Peter Collins had not enjoyed a particularly comfortable Saturday.
Although the excitement of Halloween was over, he could not stop thinking about Mrs Agatha Thistlewick, her seven black cats and, most particularly, the curious things that had happened inside her little cottage.
He remembered the enormous donkey’s ears that had appeared upon his head, Michael’s extraordinary croaking and the stern old lady sitting beside her fireplace with that ancient brown carpet slipper.
By bedtime, Peter had almost convinced himself that the entire adventure had been a rather peculiar misunderstanding.
“There’s no such thing as witches,” he told himself firmly.
Nevertheless, he took a second look beneath his bed before climbing between the sheets.
His mother had bought him a new pair of blue-and-white striped flannel pyjamas, and these were wonderfully warm against the November chill.
Outside, the wind was beginning to rise.
Peter closed his eyes.
And presently, he began to dream.
At first, he thought he was standing in his own back garden.
But something was wrong.
The garden seemed enormous, and the familiar wooden fence had disappeared. Instead, a high brick wall stretched away into the darkness.
Above it rose the twisted branches of ancient trees.
A full moon shone through the clouds.
Peter looked down.
He was still wearing his striped blue pyjamas.
His feet were bare.
“How extraordinary!” he whispered.
Then he recognised the crooked chimney of a cottage beyond the trees.
It was Mrs Thistlewick’s house.
And somehow, without knowing how he had arrived there, Peter Collins was standing in the old witch’s back garden.
