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Once upon a time, there was an old witch who lived in a swamp.
She had a little hut filled with just what she needed and nothing more. She liked to stand at her cauldron at night while she brewed her potions and look out the window to see the slimes bobbing around under the full moon.
It was a quiet, simple life in the swamp, and the witch liked it that way.
There was a black cat that came and went as it pleased. Sometimes, if she had any on hand, the witch gave it a fish.
One evening, just as the sun was going down over the hills, the witch heard a strange sound outside her hut.
It wasn’t uncommon to see zombies in the swamp. This was different from the usual zombie groan, though. It was higher in pitch and somehow sounded meaner.
At the same time, she heard the distinct sound of an agitated feline hiss.
The witch hurried outside. Just beyond her porch, the cat was swimming in the shallow water. As she watched, the cat blinked red, as if it had been struck.
Then the witch saw the small shape in the water beside the cat.
A baby zombie.
The witch leaned out over the railing. “Myeh, heh, heh,” she called.
The zombie looked up at her. “Hrsfrsrslfsrrrslssl,” he said.
Then he hit the cat again.
The witch pulled out the potion of slowness she’d brewed that morning to deter the trespassers she sometimes got. She hurled it at the baby zombie. The vial shattered over him.
The zombie reached for the cat, but the potion had worked its magic, and the cat was finally able to dart out of his reach. It sprang up to the roof of the witch’s hut and crouched there, yowling down at the little miscreant.
His quarry gone, the zombie hissed in tiny, gurgling rage.
But the witch wasn’t through. She strode down from her porch and took the baby zombie by the arm. “Myeh, heh, heh,” she told him, and she pulled him over her knee.
The baby zombie struggled, but slowed as he was, he was powerless against the old hag.
The witch began to smack his tiny zombie backside, and he let loose a throaty howl that led the witch to believe he had not experienced this particular brand of repercussion before.
“Fffhrsffshh!” cried the zombie. “Hrshrfffhsflfhshss! Hrfssshhh!!”
The witch was undeterred. “Myeh, heh, heh,” she said, and she went right on spanking the youngster.
The zombie continued to scream at her, but he stopped struggling, resigning himself to his fate.
Then an odd thing happened. In a shower of emerald sparks, the baby zombie began to transform. Suddenly, instead of a green little hellion, the witch was smacking the bottom of a regular village child.
If that wasn’t a sign the chastisement had been effective, the witch didn’t know what was.
She set the child on his feet. “Myeh, heh, heh?” she asked.
The child looked down. “Hrmm,” he said.
The witch patted his head. The poor thing had probably come from a zombified village. It happened from time to time—a raider would tear through, stealing beds and flinging open the doors so monsters could stroll right in. It was heartbreaking, really.
“Myeh, heh, heh,” said the witch, and she gestured to her hut.
“Hrmm,” said the child. He rubbed his bottom and followed the witch inside. She gave him a bowl of mushroom soup, and eventually, the cat came down from the roof and let the child pet it.
And from that day on, the witch’s quiet, simple life was just a little bit more complicated.