Witches, part 1 of 3: Esme Boggart
In 2022, a witch was burned in England.
She hadn’t hexed anyone’s crops or cast a single spell. Her name was Esme Boggart, and when she went up in flames, it wasn’t because of fear—it was because of love. Esme was burned to give power back to a family being evicted from the home they’d lived in—and loved—for twenty-six years.
Emma and Nick raised five kids in the house. One of the kids was even born there on the sofa. The family were part of the village, part of the community, but that didn’t matter. One day, Emma and Nick got a visit from the estate agent who told them they had to leave because the owner wanted the house back. They were issued a Section 21 “no-fault” eviction notice and told they had eight weeks to move out. Eight weeks after 26 years.
Your home is what anchors you in your place in the universe. Emma says, “It's the outside space of this house that's important to me. The view of the stars and the moon and all of that because I've seen it for such a long time.”
Imagine the memories. The mementos in a home after 26 years — pencil marks on the wall that tracked the kids' height, teenagers secret love messages scratched into bedroom skirting boards, pets buried in the backyard. The things that bring the past flooding back. “And the crack in the tea-cup opens - A lane to the land of the dead."
How much of the family left a mark on the house— and how much of the house had seeped into them like osmosis? Laughter, tears, fights soaked into the bricks. And when they walked out, how much of the house would walk out in them?
The village rallied around, but there’s no legal challenge to the thousands of section 21 eviction notices issued every year. The landlord knew the family were powerless, and that's exactly how they felt.
It's a fucking tragedy.
So they made a plan. Not to stop the eviction — but to purge the despair, to reclaim the story of leaving. That’s where Esme Boggart came in — the silt-witch of the Thames Valley. Esme stood six metres tall. She was made from metal and straw and from fucking fury.
Esme Boggart
By order of Esme Boggart
With Esme lifted high, the procession marched through the village. Not just the neighbours — strangers from all over the UK. Word had spread. Even the BBC came. They gathered in Emma and Nick’s garden — hundreds of them — and together they burned the witch. Afterwards, Nick told the BBC, “I know full well, we can't stay in this house. “I know they're going to evict us, but I don't feel panicky. I can sleep.” Emma added, “We’re in control of it.”
The witch has always been a rebel. In the past, she was seen as a threat — usually a woman who didn’t follow the rules, stay quiet, or do what she was told. Someone who lived on the fringes. The witch trials in Europe and colonial America weren’t really about magic; they were about controlling those rebels. Witches were often healers using “Old Ways“, widows, or anyone who didn’t fit into the roles set by the church or government. Burning or hanging them wasn’t just about punishment — it was a public warning to anyone who dared to stand up to power, disguised as religion.
But despite the efforts of those with the power, witches never really disappeared. Over time, the witch has become a stronger symbol of rebellion — of anger, of people who don’t fit in and won’t be told what to do. From women’s rights protests to punk bands cursing the rich, the witch came back as a sign of rebellion. She stands for a kind of power that scares those in charge: wild and unapologetic. Burning a witch today — especially one made by a whole community — isn’t about hate. It’s about turning pain into action.
Esme Boggart is more than a moment. She’s a movement.
