The House on the Hill

Everyone in town knew the rule: don’t go near the house on the hill.

It sat at the edge of the woods, crooked and sagging, like it was trying to collapse in on itself. The windows were always dark. The wind always howled a little louder near its walls. And, of course, the witch inside—Isadora Nightshade—was said to curse anyone foolish enough to step too close.

But I wasn’t afraid. No, I was determined.

Because here’s the thing: I had a crush on her.

Call me crazy (most people do), but there was something about a mysterious, possibly malevolent sorceress that just did it for me. Maybe it was the allure of the unknown. Maybe it was the way her shadowy silhouette occasionally flickered in the attic window. Or maybe it was just that I had terrible taste in women.

Either way, I was going to ask the witch on the hill out on a date.

I had it all figured out. I’d show up with flowers (not roses—too cliché, so I went with nightshade, because hey, thematic). I’d knock on her ominous, creaky door. I’d flash my most charming smile and say, “Hey, do you want to get dinner sometime?”

It was simple. Foolproof. What could possibly go wrong?

The moment I stepped onto the front porch, the wind died. Not slowed. Not eased. Died. Like the world itself was holding its breath.

The door opened before I knocked.

And there she stood.

Isadora Nightshade.

She was gorgeous—in a terrifying way. Pale as moonlight, dark hair cascading over her shoulders, eyes like storm clouds. She was wrapped in a black cloak, her fingers stained with ink or maybe… something worse.

She looked at me like I was the dumbest person alive. Which, at that moment, was probably true.

“You have five seconds,” she said, voice smooth as silk but sharp as broken glass. “Explain why you are here before I turn you into a toad.”

I cleared my throat. “Would you like to go on a date with me?”

Silence.

Then: “…What?”

I held out the flowers. “Dinner? Maybe a movie?”

She stared at me like I’d just offered to drink molten lava.

Then, to my absolute delight (and sheer terror), she laughed.

A real, genuine laugh. Low and throaty, like she hadn’t laughed in years.

“You are either incredibly brave or impossibly stupid,” she said, eyeing me with intrigue. “Perhaps both.”

I grinned. “So… is that a yes?”

She considered me for a long moment. Then, to my utter shock, she took the flowers.

“Fine,” she said. “One date. But if you bore me, I’m turning you into a frog.”

Turns out, dating a witch is awesome. She enchanted our dinner candles, so they floated above the table. She made our wine glow. She casually cursed another diner for being rude to their waiter (he deserved it).

And when I walked her home at the end of the night, she smirked at me and said, “Your fate is sealed."

I shrugged.

She laughed. And then she kissed me.

I did not get turned into a frog.

But I did get a second date.