood in the doorway, ruby slippers glinting against the candlelight.

Witch: “Clockmaker, I hear you can bend time to your will.”

Gideon (bowing slightly, wary): “Mistress… I make clocks that measure time, nothing more.”

Witch (stepping closer, her voice silky and commanding): “Do not lie. I require a clock that can foresee the future… that can twist it. You will make it, or your own time ends tonight.”

Gideon swallowed hard. “A clock like that… is beyond mortal skill. It would take years.”

Witch (tapping her slipper on the floor, sending sparks into the air): “Then you will spend those years under my shadow, crafting it until it is perfect. Fail, and I will take your years for my own pleasure.”

Fear clutched his chest, but the Witch’s eyes glimmered with a cruel promise, and Gideon knew he had no choice.

He worked tirelessly, forging gears of silver, springs of moonlight, and faces that ticked with unnatural precision. Nights bled into days. Candle wax dripped like blood. When he finally presented the clock, it shimmered unnaturally, each tick a whisper of possibility, each chime a warning of doom.

Gideon: “It is finished, mistress. The hands obey, the pendulum swings…”

Witch (leaning close, eyes glinting): “Now, let us see if you are clever enough to escape me.”

She wound the clock, and the air around Gideon shimmered. He saw visions: his daughter aging before his eyes, the village ruined, and himself trapped in a frozen moment, screaming silently.

Gideon: “No… I did as you asked! I cannot—”

Witch: “Time obeys only me.”

She tapped her ruby slipper on the floor. Sparks leapt to the clock. It hissed, groaned, and then the hands spun backward, dragging years from Gideon’s life. His hair grayed, his back bent, his fingers trembled and cracked.

Gideon (weakly, clutching the clock): “Please… stop… I beg…”

Witch (smiling cruelly): “A debt is not paid with words, old man. Every tick costs you, every chime is mine. Now you will live the rest of your days counting your losses, and the clock will mock you until the end.”

Gideon collapsed to the floor, and the Witch turned away. The ruby slippers clicked against the wooden boards as she left.

The villagers whispered afterward that Gideon’s clocks never kept time properly again. Some said if you listened closely, you could hear his voice trapped inside, pleading with the hands of the clock to stop… while the Witch’s laughter echoed with each strike of the bell.

The False Lover

In the city of Gleamsworth, a young nobleman named Alaric was known for his charm, his fine clothes, and his many conquests. He believed he could seduce anyone, claim any treasure, and leave without consequence. But when the Wicked Witch arrived in the guise of a beautiful lady, even Alaric’s confidence wavered.

Witch (smiling, ruby slippers glinting as she approached): “Good evening, my lord. I have heard tales of your… talents.”

Alaric (bowing deeply, masking his curiosity): “And I of yours, madam. Beauty such as yours is rare even in the finest courts.”

Witch (tilting her head, eyes sharp): “Flattery is a dangerous game, nobleman. Do you play it often?”

Alaric (grinning): “Only when the stakes are worth it. And I sense the stakes with you are… exquisite.”

The Witch laughed, a sound like glass cracking.

Witch: “Very well, Alaric. Let us see how well you play your role. You wish to claim me… do you not?”

Alaric: “I wish only what is fair. To win your favor, to share in your… brilliance.”

She led him to her chambers, gilded in shadows and faint glimmers of magic.

Witch (leaning close, whispering): “I am generous to those who serve me well. Are you ready to prove your devotion?”

Alaric: “I would risk all for you, fair lady.”

Days passed, and Alaric courted her with whispered words, gifts, and promises. But the slippers on her feet gleamed with a sinister light, and he did not notice the faint pulses that matched his heartbeat.

Witch (one night, softly): “Tell me, Alaric… have you ever loved truly?”

Alaric (smiling, confident): “I love only what can be claimed. And now… I claim you.”

The Witch’s eyes darkened, and a laugh rolled from her throat.

Witch: “Claim me? Foolish boy. You have been mine from the first word. Every lie you told, every glance you stole, every promise you whispered… it fed the slippers’ power.”

Alaric (stepping back): “What trickery is this?”

Witch: “Not trickery. Truth. And now, my dear… you will serve as a reminder of it.”

The slippers glowed red. Flames curled around his ankles. He screamed as vines erupted from the floor, wrapping him in a cage of living thorns.

Alaric (struggling, panicked): “Release me! I did not—”

Witch: “You spoke only lies. You coveted what you could not have. And so… you will polish my slippers forever, crawling at my feet, a bird trapped in gilded chains.”

The room went silent except for the hiss of the slippers. Alaric’s screams echoed faintly as the Witch drifted to her window, watching the city lights flicker.

By dawn, all that remained was the faint imprint of ruby slippers on the polished floor, and Alaric’s shadow, twisted and small, writhing in eternal punishment.

The House of Blood

Far beyond the Winkie Kingdom, on a hill shrouded in mist, stood a house no villager dared approach. Its walls were dark and slick, and the windows glowed faint red, like eyes watching. The Wicked Witch had built it herself, brick by brick, with mortar mixed with the blood of those who defied her rule.

One stormy night, a family of four sought shelter from the rain, unaware of what waited.

Father (shivering, knocking on the door): “Please, madam… may we take refuge? The storm will drown us.”

The door creaked open. The Witch appeared, her ruby slippers glinting on the wet stones.

Witch: “Enter, enter. My home is warm, my fire eternal. But all warmth comes with a price.”

Mother (whispering to her children): “Stay close. Do not speak unless spoken to.”

Inside, the house smelled sweet at first, like fresh bread, but then a faint iron tang seeped from the walls. The floorboards groaned beneath their feet.

Father (looking around nervously): “Your home… it seems… alive.”

Witch (smiling, circling them): “Alive? Oh no, dear guests. This house remembers every footstep, every breath, every secret you’ve ever whispered.”

She gestured to a table set with bread and wine.

Witch: “Eat. Warm yourselves. Nothing here will harm you… if you obey.”

The children hesitated, but hunger prevailed. They reached for the bread.

Youngest Child (murmuring): “It smells… strange.”

Mother (firmly): “Eat, or we’ll freeze.”

The moment the bread touched their lips, it writhed. Worms slithered across the crust, and the wine turned thick and black. Screams echoed in the halls as the walls pulsed, bleeding faint streaks of red.

Father (stumbling back): “What… what is this?”

Witch (leaning close, voice silky and cruel): “This house drinks the blood of those who dare defy me. Every brick, every beam… it hungers. And tonight, my guests will feed it well.”

The family tried to flee, but the doors slammed shut. Windows glowed red, showing no escape. The walls shifted, corridors twisting into impossible shapes. Every step they took echoed with whispers of past victims.

Mother (crying, clutching her children): “Please… we meant no harm!”

Witch (tapping her slippered foot on the floor, echoing like a drum): “Intent does not save you. Only obedience. And you… will teach the house new secrets. Your fear will feed it until dawn, and when it has drunk enough, perhaps… it will let you leave.”

By the time the sun rose, the house had swallowed every trace of them. Only the Witch remained, standing at the hilltop, her ruby slippers glowing faintly in the morning mist. The villagers below swore they could hear faint cries from the hill, whispering through the fog, carried by the wind — a reminder that the house was never empty, and its hunger was eternal.

And so the Wicked Witch continued her reign, each victim feeding the house, each scream feeding her power, until the day Dorothy’s farmhouse fell from the sky, silencing the House of Blood once and for all.

The End 

By 

Ted Smith 

All Rights Reserved