“No. No, come on, this is ridiculous.” Greg Lestrade scowled at the scene before him. “I live in a flat, for God’s sake! In the middle of London! This doesn’t even make sense!”
Sense or not, there it was. His flat—independent of the number of other flats included in the building—was sitting quite firmly on strange ground in a strange land. After, mind you, being picked up by a whirlwind (how the whirlwind got down his street was a mystery worthy of Scotland Yard’s finest) and, apparently, flown there.
A sound behind him made him turn (years of police training wasn’t for nothing, thank you), and he saw a young woman stepping out of a black car (when did that get there?). She was dressed in a sleek, no-nonsense black dress and tapping away at a mobile phone.
“Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?” she asked without glancing up.
“I—sorry, am I a what?”
“A good witch,” she repeated slowly, “or a bad witch? The Munchkins were wondering.”
“The what? And I’m not a witch!”
“The Munchkins.” She paused in her typing to give a nod to a nearby bush, which suddenly opened up to reveal several people about half as tall as Greg himself. As if taking that as their cue, more and more little people—Munchkins?—began to come out of hiding.
After several seconds, Greg remembered to close his mouth. Then he opened it again to ask, “What the hell is going on? Why are you asking if I’m a witch? That’s insane. Witches. Hell, good witches.”
She looked up to flash him a quick, insincere smile. “I’m a witch. A good witch.”
He swallowed. “Oh. Er. Sorry. I mean, I’m Greg Lestrade. I’m not a witch, bad or good. I’m a detective inspector from Scotland Yard.”
“How nice.” She was back to her phone again.
Greg waited for a moment, then prompted, “And you are…?”
“A witch. You can call me, mm… Anthea.”
“Is that your real name?”
“…ah. Um. And the little—the Munchkins?”
Anthea, or whoever she was, glanced around at the Munchkins. “They were wondering about you because, you see, it would have taken a very powerful witch to do what you’ve done.”
“What, land a flat in their backyard?”
“No, to kill the wicked witch, Irene.”
“Kill—I haven’t killed any—” He stopped, noticing that Anthea and the Munchkins were all looking past him. Turning, preparing for the worst, he slowly examined his flat. Roof, walls, door, and—oh. “Oh, shit.”
Just barely sticking out from underneath was an arm.