Strawberry Spellbook

Before she was a ghost, Strawbella was simply Bella Wint, a timid girl with ink-stained fingers and an apron that always smelled of sugar and jam. In the sunny village of Summermead Lane, she lived at the edge of town in a cottage wrapped in ivy and humming with bees. Her grandmother, a renowned herbalist and subtle witch, had long passed down charms made from seeds, whispers, and fruit preserves. Bella, however, added her own secret ingredient: strawberries.

Strawberries had always been Bella’s favourite bright and warm, bursting with summer even on the loneliest days. She mashed them into her first healing poultices, stirred them into luck draughts, and etched their tiny shapes into the margins of her spellbook. “A charm should be sweet,” she would say, “or it won’t be remembered.”

When the Midsummer Market arrived, Bella prepared her enchanted jams and preserves, each one labeled with poetic incantations. Her best seller? ‘Strawberry Serenity’ a calm-in-a-jar that soothed nerves and hushed quarrels with a spoonful. For years, she sold them quietly, mostly to villagers with over-talkative toddlers or bickering goats.

But one year, Bella grew ambitious. She had discovered an ancient charm scribbled into a crumbling almanac, promising eternal joy. The spell required honey from bees that only visited strawberry blossoms, the final light of a solstice sunset, and a whispered truth said aloud with love.

Bella tried it on a single jar.

It worked, a little too well.

The next morning, Summermead awoke to chaos wrapped in delight. Flowers bloomed out of season. The mayor announced he was eloping with the butcher. The postmaster wept happy tears while handing out letters, even ones full of bad news. One child floated three feet off the ground, giggling as if the clouds were tickling her.

The entire village had eaten Bella’s ‘Eternal Joy’ preserve. And it was too much joy.

The birds wouldn’t stop singing. The cows wouldn’t stop dancing. And Bella, terrified, tried to undo the spell. She flipped through her strawberry-smudged spellbook with trembling hands—but in her panic, she dropped it into the jam cauldron.

It sizzled, sparkled, and vanished in a pink puff of sugar smoke.

So did Bella.

Only the faint smell of strawberries remained.

For years, nothing stirred in her cottage. But on the first spring after her disappearance, odd things began to happen. Shoppers found jars of unknown origin appearing in their baskets raspberry cordial that made you sing, peach jam that made you nap, and, of course, strawberry preserves that made your heart flutter with light.

People began leaving offerings: recipes scribbled in crayon, tiny paper hearts, and hand-picked berries placed on Bella’s old porch. Her cottage garden bloomed again. And on warm afternoons, a pink shimmer could be seen drifting between the market stalls.

Strawbella had returned.

Now a cheery ghost with a sweet scent and the faint stain of jam about her, Strawbella haunts kitchens and pantries. She nudges spoons, sweetens tea, and leaves good-luck berries tucked under tea towels. She’s especially fond of bakers and brewers, particularly those who believe magic and food belong together.

Children say if you recite one of her strawberry rhymes before bed, your dreams will be sweet and safe. Grandmothers claim her spirit keeps jam from moulding. And every summer solstice, just before dusk, a pink mist rolls down from the hills, blanketing the village in peace.

Some fear her a ghost who meddles with emotion and enchantment. But most villagers smile when they spot the ghost with the fruit-spangled gown. They know she’s still trying to undo her biggest mistake… one sweet, sticky miracle at a time.

So next time your toast lands jam-side-up or you swear your marmalade just hummed a lullaby thank Strawbella.

She’s still reading recipes.

And maybe rewriting a few.