The Witch’s Unintended Guests

In the quiet village of Elderwood, nestled between misty hills and whispering forests, a reclusive witch named Mirabel lived in a crooked cottage at the edge of the woods. She was known for healing herbs, weather charms, and the occasional love potion-nothing too dramatic. That is, until one fateful Tuesday night.

Mirabel had grown curious about a spell in her grandmother’s grimoire. It was faded and brittle, written in a looping script that danced like firelight. The title read: "Chronos’ Key: To Reach Across Time."

She meant only to observe-a glimpse into the past. To watch kings and queens from her crystal basin, nothing more. But Mirabel, despite her talent, had a habit of mispronouncing Latin.

As she chanted the final incantation, lightning cracked overhead, though no storm had been forecast. Her crystal bowl bubbled furiously. The walls of her cottage trembled. A flash of gold, a sound like unraveling thread-and suddenly, five strangers stood blinking in the middle of her herb garden.

One wore a powdered wig and silk breeches. Another had a feathered headdress and carried a carved staff. A third clutched a musket and wore a blue coat dusted with gunpowder. The fourth adjusted a monocle and muttered in French. The last, a woman in armor, dropped her sword in alarm and shouted, “God’s wounds! What sorcery is this?”

Mirabel’s mouth opened, then closed. “Oh... oh no.”

The first man took a deep breath. “My name is Benjamin Franklin. Where, pray tell, am I?”

Mirabel fainted.

When she came to, Benjamin Franklin was peering into her microwave.

“Remarkable box,” he said. “Is this a type of oven?”

“Yes,” she groaned. “But more importantly, how are you all here? I didn’t mean to summon you! I just wanted to peek into your timelines.”

The woman in armor stepped forward. “I am Joan of Arc. Are we dead?”

“No,” Mirabel sighed. “You’re in the twenty-first century. Elderwood, England. I... pulled you from your times. Accidentally.”

“This England?” said the Native man, looking outside. “I am Tamanend of the Lenape. The land smells different.”

“It’s probably car fumes,” Mirabel muttered.

“Magnificent!” declared Napoleon Bonaparte, sweeping into the room. “Your plumbing is superior to any I have known.”

Mirabel stood, brushing leaves off her robe. “Listen! This was a mistake, and I’ll fix it. But the reversal spell needs time to recharge. Three days. Until then… you’ll have to stay here.”

There was a long silence.

“I call dibs on the couch,” Franklin said.

The next morning, chaos bloomed like dandelions.

Tamanend wandered into the village and was mistaken for a cosplayer. He returned with three children following him, asking about his featherwork. Joan of Arc challenged a police officer to a duel over parking violations. Napoleon attempted to commandeer a bakery and declared it his new command post. Benjamin Franklin made an Instagram account titled @TimeTravellingBen and had 12,000 followers within an hour.

Mirabel, trying to keep the timeline from shattering, dragged them back to her cottage.

“You must blend in,” she said through gritted teeth. “Don’t draw attention.”

“But people are intrigued!” Franklin protested. “They filmed Joan on something called TikTok.”

“I slayed in battle,” Joan beamed. “Now I slay online.”

Mirabel buried her face in her spellbook.

Despite the mayhem, something surprising happened. The historical guests began to adapt.

Tamanend spent time in the forest and said nature still whispered, though more faintly now. He later gave a speech at a local school about harmony and land stewardship that went viral.

Joan of Arc, after watching modern documentaries about gender equality and warfare, said quietly, “Had I been born now, perhaps I would not have been burned.”

Franklin experimented with solar panels on Mirabel’s roof. “Imagine the power if we had these in 1776,” he mused.

Napoleon, humbled by modern democracy and fast food, spent his days at the library learning about world history post-Waterloo. “I still disagree with Russia’s winter,” he grumbled.

Even Mirabel found herself strangely inspired. “You’ve all faced such impossible odds. And survived.”

Franklin grinned. “That’s humanity for you.”

On the third night, the reversal spell was ready.

The five historical figures stood in a circle, the air tingling with magic.

“Are you certain you want to go back?” Mirabel asked.

Tamanend placed a hand on her shoulder. “We are not of this time. But thank you for showing us its light.”

Franklin winked. “If you ever want to time travel again, call me.”

“Please don’t encourage her,” Mirabel said.

With a final chant, the air shimmered. Light danced like ripples on water. One by one, they faded-Joan mouthing a silent blessing, Napoleon straightening his collar, Franklin waving with a mischievous grin.

And then they were gone.

The cottage was still.

Mirabel looked around. “I should probably delete his Instagram account.”

But as she stepped outside, she saw something that made her smile. A small group of children reenacting Joan’s TikTok dance. An article on her phone: ‘Modern World Inspired by Time-Traveling Legends’. A tweet from a museum: “Tamanend’s speech will now be part of our core curriculum.”

She hadn’t just brought them here.

They had left something behind.