Chapter 92

Getting out of the car, Herb looked at the house and whistled. "Are you sure this dame's not a real witch?" he said.

Herb's wife shushed him. "What kind of a question is that?"

"A good one. Just look at this place."

The old iron gate around the property's dying lawn creaked when he pushed on it, and a winding path of broken stones led up to the tall, dark house with Gothic turrets and staring windows. You'd basically have to be a witch to move in here, he thought. The realtor was probably even running some kind of witch special: "Extra large broom closets, new cauldron included with down payment," that kind of thing.

Herb's wife tsked at the overgrown flower beds as they approached the front door. "This looks so unhealthy," she said. "You don't think Willie caught anything while he was here? From fleas or something?"

Herb thought it was more likely that fleas would get sick from biting their son than the other way around, but said nothing. When he