After not committing pen to paper for too long, I've finally gotten around to uploading something new. School commitments (blah, blah, blah) meant that I let my writing take a back seat, but hopefully I can start to get in to it again.

Here's just a little bit of randomness that popped into my head after watching Hocus Pocus and eating too many sweets. It hasn't been beta-d or anything so any mistakes are completely mine.

Needless to say, I don't own anything Haz Po related.

Thanks :)

There is a house that the locals do not talk about. The rugged path up to the rotted door is twisted and overgrown. The surrounding gnarled trees reach out their deformed claws, as if to snatch away those brave (or foolish) enough to venture closer.

Whispers of all manner of dark creatures within the unsteady building reach young ears, frightening them away with threats of misery and death. For the older students of the local school, the building poses the ultimate challenge. A badge of honour awaits any who manage to make it up to the front door and tap their wand against it three times. Not that it happens a lot; the last student to do so ran back screaming and shaking, never revealing why.

It is said that on some nights, the screams and cries of pain and terror of whatever dark beings lie within carry across the breeze. And on nights in time gone by, a hiss and a cry of surprise cut through the air to rest upon the wind-battered ears of passers-by.

Rumour has it that the house was the scene of a grisly murder. A great warrior was felled by a vicious creature with talons and scales. The man died before he could fulfil his task, and so he remained for many years, replaying his demise again and again.

If you are lucky enough to catch one of the elderly locals after a drink or three, they sometimes relay the story of the brave warrior and his loyal visitor. With each passing year, just as sure as those awful sounds was the visit from the mysterious cloaked woman.

She would come twice a year, when the seasons would change to mark the beginning and end of summer. No one knew what she did or why (no one was brave enough the approach), but many saw her walk that very path and push back the door. She would only stay long enough to place a small bunch of crisp white flowers on the ground.

The wizened locals, with their battle-scarred hands will gesture to the house and shake their heads before continuing the story. They say that woman visited for many years, the passing of time evident in the change in her gait along the rubble, the increasing pauses in her journey.

Until one year, when it was the children's children who peered uneasily at the unsteady shack, the woman stopped coming. Her visits became the stuff of hearsay and seasons continued to change.

It is here in their story that the sozzled elder-folk pause for dramatic effect. For from the time when the woman was no longer sighted at the house, neither was the hiss and cry heard.

Some say the warrior and the woman were lovers; that the man waited faithfully for his amour to return to him. Others say that he was trapped in his loop of hell, his demise one of the woman's doing and he was only freed upon her death.

There are some die-hard romantics, of course, who tell of a tale of forbidden love. That the warrior died before his beloved could return to save him and so he remained in his self-inflicted purgatory until they could be reunited.

There is a house that the locals do not talk about. An unsteady shack on the outskirts of the village where a brave warrior met his demise and his faithful love made pilgrimage.

Children still claim to hear the shrieks and groans from inside the rickety building. But they also listen to the locals' ever-dwindling whispers of a tragic and beautiful love affair that could never be in life.