Witch Grandma? Which Grandma? I I opened my eyes to find that I was locked inside the past with virtually no way of escaping. The painting had trapped me here, in this timeline, and–ughh, what was I wearing? Wait– A CORSET?! THEY WERE SO ITCHY AND UNCOMFORTABLE! No.. I had come to the Victorian era? Come on! Is this what I get for being fascinated by Witch Hunts? Ughh, fine. I'd escape somehow. I got up and staggered to my feet. I went and examined the painting closely. Was that–who I thought it was? Was that… Grandma? II A little girl. A witness to the modern-day equivalent of a heinous crime; probably the death sentence would be the punishment, maybe even worse; A woman being burnt on the stake; A man being accused of being a vampire; Young children prohibited to go out during the evenings for fear of "witch-looking women" who apparently hunted children. Horrible. Watching people burn. Die. Scream and holler in agony. Horrible. Inhumane. That's how Grandma had described to me her experience of witnessing the witch hunts. But… she could not be a witch, could she–? The portrait could not be implying that, right? I cleared my head. I was imagining things. And yet… But I had no time. I had to hurry and escape. I began searching all over the place for clues. But every time I opened a door, I heard a creak. Every step I climbed, I heard footsteps behind me. I was completely certain I wasn't imagining that, at least. It could be ten minutes, or ten hours. Either way, i had no way to tell the time. My watch was going wack. Then suddenly, a shadow enveloped me and I screamed, only to find that I was in my bed. But grandma's witch painting was before my eyes.
