While Kirtly unpacked her belongings, Mitchell plugged in her electric kettle to brew a celebratory cup of tea in her ol

By the summer of 2005, Vanessa Mitchell had settled into the Cage and discovered a tremendous sense of freedom. She had found a new job selling caravans at a nearby vacation park. There, her charming smile and well-honed sales pitch cast a spell over the older customers. “I was earning six, seven grand a month on commission,” she told me. With Kirtly helping to pay her mortgage, Mitchell had never felt wealthier.

We were already sharing a lot of “global” data via a context located close to the root of the component tree, and we felt it made sense to add this state to that central data store.

The problem was whenever the user selected a cell or opened the side drawer, the update to this global context would cause the entire app to re-render. This included the main table component, which could have dozens of cells displayed at a time, each with its own editor component. This would result in a render time of around 650 ms, which is long enough to see a visible delay in the side drawer’s open animation.

Kirtly stayed home while Mitchell went to work. On weekends they howled along to Oasis records and drank wine. It wasn’t the settling down that Mitchell had imagined, but it was bliss. Then, strange things started to happen. Both women saw tiny bright lights floating through the house. “Things would just disappear and turn up in bizarre places,” Kirtly told me. “As you walked through the door, you had a feeling as if, like, you’re trying to wade through jelly.” Sometimes, at night, the heavy latch on Kirtly’s bedroom door rattled, as if someone was trying to break in.

Despite its strangeness, Mitchell thought her little corner of St. Osyth was magical. “I couldn’t have wished for a better place to be,” she told me. Through her bedroom window she watched stags rutting in the monastery grounds. She drank in the King’s Arms with the locals until the street lights flickered off. At midnight, the village plunged into darkness and it felt like walking through the 1500s. All you could hear was the crackle of fireplaces, as smoke drifted into the bible-black sky.

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getarianism is at best a philosophy of the unknowing, and at worst one of the unwilling. The vegetarian is either ignorant of the brutality inherent to their dairy and eggs, or they lack the moral strength to act on their knowledge. One who reads this article is a vegetarian no longer, or they have consigned themself to the second group.

Mitchell found another unsettling document among some papers in the kitchen. “It was a death certificate of the guy that hung himself there, six months before,” she told me. “I remember thinking, what a month to kill yourself, you know, near Halloween.”

Next, Mitchell lifted up an old rug, and screamed. “We had an infestation of thousands and thousands of maggots,” she said. Nicole scrubbed the floor with bleach while Mitchell swept the larvas into the street. They discovered other issues with the house. It was freezing cold even on warm days. Strange drafts wafted the scent of baking bread, pipe smoke, and a sour smell that turned Mitchell’s stomach. Then, one morning not long after she moved in, she heard three loud knocks on the door. On the doorstep Mitchell found a startled boy with spiky hair, wearing a school uniform — not a ghost, but flesh and blood.

Mitchell showed Kirtly around their new home. Downstairs, the former prison room and ominous wooden cage door were considered original. In the fireplace, Mitchell found an iron chain with a large hook that appeared to be a relic from the building’s prison days. During a spring cleaning, Mitchell sifted through decades of creepy old photographs and documents left behind by tenants.

“Oh, really sorry!” said Freddie Young, who was 12, “I don’t mean to upset you, but, you know, it’s tradition for me.” Young explained that his grandmother — who he called ‘Nan’ — was a white witch. Nan used her powers for good not evil, he explained. She’d warned him not to walk past the Cage without knocking three times “as a sign of respect to the witches…to ward off the evil.” Mitchell stood in shock as the boy turned and ran away down Coffin Alley.

When Ursula Kemp walked along these same streets 400 years earlier, St. Osyth was a broken town with a desecrated monastery. “It would have felt like the ends of the earth,” said Marion Gibson, Professor of Renaissance and Magical Literatures at the University of Exeter. “It was a society of people who were forced together…a kind of powder keg of festering resentment.” Kemp was likely middle-aged, illiterate, and poor, yet respected as a cunning woman — a type of magical individual who, in exchange for coins or cheese, could cure colds or place the occasional curse. One day in 1582, Grace Thurlowe, a neighbor, called on Kemp to help her sick child. Kemp recited a spell three times: “A good child, how thou art loden.” The boy recovered.

We need to set this state from the table component. We’re using react-data-grid to render the table itself, and it accepts a callback prop that’s called whenever the user selects a cell. Currently, it’s the only way to respond to that event.

“I was able to get my hands on the house deed records that go back many generations,” she later wrote in a memoir, Spirits of the Cage. “I discovered that the house has changed hands on average every three-and-a-half years since it was built, with the exception of only two cases. One example being a man who purchased the property for £150 and sold it only a matter of weeks later, for just £100.” The pattern revealed in that document would have deterred many buyers, but even if it had arrived earlier, Mitchell had been struck by a love-blindness often experienced by homebuyers.

A bitter disagreement erupted over payment. When Thurlowe’s newborn baby fell from her cot and snapped her neck, she accused Kemp of causing the death by witchcraft. These accusations were rife in Essex, where the poor sometimes faked bewitchment to receive money given in pity, and cunning folk interfered in local disputes. back then, courts tried individuals for crimes associated with their witchcraft rather than for witchcraft itself, and nobody in Essex was above suspicion. Husbands accused wives. Children accused their mothers. Grace alerted her employer and local magistrate, Lord Bryan Darcy, who arrested Kemp and threw her in the Cage. Darcy’s father had been “bewitched to death,” authorities believed. This inspired his crusade against what he called: “Sorcerers, wizzardes…witches, wise women.”

TablePage didn’t contain any state and was primarily a container for the table and side drawer components, neither of which received any props. We preferred to keep it this way.