They were coming. Constance could hear their footsteps. Everything inside her stiffened at the thought of the confrontation that was to come. She wasn't ready to face her. She would never be.
Horror flooded her mind as she remembered her nemesis' first visit, two years ago. Back then she had thought that she was rid of her for good.
And when her troubled mind had just settled down, when she had finally managed to lay the demons of the past to rest, the old hag had returned to haunt her. Constance had thought that she was above letting herself terrorise by herat that time.
How very wrong she had been.
Broomhead's sight had caused the old, ice cold pain in her stomach, the familiar urge to hyperventilate. She had been reduced to nothing but fear.
Fear of what she had to object again. For there was bound to be something. There always was.
It had been more luck than anything that nothing of consequence had happened back then.
Her short time as headmistress had been even more trying on Constance. She had felt like a schoolgirl again. Broomhead's thirst for control had, well, increased, to say the least. Constance had pitied Mildred for being the old woman's favourite victim that time, but at the same time she had been ashamed for feeling such a relief that it was not her, like it had been all the times before.
When it had all become too much, Constance had finally called Miss Cackle back. And again she had hoped to be rid of her.
But now the staff room door opened and in came the curse of her life.
Heckity Broomhead.
Constance took a deep breath and turned to face her fear.