The Milk-Skin Witch

  My brother couldn't stand the skin on custard or hot chocolate and would sit and cry until my mother scraped it off for him. My great aunt Blodwyn, when we went to stay with her, refused to allow in her house for the good skin to be scooped off and wasted.
'Oh, stop your snivelling. Has nobody told you about the witch who comes in the night and searches for that skin you've shamefully wasted each time? She goes back to her house down where the mine used to be and stitches the skin to the other skins she's taken. Night after night stitching - and measuring to see from time to time. Singing hymns to herself. And when that patchwork skin is big enough she'll bring it back while everyone's sleeping and lay it over you - as your shroud, because you'll be found dead underneath it in the morning.'
So easily my favourite relative.

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