I wrote this because I have a friend whose daughter is going to start therapy very soon, and this story just kinda of showed up full fledged in my mind... I'm very worried that her daughter might have faced some abuse that we have not found out about. Anyway, any feedback would be appreciated.

Once upon a time, not too long ago, a woman had a son. He was her first son, and she thought he was the most beautiful child in the world. She held him and carried him wherever she went, so much so that people wondered and told her that she might spoil him. But all she would say was that something only spoiled if it was left alone too long.

After a while, this woman and her husband began to fall on hard times, and she had to take her precious baby to some else to care for him while she worked in the fields with her husband. So, after talking to the other women in the village, she took her son to an old woman who kept many of the village children at her home. It was a neat house, clean as could be, with a beautiful yard and a big door out front and three steps into the house. Her son cried when she left him there, but she knew that she had to help harvest to keep them from going hungry, so she left.

Several months went by. Every morning, she would carry her precious son to the old woman’s house. Every morning, she would open the front door and let the old woman take her son. And every morning, the old woman would go down the three steps into her house and take the crying baby into the room with the other children she could hear, just out of sight. This was always the way it happened.

One night, when the mother brought her son back home, she noticed that he didn’t look as bright and as happy as he once had. He didn’t reach for her joyfully like he had every other time she had brought him home. And, for the first time, when she took him to the old woman’s house the next morning, he didn’t cry when she left, just looked sullen and dull. The woman’s heart shook in sadness, but she knew she must work for them to survive, so she stored it all in her heart. She didn’t want her husband to think that she was not able to do what needed to be done and make him feel guilty that he could not support them the way he wanted.

Before long, the boy had stopped crying or laughing at all. The same routine happened each day, but each day he got more and more silent, until finally, he didn’t speak, laugh, or cry at all.

The mother didn’t know what to do. So, the next time she took her son to the woman’s house, she tried to follow her down the steps into the room where the children were. To her surprise, each time she went down a step, another took its place below her. No matter how long she walked, the steps kept multiplying. Finally, she had to give up and turn around. There was only one step above her, and she easily reached the door and could leave.

This frightened her even more. “What have I done?” she wondered anxiously. “Is my son being watched by a witch, who does not wish any mother to see what happens to her children in her care? What could be happening in her house?”

All day, as she hoed the weeds in the fields, she wondered and wondered. Finally, when the heat reached its highest, she sat at the edge of the field and drank from her jug of cool water. As she did, she noticed a small mouse darting out to drink the droplets that fell from the edge of the jug. She knew that mice should not be near the field, but pity struck her, and she dribbled a little water for the tiny creature. Seeing the little mouse drink at the water reminded her of how worried she was about her little son, and tears began to flow from her eyes.

To her surprise, the mouse looked up and spoke. “You have been kind to me,” said the mouse. “Why do you weep?”

She was so shocked, she answered without thinking. “I am afraid that my son is being held secretly by a witch.”

The mouse cleaned his whiskers with his paws and seemed to ponder for a moment. “Why do you not get him back?”

The woman sighed and looked down. “I have no proof she is a witch, but her stairs will not let me in her house to see. The children go in without problem, but only she can go in or out.”

“Perhaps it would let you in if you were small, like a child,” squeaked the mouse. “Why don’t you shrink?”

“Oh, that sounds like a good idea. But I do not know how to shrink,” said the woman sadly. “If I shrank, her magic might think I was a child.”

“Is that all?” said the mouse. “I can teach you to shrink easily. But it will only last a short while, so you will have to hurry.”

“Truly, mouse? You would teach me that? Thank you so much!” the woman exclaimed in surprise.

“Indeed,” said the mouse. “We mice must know how to shrink to get into impossibly small holes. But it only lasts for a few minutes, so if you do use it, use it wisely!”

“I will, little mouse, I will.” The woman held out her hand to the mouse, who promptly climbed up and whispered the magic words in her ear. When he finished, he quickly scampered down to the ground again and resumed drinking the water.

In gratitude, the woman broke off a large crust of her bread and put a few more drops of water for the mouse. She then ran back into the village to the old woman’s door and opened it. Speaking the magic words to herself, she shrank down until she looked no older than 7 or 8 years old. As she went toward the stairs, she noticed that they looked a little strange. As soon as she stepped on them, they wiggled and moved under her feet. Before she knew it, she was already at the bottom. When she turned to go back up, the stairs grew higher and higher until it seemed she would have to climb a mountain to get over the first step.

