She walks into the house, acutely aware of the stench of unwashed dishes, even with the smell of mint hanging in the air. She sighs, noting the abandoned pile of weaving in the corner, the amount of dust and dirt everywhere, and the lack of a proper bowl of porridge left out for her arrival. Will people never learn to take her seriously? Her rags sweep along the floor, clearing a path in her wake. She walks to the bedroom, and slowly opens the door. The husband and wife are asleep, dreaming of the elaborate meal they’d prepared for dinner. Suddenly, they awaken with sharp stomach pain. “It's her! It's the Witch!” the wife screams before looking down at the gash across her stomach, bits of straw poking out of the wound. The witch, Frau Perchta, is holding the wife’s stomach in her hand. “So, do you believe in me yet?” she asks, smiling, before cackling hysterically.
Scent notes: sweetgrass, freshly cut grass, basil, peppermint.
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