The Wakefield Witches — Daoma Winston

“Evil walks my street,” the old man said. “And she had a pretty face.”

Mr. Crown was ninety-two. He had watched Wakefield grown from village to town to suburb, slowly surrounded and strangled. Suddenly, where everything was beautiful, there was ugliness -- and secret evil.

The old man had watched evil blossom in the smartly appointed house across that street, had seen it spread along the pleasant, tree-shaded lane. Now, with time running out, he knew what must be done to stop it…unless it was already too late!