Satisfied that her suspicion was correct, she turned toward the door where the woman took the children in the morning. She could hear little more than scrubbing, moving noises. She crept closer until she was listening right at the door, but nothing seemed to change. Finally, she carefully turned the knob and cracked the door slightly to see what she could see.

She found a horrifying site. The old woman had several children seated before her, each looking down glumly and being terrifyingly silent. The old woman seemed to be choosing some of them for a task. “Now you, and you, and you, and yes, you on the end. You have all been very naughty today, not eating all your porridge. I think an extra turn scrubbing the floors will help you see things my way.” The old woman made a movement with her hand that was hidden from the woman, and then, amazingly, the children she had chosen were suddenly gone! In their places, scrub brushes sat, scrub brushes that jumped on their own and went to work scrubbing the floor. The other children didn’t look surprised at all, which frightened the woman even more. But before she could even breathe, the woman said, “And the rest of you, you can begin reading your lessons. Except for you, my sweet,” she added as the children turned to go. The woman’s heart fell when she realized that she had gestured to her son. “You, my sweet, will stay with me. There, there, dear,” she crooned to him as he robotically moved towards her, fear and anguish in his eyes, as the other children seemed to dart towards their books as if glad of the chance to leave. “You know you are my most beautiful, my smartest, my best boy. Tell Granny how much you love her.”

“I love you very much, Granny,” the woman heard her voiceless son say to Granny.

“Ah, ah,” said Granny fondly, but the woman could see even at that distance that she had gripped his arm so tightly that his hand began to turn white. “Surely you can do better than that, my sweet. How much do you love Granny?”

“I love you most in the world, Granny,” said his trembling little voice.

“Even more than your mommy, dear?”

“Even more than my mommy.”

The evil old crone cackled and pulled the boy into a tight embrace. “See, my dear?” she began to croon in a tuneless lullaby. “It’s not so bad, once you get used to it. Old Granny will take the best care of you, always.”

“Yes, Granny,” said the little boy.

The woman had heard more than enough at this point. She had never seen anything so vile and evil before in her life. She wanted to burst into the place and free all the children, especially her son. She looked down at her body and saw that she was already adult size once more. She began to look around her to see if she could find something, some sort of weapon, when the old lady began to speak again. She leaned close once more to listen.

“All right, my dear, why don’t we just lie down here and take a little nap while all the naughty children are doing their chores?” The lady stood, took the boy’s hand, and moved over to the couch in the corner of the room. The other children never even looked up as the crone laid down, side by side with the silent, wide-eyed child, and began to snore softly.

The woman looked around the first room, but all she could see a few scrub brushes, some ear muffs, and a small bag full of sand. When she opened the bag of sand suspiciously, she sneezed and felt dizzy, like she was going to sleep. Armed with these weapons, she slowly eased the doors open and looked around again.

Things were as she had left them before. Even in her sleep, the old woman seemed to be crooning some sort of song. The magical brushes were still cleaning the floors, and the children sitting around the table were all reading books industriously. Her son and the witch were both lying on the couch, but while the witch was sleeping, her son had a wide-open, vacant look in his eyes. She stepped toward him.

Immediately, the scrub brushes began to come toward her and try to trip her. Startled, she dropped one of the scrub brushes in her own hands. Instantly, a child appeared where her brush had touched him. “Quick,” he said. “Her magic can’t hold up to the real thing. Touch them!”

Emboldened, the woman picked the brush back up and began touching each brush as it came towards her. Before long, all four children were turned back to normal and looked at her, terrified.

“Go, get out of the house,” she urged.

“But we can’t,” whispered the boy. “The steps won’t let us out.”

The woman nodded. She had forgotten so quickly. “Just wait in the hall, then,” she said. “I will get us all out as soon as I get my son.”

“Be careful,” whispered one of the little girls as she slipped out of the room. “You must undo her enchantments in order, or she will awaken immediately!”

The woman nodded and turned back to the room. The children who were studying should be next. She crept up to the table and touched one of them on the arm. The child acted as though he didn’t notice her at all. Each other child she touched did the same thing. Even if she moved their arms or flapped her hands in front of their eyes, they did not move. What should she do?

