Here is another unusual story that Gwillym Pen Pwyll told my father when he was boy. The witch in this story is not the one of traditional myth.

“You have no doubt to question the morality of this tale as it was told to me by my old friend Quinn, who knew more than I did of the tales people never speak of. A thatcher called Jarvis used to travel to different villages on the border before there were roads and railways, following the old tracks that everyone knew. A witch had cursed Jarvis because the phlegm burned in his chest and he could never take a deep breath to spit it out. Well, one afternoon, he came to a village where he had worked before and a blacksmith hailed him. He asked Jarvis why he looked wan. Trembling, Jarvis told him that a strange girl appeared whenever he tried to sleep in the fields of this valley and she would just stare at him smiling, never uttering a word. The blacksmith knew the rumours of the girl he described. He slept in the field that evening, not far from where Jarvis lay, restless, wearing Jarvis’s clothes to confuse the witch. Drawn around them is a circle, with an opening for the girl to enter. I do not know what cunning the blacksmith used. The witch appeared as a horse. He broke the curse Jarvis was under and made a bridle that he put over the witch’s mouth and she screamed to be free of his damned hindrance. In this dream of the blacksmith’s, for what else could it be, he took her to his forge and put a shoe on the horse’s forefoot. The witch’s eyes were human in the horse’s head as she tried to bite him. A reckoning would come tomorrow, he realized.
I wish there was a satisfactory conclusion to this tale. When the blacksmith awoke, he felt relieved that Jarvis, freed at last of this burden, could continue on his travels. His joy was short-lived as his friend lay dead beside him. His skin was like a ghost’s and his limbs rigid. The blacksmith was frightened; he knew he needed help to get him out of this quandary. Just then, he heard his name called. His master dragged his wife by her hair behind him. She looked fearful, bruised, and the blacksmith recognized her by her eyes.
“I thought she was a god-fearing woman!” he cried. I heard her come to bed in the night, dragging her foot, and thought nothing of it. She is not the girl I thought she is. Look, man. She belongs in the darkness from whence she came. No good came to me by marrying her.”
The blacksmith stared at the girl’s right-hand: on it was the horseshoe he had nailed.