The Witch of Table Mountain

The Curse of Van Hunks

Jan Van Hunks was a man of the sea, a rogue and a drinker, with a pipe never far from his lips. He had spent years as a sailor and, some whispered, a pirate before settling in Cape Town. He was old now, his body bent from years of toil, but his spirit remained as reckless as ever.

His favorite spot was a rocky outcrop on Devil’s Peak, where he would sit for hours, puffing thick clouds of smoke into the sky. It was there, one fateful day, that he met a stranger.

The man was tall and cloaked, his face hidden beneath the shadow of his hood. He carried a pipe of his own and spoke with a voice like the wind—low, whispering, full of secrets.

“A fine day for smoking,” the stranger said.

Van Hunks grinned and took a deep puff. “Aye, that it is.”

The stranger sat beside him and lit his own pipe. Smoke curled around them, thick and heavy.

“Shall we make it interesting?” the man suggested.

Van Hunks laughed. “A contest, then?”

And so, the duel began. They smoked for hours, filling the sky with dense, swirling clouds. The sun set, and still, they smoked. The moon rose, and still, they smoked. The air grew thick, choking, heavy with their stubborn defiance.

At last, Van Hunks coughed. His chest burned, his lungs ached, but the stranger remained unbothered. The sailor’s vision blurred.

With one final gasp, he fell to his knees.

The stranger laughed, a deep, terrible sound, and threw back his hood. His face was not human. His eyes burned like embers, and his grin was full of sharp, wicked teeth.

“You should have known better than to challenge the Devil,” he said.

Lightning split the sky, and with a deafening crack, Van Hunks was gone—his body swallowed by the storm, his soul trapped in the clouds that still roll over the mountain to this day.

But there had been another witness to this cursed contest. A woman who stood hidden in the trees, watching.

And that woman’s fate was soon to be sealed.

Maria de Koning, the Healer

Maria de Koning was known to all in the Cape Colony, though people spoke of her in hushed tones. Some called her a healer. Others, a witch.

She lived on the outskirts of town, where the land met the mountain. Her small cottage smelled of herbs and smoke, filled with dried flowers and bottles of dark potions. The sick came to her when the doctors failed them. Women sought her aid in childbirth, and men visited in secret, begging for charms of protection and fortune.

But power, even the harmless kind, bred fear.

Maria had been there the day Van Hunks disappeared. She had seen the Devil’s face, and she had not run. That was her mistake.

The townspeople whispered. They watched her with wary eyes. Had she not been so quick to see through the veil? Had she not known too much of magic and fate?

Soon, the fear turned to anger.

One night, as the wind howled through the streets, a mob gathered outside Maria’s cottage.

“Witch!” they cried.

Maria stepped outside, her dark cloak billowing, her face calm. But in her eyes burned the fire of a woman who knew her fate had already been written.

“We cannot suffer her to live,” the town preacher declared.

They dragged her to the square, their torches flickering in the dark. No one dared to look her in the eyes. No one dared to speak for her.

As the fire licked at her feet, Maria did not scream.

Instead, she whispered a curse.

“If I must burn, then so shall the mountain. Let my soul linger where it was stolen. Let the winds carry my name. Let no man walk these slopes unchallenged, unless his heart is pure.”

The fire roared. The sky darkened. And the first storm of the season crashed down upon the mountain with furious vengeance.

That night, the Witch of Table Mountain was born.

The Phantom of the Slopes

Years passed, but Maria was not forgotten.

Those who walked too deep into the mountain’s mist swore they saw her—a shadowy figure, watching from the rocks. Some claimed she called to them, her voice like the wind, luring them closer until they found themselves lost, wandering for hours with no sense of direction.

Fishermen saw strange lights along the cliffs, flickering and fading. Their boats would rock in sudden, unnatural waves.

But the Witch of Table Mountain did not harm without reason.

It was only those with greed, cruelty, or ill intent who disappeared.

And then there was Lukas Marais.

Lukas the Hunter

Lukas Marais was a man of pride. He did not believe in ghosts. He did not believe in curses. And he certainly did not believe in the Witch of Table Mountain.

One evening, he climbed the mountain alone, rifle slung across his back. The sun was setting, casting long shadows, but he did not fear the dark.

He reached the peak and laughed.

“Where is your ghost now?” he mocked, his voice carrying in the wind.

The wind answered.

It whispered his name.

The mist thickened, curling around him like fingers. The air grew cold. His breath came out in white clouds.

Then, a figure emerged.

Tall. Cloaked. Watching.

Lukas raised his rifle, but his hands trembled.

“You come with arrogance,” the figure whispered. “But will you leave with wisdom?”

He turned to run, but the mist moved like a living thing, shifting, changing. He stumbled through the darkness, heart pounding, until he finally burst free at the foot of the mountain.

Lukas never hunted again.

The Mountain’s Guardian

The legend of the Witch of Table Mountain never faded.

Some say she protects the mountain, driving away those who seek to exploit its beauty. Others believe she lingers in sorrow, forever cursed to haunt the place where she was wronged.

Even today, hikers speak of strange sensations—a sudden chill, an unseen presence, a voice carried on the wind.

They say if you listen closely, the mountain will speak.

And if you are not careful, the Witch of Table Mountain may whisper your name.