She thought about it for a moment, but nothing seemed to come to mind. Finally, she stooped down to whisper in a child’s ear. He acted as if he had heard a fly and swatted. Frustrated, she covered his ears with her hands. He suddenly started and clapped his hands over hers. She had done it! She let him go and gently whispered in his ears once more. He nodded. One by one, they went around the table and covered the ears of each child and shooed them out to the hallway.

The little boy turned and, as he hugged her fiercely, he whispered in her ear once more. “The witch’s spell is worst on your son,” he said sadly. “Be careful you don’t wake her! It is her humming that keeps the spell going, and he is most susceptible to it.” And with that, he slipped into the hallway as well.

The woman trembled as she walked toward her son. What did he mean, the spell was worst on her son? Her poor child! She carefully crept toward the pair and gently laid her hands on either side of his head to cover his ears.

“Must wake Granny,” moaned the child, his eyes still wide and fixed. “Must wake Granny!”

The woman snatched back her hands in terror. Her son calmed and regained his quiet, wide-eyed pose. How on earth was she supposed to get him out of the spell if she couldn’t get him to not hear the humming?

She remembered her ear muffs she found in the hallway. With trembling fingers, she gently put them on his head and withdrew her hands. To her astonishment, her son began to cry, sobbing as though he would never stop. She immediately began to move toward him, but he gestured for her to stop.

“No, Mommy, no!” he said. “You can’t hurt Granny! She said she would kill you if you tried to take me away from her. If I move, she will wake up! You’ve got to leave me, now. Go save the others!”

“No!” said the woman, and she took the small bag of sleep powder out of her pocket and threw it at the crone’s face. With a sneeze, the witch stopped her humming and seemed to breathe more deeply, more soundlessly. Her son, hit with much of the dust, had also fallen into a deep sleep.

With a sinking heart, the woman gently pulled her son from beneath the witch’s arm and placed a round pillow in his place. The old woman didn’t even twitch in her sleep. With a heavy heart, the woman grabbed her son in her arms and carried him into the hall, which was still crowded with children.

“What do we do now?” said the first boy she had rescued. “We can’t get up the stairs.”

“Yes, we can,” said the woman, confident now that she understood the stairs’ magic. “Everyone hold hands with one another, and you, hold my hand. We will go out together.”

Once everyone had grasped hands, she bravely stepped towards the stairs. As she had suspected, they were short and even for her. And since the children were connected to her, they were able to follow out, single file, until everyone was in the grass outside.

The parents of all the children in the village were gaping as they saw her step outside, children in tow. Pretty soon, the entire village was standing around outside, and the children were tiredly telling their parents what had happened as they tried to get their answers as quickly as they could. To the woman’s relief, her husband came up quickly and hugged them close.

Finally, the headman of the village came forward. “If I understand what the children are saying,” he said to the woman, “the crone who had watched the children is actually a witch.”

“Yes,” she said. “She used magic to control and hurt our children.” She noticed there were some gasps of horror, but in some places, the adults looked guilty and ashamed. She wondered if they hadn’t believed their children’s stories before. She wondered if they really did now.

“And you witnessed this all here?” asked the headman, looking skeptical.

“Yes,” she said, standing tall and straight. Her husband came to stand beside her. “She has bewitched our children, our futures. We must find some way she can never do that again.”

The crowd roared in approval. The headman looked irresolute, but he nodded shortly. “In that case, we must take her and give her over to questioning. Where is the crone?”

“In the house, in the house!” the crowd cried, and the adults surged forward to try to enter the place.

But alas! As the woman had learned, adults could not enter the house. The stairs multiplied over and again, and still people tried to go in. Finally, everyone grew weary, and they walked out and gathered around the front of the house, panting.

Once she saw she had their attention, the woman spoke again. “Only a child may enter the house, unless they use strong magic of their own,” she said. “Unless you would send a child to enter, no one can disturb her. I used her magic sleeping powder to keep her there, and who knows how long it will last? Unless she comes out again, she can not harm our children any longer. Let us make it so no child can enter, and she will never trouble us again.”

There was some grumbling, but the people agreed. Her door was covered over with rubble and dirt, and the children who had been there planted flowers and strawberries there, to show that they never needed to fear entering that door again.

And her son? The woman began to carry him again everywhere she went, even when she worked in the fields. And though it took a long time, he began to speak to her again. And people wondered about her carrying him so much, worrying that he might be spoiled. And he would tell them, had my mother not loved me so much and carried me so much before, I might have believed the witch when she told me my mother didn’t love me. I wasn’t spoiled. I was blessed.