The Only Thing Worse Than Witches Read Free Page B

suggestions.
    Rupert looked at his watch as he jogged through the town — his delay with Mrs. Gummyum left him two minutes late, and he dashed past a store of knickknacks, the quilting store, a candy store, and a jack-in-the-box emporium. At the very end of the strip, Rupert passed Cats, Rats, Bats, and Hats: A Witch’s Top Shop
and Broomstick Tours: Showing You Gliverstoll on the Fly
,
two of the witchy businesses in Gliverstoll that generated money and tourists for the town.
    At last, Rupert finally arrived at Digglydare Close, and he peered into the shadowy street. He saw no one.
    Maybe the witch had decided she didn’t want an apprentice after all. Maybe he would never find her — maybe he would never be able to talk to anyone ever again.
    Rupert walked through the Close. “Hello? Anyone there?”
    A breeze wooshed and swooshed through the alleyway. He heard a cackle, which turned into a throaty cough. Rupert followed the noise down an intersecting alleyway, and he kept following the sound until he stood in front of a wooden door on Pexale Close. The coughs were definitely coming from the other side of the door.
    Rupert looked around the cobblestone path. Was he supposed to follow the cackling coughs? Or was he supposed to wait for the witch at Digglydare Close? Should he turn around? Or should he go in?
    Rupert knocked on the door. It swung open, and he slinked into a musty room that smelled like a sweaty shoe. The room was filled with shelves, stacked top to bottom with books, bottles, and odd knickknacks, but Rupert was more focused on a hunched figure that stood over a cauldron. The figure looked to be brewing a potion, and even in the darkness, Rupert saw her pointy teeth gleaming in a wicked grin.
    He instantly regretted coming to meet her. What if she cooked his toes into Toecorn? What if she boiled his fingers into Knuckle Soup? Or squeezed his eyeballs for jelly? How could he possibly have been so stupid and so careless? If he disappeared, no one would ever know what happened to him. He should have taken his mother’s cell phone or left a note on the kitchen counter . . . or had some sort of contingency plan.
    Rupert looked up at her, his knees knocking. “H-hello,” he said. He tried to smile as pleasantly as possible, but he was sure it looked more like a grimace.
    â€œAre you here for the interview?” the witch croaked, her voice low and crackly.
    Rupert nodded.
    The witch leaned forward into the slices of daylight that snuck in from the window shades. In the dim light, Rupert saw the woman’s gigantic, crooked, warty, grandflubbing nose, and he saw her rotten, daggerly teeth. The woman raised a gnobbled hand toward Rupert and pointed at the seat.
    â€œSit.”
    Rupert took a seat, looking down at the witch’s feet. But then he noticed she had no feet at all — just four wooden pegs that came out from under her cloak. Rupert looked up at the witch’s greenish face, realizing that her face was greener in some places than others and that her face looked awfully splotchy. And there was a thin lining of plastic around her nose.
    He squinted and leaned closer. Rupert thought he saw — yes! The witch was wearing costume makeup!
    Rupert snickered. But he didn’t want to be rude, so he bit his lips and blew his cheeks out, desperately trying to swallow his laughter. His eyes bugged, and his face turned red.
    â€œOh!” the witch gasped. “He’s having a fit!” She rushed forward to help him, but she tripped on the robe that was several feet too long for her, and she fell splat on the floor. Her prosthetic nose popped off, flew into the air, and landed in the cauldron with a hiss.
    Rupert howled until tears were leaking out of his eyes. “I’m sorry — I shouldn’t laugh,” he wheezed.
    The witch fished her fake nose out of the cauldron with a ladle, but the piece of plastic had completely melted into