There were no young women in Greil village. Sure, there were elderly woman and even some girls, young and innocent. But young women, the vital and pretty kind, were nowhere to be seen.

Many old stories, as old as the village itself, attributed this phenomenon to a witch who lived in the village. According to the stories whispered through tight lips, the witch would lure and murder these young women in order to leech them of their beauty and youth. Over time, in fear of being ensnared in her grasps, many left during their childbearing years, only to return when they were old and well beyond their years of beauty. Whether these stories were true or not, villagers chose to venture the side of cautiousness.

The only woman to ever reside in the city went simply by Evangeline. Naturally, due to her unearthly beauty and ageless aura, it was believed that this woman was the witch mentioned in stories. Because of this, many avoided her entirely and let her be all alone in that little cottage of hers in the forest.

Being the historian I was, the story of Greil village fascinated me enough to inspire a thesis dedicated solely to the Greil witch herself. This was why I sat here today, in a chair made of rotting wood across from an identical chair that seated the woman herself: Evangeline.

Her eyes mirrored and glossy, unseeing, and uninterested. She was so focused on looking out of the single window of her tiny cottage, that if I were to reach out and press my fingers to the pupil of her eye, I’m sure I would get no response in return.

Though stunning, far more ethereal than any woman should be, there was something haunting about her beauty. Her cheekbones and brows, high and regal framed a pair jade green eyes that glittered like sea glass. From her head sprung golden threads of hair that sat on her shoulders in tangled curls.

Pretty as she was, her beauty seemed frozen in time, like a picture destined never to age. It was as though she were the prettiest flower picked from the garden of Eden and pressed between the pages of book- a preserved yet unliving beauty.

“E-Evangeline?”, I asked, and my voice came out hoarse and meek as though I hadn’t spoken in years.

She didn’t look up to acknowledge me, but I saw her head cock ever so slightly to the side in curiosity. I cleared my throat and tried again.

“You are Evangeline, aren’t you?”

Finally, she pursed her ruby lips into a half smile.

“A maiden as fair as you shouldn’t be in this village, she replied, voice smooth and melodic.

“I’m only visiting. Why shouldn’t I be here”, I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

She laughed, the sound of it echoing through the house and pulsating under my skin.

“It’s not safe for you…”, she sang lifting one finger and wagging it in the air, “there’s a bad, bad witch in this village who can’t be trusted”.

Chills ran down my spine at the taunting tone in her words, but I forced my face to remain neutral.

My hand hovered over the notepad in my hand, the pen so tightly gripped in my hand that my knuckles turned white.

“This witch…is she not just a story? A fable meant to explain a rare anomaly in population statistics?”, I pressed, leaning forward to ask her the question.

The second the words spilled from my lips I saw a ripple of anger spread across her eyes. She turned to me slowly, mossy eyes jumping with barely contained emotion that flickered from anger to amusement, then back again. Her grin widened to such a degree that her beautiful face became distorted in a garish clownlike way.

“All stories come from somewhere, love. There’s truth in even the darkest of tales,” she crooned.

I jotted her words down quickly in my notepad, wishing I had brought my voice recorder yet again. But alas, it sat at the bottom of my bag, battery dead despite it being fully charged this morning. I wished desperately in that moment to capture the way she spoke her words, with that dark trill of seduction and teasing.

“I see, well what-“

But she cut off my words by placing a hand on my knee. She leaned in closer, and her fragrance filled my senses. Something sweet and regal like roses mingled with the earthy scent of dirt.

“Tell me something, dear. A question in exchange for two more questions,” she soothed.

I nodded my head and leaned closer, intoxicated by her scent.

“Do you think that I am pretty?”, she asked, tilting her head to the side.

I frowned, surprised at her question. Did I think she was pretty? Of course I did, she was the most gorgeous woman I had ever seen.

“Y-yes you are. You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen,” I said softly, my words dampened by the lucid state her gaze put me under.

“But don’t you think...”, she began, reaching out to touch my cheek with her fingertips, “don’t you think I’d be so much prettier with blue eyes? Sapphire like yours.” Her voice was husky and sweet, a lullaby wrapped in a layer of seduction that pulled me deeper in her orbit.

Her question immediately sent a strange spike of alarm at the back of my mind, but it was too far away and too faint to pay attention to. I liked her green eyes, but I couldn’t deny that my eyes, which had always been my best feature, would look so much more stunning on her face than mine.

“I suppose,” I murmured, my eyes feeling heavy and drowsy. My grip loosened on the notebook and the pen, and I heard them clattering to the ground, the pen rolling somewhere beneath her chair.

“Two more questions, dear,” she reminded me.

I wracked my brain for words to string together to form a question, but my thoughts felt cloudy and jumbled. Finally, a question found its way to my lips.

“So is it true then? Are you the witch in the stories that steals beauty and youth?”, I asked, my words slurring.

Her smile broadened impossibly wider, and she nodded. By now I have started to see her in double, twin bobbing heads of perfection.

“Witch is a foul word though. I prefer to be called enchantress,” she replied smoothly.

“One more question”, she added.

I pursed my lips and let my gaze fall to the open notebook lying on the floor. The list of questions I was meant to ask lines the page in blue ink, but one word, set apart from the rest, covers the bottom half in bold capital letters. I’ve circled it so many times that the paper has begun to tear and wear down around the ink: Why?

“W-why did you do it? Kill all those women?,” I asked, my eyelids fluttering shut before my question is complete.

As I lost consciousness, I heard her mummering her answer in my ear, warm breath against my skin.

“I wanted to be the prettiest, my dear. In a way you could say, I guess it was all in vain”