The village of Great Leighs in Essex thought itself bewitched last week. On Scrapfaggot Green a G.I., driving a bulldozer, had pushed the stone off the grave of a witch, dead with a stake in her heart these 200 years. Now she was hightailing about the countryside, scattering scaffolds, blowing down haystacks, ringing church bells in the dead of night.
In the taproom of Ye Old Queen Anne's Castle Inn, one of several "oldest hostelries" in the county, Landlord Alfred Sykes drew pint after pint for inquisitive reporters from London, told them of awesome...
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