My Mother the Witch by Hanns Heinz Ewers
 

My Mother the Witch is a story about a grown man that discovers his mother is a witch and tries to persuade his brother not to get married because any children might become witches as well! This story has never been translated into English before. You can click on my name to get to my website if you are interested in reading this story.

Here is a short excerpt:

We had just sat down around mother's table for the evening meal, eight men and women. We were speaking about Indian magic tricks and one of the Gentlemen showed us the well-known needle trick. He stuck a long hatpin into his back and out under his arm. He then made his arm into an attractive pincushion.

The Indian fakir can do this to perfection and apparently does not feel any discomfort from the nails, glowing coals and other things. I have seen this trick performed often and even tried it myself a few times. It is really a simple trick and requires only a little practice and willpower. The slight injury to the skin does hurt but is bearable. People naturally have favorite spots in which to stick the pins and needles. A favorite spot is one with a lot of fat under the skin that is less sensitive. They laugh while sticking needles, nails and shoestrings into the spot. It always amazes people.

The only real danger is of getting blood poisoning when the wound becomes infected by naive self-torturers. It does occasionally happen. Stab one of these dazzlers unexpectedly with a sharp pin and you can bet they will feel it and yell out.

That gave me the idea of performing a little experiment with mother. She is extremely sensitive to the smallest pain and cries out loudly when she pokes herself on the finger with a needle. Now she has a small pale birthmark on the side of her neck.

One night as I gave her a goodnight kiss I put both arms around her neck and poked her there with a small needle. She didn't feel a thing. The next night I had the opportunity to push the small needle in almost to the bone in the same spot. She didn't notice anything.

You know that before executing witches they would strip and torture them with needles looking for so called witch marks on the body that were completely insensitive to pain. Our mother has such a spot and an old time judge would very quickly pass judgement on her.

That same evening I was able to again observe mother during the full moon. I sat hidden on the sofa in the corner, saw the door to her bedroom open, saw her come out and sit in her chair in the middle of the moonlight. I saw her pushing her silver hair back under her black scarf as she stared out the open window.

She looked wonderful, our mother. She sat there unaware, the street below was dead still and there was a deep quiet in the room. Then mother's cricket began to sing, nice and gentle, much more softly than it usually does. It was as if the animal were afraid to break the sacred stillness. Suddenly its shrill voice broke off.

I glanced around the room looking for the little thing. At the moment as my eyes once more fell on mother I saw something spring out_ come from her?_from near her?_from over her? I don't really know. It wasn't the cricket, oh no. It was large and gray. It landed on the carpet without making a sound. Then it sprang up onto the back of the small couch by the open windowsill. It crouched there for a little while on the yellow fabric.

That's when I saw that it was a huge cat. One minute the gray animal was sitting there and the next it sprang out through the open window. I was involuntarily frightened and still hadn't heard the slightest sound. I immediately hurried to the window, then hesitated because I heard a loud purring right next to my ear. I turned around and there near me stood Bast, the goddess statue with the cat's head. The one that mother claimed would purr at times. I didn't hear it anymore, apparently it had only been my imagination.

I continued to the window and looked out. The cat sat there under the window. Then it slowly got up, paced a bit and sprang from the first story down to the stones below without apparent injury.

It didn't seem to be aware of me as I ran down the stairs, opened the house door and went out onto the street. I saw the cat running a few doors down and followed at a distance. It went through the streets as if it knew where it was going. It didn't move like most cats do around houses. Instead it moved quietly and proudly down the middle of the empty street. I wondered which house it could be going to and where it lived. Even though mother liked cats, she never had any in her house.

I finally understood where it was going. The animal was going straight to the churchyard. Perhaps it was wild, I thought. There in front of the cemetery I heard a couple of drunken voices. I saw two gentlemen and a beautiful brown dachshund chasing after the cat, which never made a sound as it ran quietly on its way.

This story sounds interesting. I might read it.