Kitchen Witch | A Monster Story From Colorado

Dara had always liked Home Economics class. She enjoyed baking cookies, decorating cupcakes, and learning how to cook simple meals. But today, something felt off. It was the week before Halloween, and the air was crisp and cold, making the leaves outside crunch underfoot. The classroom was filled with the smell of spices and sugar, but there was something else in the air—something that made Dara uneasy.

Her Home Economics teacher, Mrs. Thorn, had asked Dara to stay after school to help clean up the classroom kitchen. Dara didn’t mind staying late. She liked the quiet of the school after everyone else had gone home. But as the minutes ticked by, the quiet started to feel more like a heavy weight on her chest.

Mrs. Thorn was tall and thin, with long black hair that she always kept in a tight bun. She had a sharp nose, thin lips, and eyes that seemed to gleam with a strange light whenever she looked at Dara. Today, her smile seemed just a bit too wide, her movements just a bit too quick.

“Dara, dear,” Mrs. Thorn said in her sing-song voice, “I’m so glad you could stay. We’re going to make a special recipe for the Halloween dance. It’s going to be the highlight of the party!”

Dara forced a smile and nodded. “Sure, Mrs. Thorn. What are we making?”

Mrs. Thorn’s eyes twinkled as she pulled out a large cookbook, its cover old and worn. “Oh, it’s a very old recipe. Passed down through generations. I’m sure you’ll find it… fascinating.”

Dara watched as Mrs. Thorn flipped through the pages, the paper yellowed with age. She stopped at a page with strange symbols and odd, unreadable handwriting. Mrs. Thorn traced her finger over the words, mumbling something under her breath.

“First, we’ll need to preheat the oven,” Mrs. Thorn said, looking up at Dara with that too-wide smile. “Why don’t you do that for me, dear?”

Dara nodded and walked over to the large industrial oven in the corner of the room. She turned the dial to 350 degrees, just like Mrs. Thorn had taught them in class. But as she reached out to close the oven door, she felt a sharp sting on her hand. She yanked it back and saw a red welt forming on her skin.

“Oh my, did you burn yourself?” Mrs. Thorn asked, but there was no concern in her voice. It almost sounded like she was pleased.

“It’s nothing,” Dara muttered, cradling her hand.

“Good, good,” Mrs. Thorn said, turning back to her book. “Now, let’s get started.”

As the afternoon wore on, Dara found herself getting more and more nervous. Mrs. Thorn had her chopping vegetables, mixing batter, and stirring pots on the stove. But every task seemed to have a hidden danger. A knife slipped too close to her fingers, a pot of boiling water nearly splashed onto her, and every time Dara looked up, she found Mrs. Thorn watching her with those gleaming eyes.

Finally, Mrs. Thorn pulled out a large wooden skewer, long enough to roast an entire chicken. But Mrs. Thorn didn’t have any chicken. She looked at Dara with that unsettling smile. “We’re making something special tonight,” she said softly. “Something very special.”

Dara’s heart began to pound. She glanced around the room, looking for a way out. The door was too far, and Mrs. Thorn was between her and the exit. Panic surged in her chest, and she realized that Mrs. Thorn wasn’t just a strange teacher—she was something much worse.

Mrs. Thorn moved closer, holding the skewer out like she was measuring it against Dara’s height. “You know, Dara, I’ve always thought you were the perfect student. So sweet, so obedient. Just the right… flavor.”

Dara took a step back, her hands trembling. “I-I think I need to go home now,” she stammered.

Mrs. Thorn’s smile vanished, replaced by a look of pure hunger. “Oh no, my dear. You’re not going anywhere. You’re going to help me make the most delicious dish for the Halloween dance. And you’re going to be the main ingredient.”

Dara’s breath caught in her throat. She had to think fast. Her eyes darted around the kitchen, and she remembered something her grandma had once told her about witches. Witches hate salt. It burns them, just like holy water burns vampires.

Her gaze landed on the pot of boiling water on the stove. She had been making mashed potatoes earlier, and she had just added a big bag of salt to the water. She needed to get that water.

Mrs. Thorn took another step toward her, raising the skewer. “This will only hurt for a moment,” she said, her voice now low and menacing.

Dara lunged for the stove, grabbing the pot of salty water with both hands. It was heavy and boiling hot, but she didn’t care. With all her strength, she swung the pot toward Mrs. Thorn.

The water splashed across Mrs. Thorn’s face and hands, and she let out an ear-piercing screech. The skin on her face bubbled and sizzled, and her eyes glowed with a fiery red light.

“You little brat!” Mrs. Thorn screamed, stumbling back. “You’ll pay for that!”

But Dara didn’t stop. She grabbed the bag of kosher sea salt from the counter and hurled it at Mrs. Thorn. The bag exploded on impact, showering the witch with salt. Mrs. Thorn howled in pain, her skin smoking wherever the salt touched.

Dara watched in horror and amazement as Mrs. Thorn’s face twisted in agony. The witch staggered back, her hands clawing at the air. Desperate, she lunged for the cleaning closet, ripping the door open and grabbing a broom.

“No! You can’t stop me!” Mrs. Thorn shrieked, her voice growing weaker. She mounted the broom and, with a final hateful glare at Dara, kicked off the ground. The broom shot through the air, crashing through the nearest window and disappearing into the darkening sky.

The room fell silent. Dara stood there, shaking, her heart racing. The floor was covered in salt and broken glass, the air thick with the smell of burnt skin and boiled potatoes.

Just then, the door burst open. The principal, Mr. Carter, and the biology teacher, Ms. Green, rushed in, their faces pale with shock.

“What on earth happened here?” Mr. Carter demanded, looking around at the mess.

Dara turned to face them, her face still pale, but with a hint of a smile on her lips. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said, her voice steadying. “So, do you want to suspend me now or give me detention for a month?”

Mr. Carter stared at her, speechless. Ms. Green blinked, glancing from Dara to the shattered window. Neither of them knew what to say.

Dara took a deep breath, feeling the adrenaline finally start to fade. “I think I’ll take that detention,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. After all, it was a small price to pay for surviving an encounter with a witch.