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My name is Julia. Last night I had a nightmare. It was about a witch. OK, that probably sounds really stupid and babyish, but I’d watched a film I wasn’t supposed to. You see, my brother, Luke, had his friend George round for the day. They are 16. George always brings 18-rated films but they hardly ever get to watch them because Mum and Dad are here and they are very strict about what we watch. But today Luke had this massive grin on his face and said, “Mum and Dad are at the shopping centre. They won’t be back for ages.” He looked almost as ghastly as the witches in my nightmare.

So we watched it. It was called Lovely Ladies, which they were not. It was about these so-called women, but at midnight, they turn into hideous witches, with black crumbly skin and long pointy finger nails. Every night the witches went round their chosen town’s houses Then, with super- human strength, they hauled themselves up drainpipes or old sticky- out bricks and climbed into any open windows they could find and used those alarmingly pointy nails of theirs and sliced peoples’ heads clean off. They would take all the blood and pour it neatly into a jar, take it home and have a mega- feast.

Unfortunately, last night the witches came into my room, waiting for the right moment to pounce. When the right time came, they used those ultra -sharp nails and my head went plop! on the pillow. There was blood absolutely everywhere, all over the sheets, all over me! I tried to move, but the sheets were all tangled around me. The witches glared at me, obviously a signal for me to shut up. But how was I making a noise, because when I tried to scream no sound came out, apart from a strangled gasp. I could hardly even breathe!

The witches cleared up the blood and put it into a purple jar. They were just about to zoom off, when someone started shaking me and telling me to calm down. Then there was another voice, less calm, bellowing at me to shut up. I opened my eyes and then shut them quickly for there was a bright light on. I opened them again slowly and could just make out two fuzzy figures. One of them was Mum, wearing her orange tulip nightie and hair curlers. The other one was unmistakably Luke, still yelling his head off. Mum whispered “you can come into our bed, but I’m not getting an ideal, peaceful sleep either. I think your father has been replaced by an old hairy warthog.”  I spluttered, imagining a great big pinky brown warthog wearing my Dad’s football pyjamas.  Mum chuckled too.

When I settled back down to sleep again, I began to dream of happy things. It was like the witches had super glued my head back on, and whizzed off to their hideous, cobwebby castle.


Jessica Bridge

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