On Witch's Hill there are two houses about fifty yards apart. 

The larger of the houses is rather dull-looking, with peeling paint, splintering trim and crumbling brick; smoke is never seen to emerge from its dour-looking chimney.  Those who pass by suppose that this is a good thing, because as it is, the house and its surrounding area has the unpleasant smell of burnt chicken; chimney smoke would probably be much, much worse.

The smaller house, on the other hand, is much more beautiful.  Milton's wife built it seemingly in hours just before she left.  She adorned the house with colorful birds' feathers and windchimes and surrounded it with fireflies.  On the bright green lacquered door is a sign which reads "Come in" (though she instructed Milton to never, ever enter) and from the chimney always billows a column of soft white smoke that smells of baking dough.

Milton lives alone in the larger house; when his wife left, she waved her arms in the air and her hands glowed.  She told him, "I will be gone a long time, Milton, because I have much work to do.  But I will provide for you.  You need not ever leave this home."  And in that instant he felt dizzy, very dizzy, but that had been alright.  He knew she would be coming back.

He does not know how long he has been waiting.

***

Milton's wife was fond of building miniatures when she was still home.  In the larger house, the walls are lined with makeshift shelves, all of them filled with miniature houses.  Most of the miniatures represent homes in the village that were claimed by that mysterious series of fires.

She filled the houses with miniature people, scraps of Milton's old socks stuffed with cotton.  Their button eyes shine brightly.

There is a replica of the smaller prettier house on the hill.  Lights always shine inside of it.

***

At first it was only children who went into the smaller house. 

Later on teenagers and adults started to go when they found out the place was there.  Soon after that, a group of men came and tried to board the doors shut.  When their nails bent and broke against the wood, they returned with torches. They went home with singed hair and eyebrows. 

The house stayed.

At first, the villagers did not force their worst criminals to enter the house.

This was all the same to Milton.

Years passed.

***

Never go into a witch's house.  No matter how pretty it is; no matter if she's not home.  Witches are tricky.  Ask the villagers.

***

Once, a group of adventurous young men walked into the larger house instead of the smaller one and found Milton sitting serenely in his favorite chair.  When he got up to shoo them away they ran; one of them, Milton saw, left a thin trail of urine.  He wiped it up in disgust.

The villagers came back with torches again. 

They returned home with singed hair again. 

Milton watched them from the window.  He laughed, but the sound was wrong.  That was alright.

***

In the mornings Milton goes to the miniature of the smaller prettier house, opens its door and all its windows, and takes it to the kitchen.  Usually he has to turn it on its side and shake it over the frying pan to get all the little people out.  At first it was children who came falling out; then teenagers; now, it is men, usually, who beg for forgiveness before they hit the pan's surface.  The smell is like burnt chicken.

Milton has given up trying to reply to the men who fall out of the miniature.  When he goes to speak, the strings at the corners of his mouth stretch painfully.  No sound comes out anyway; it is as though his breath is being forced through a bale of cotton, and nobody can speak like that.  His tongue, a fat red strip of felt, can hardly taste anything.  His button eyes shine brightly.

Pickman's Nodegel: The 2009 Halloween Horrorquest