From high above the midnight sky, the moon's light poked down through the dense canopy of Methuselah trees, while on the ground, the night's globe shed dim light and hope onto those who happened by. Within this forest, the winds forever howled and the skulls that lined this unhallowed ground, forever wobbled. Within this place, an unearthly hut, with shifting window eyes, stood forever watch.
Made eons ago from the most vicious of Methuselah trees, the hut harbored a venomous anger at being altered from its original form and so sought vengeance. In the same place twice, the hut seldom was, for it stalked prey for its creator and master who kept it forever alive. Though the hut roamed, never did it abandon the protection of untamed forest. Yet some ancient whispers mumbled, it was the forest that did not abandon the hut. Regardless, of such long forgotten talk, the symbiotic link between the two spanned many millennia. The forest's name, changed numerous times with the rise and fall of countless civilizations, is lost and unknown today.
Inside the hut, a magical fire with snapping red and green flames blazed under a massive black caldron. It boiled a crimson liquid, releasing thick curls of steam, carrying the horrible stench of half-cooked buzzard parts.
As the liquid bubbled, a meager chunk of flesh spilled from the caldron’s rim, sending the hoggish rats and greedy ravens of the hut, scrambling across the bloodstained floor. These resident vermin regarded each other with hatred and fear as they snapped and clawed at one another for the rare morsel, perpetual hunger displacing the fear of themselves becoming a meal for the stronger and yet still famished. Misfortune spawned from this hut, venturing near risked being caught, cooked, and most likely eaten.
Within the rising stream, a pair of disembodied hands stirred the mixture with the leg-bone of a giant who had crossed the hut’s path. The curious giant had snooped too close and lingered too long when the ghoulish fence had caught him by surprise, twirling itself tight around him. The hut’s powerful stilt legs then wrestled him inside, like a giant spider forcing its prey into its inescapable jaws.
Resting the leg-bone on the caldron’s rim, a lone hand swept through the rising steam and plucked an eyeball from the ooze. It pinched the miniature sphere and squeezed out a dark reddish goo.
Beside the caldron, another pair of floating hands waited, holding a yellow and red banded snake. Unable to escape, the abducted serpent twisted itself into a coiled knot. For now, the poisonous creature could only flick its tongue and wait for its moment to strike.
In a dim corner, a shadowy figure sifted through the crackling pages of a dateless book. Finding the distant spell, Baba Yaga turned, her iron teeth gleaming red from the fire’s flickering flame as her long black hair framed her skeletal face and shrouded her sunken eyes, the Witch of Misfortune in her true nature. From this image, she dealt her greatest misery. Though skilled at taking other forms, her strength diminished while transformed. As for tonight, she needed only her powers to probe into another world and another time.
She gathered a green smoking vial, from a cluttered table of vials, and glided across the room as her long flowing cape, embroidered with hundreds of seeing eyes, masked her mode of travel.
At the caldron, she poured a drop of the vial’s contents into the mixture. A greenish plume shot from the surface and mushroomed to the ceiling like an atomic cloud, dissipating into the rafters.
On the surface, a green tinted image shimmered into view. Baba Yaga motioned her hand servants away and leaned close, fanning the wisps of steam from her face. The liquid calmed and the image colored
***A common man with a dark-haired boy sat on a bridge, throwing rocks into a stream.
“Son,” he said. “You don't have to be afraid of witches. Witches are fictitious. They don't really exist. Have you ever seen a witch? And, besides, good protects us from evil.”
The boy threw a stone into the stream. “Thanks Dad,” he said. “I guess you're right. Believing in witches is silly. Who'd want to be an ugly old witch anyway? I don't even know why I have these stupid dreams.”
“But you know son,” said the man, “there are good-luck spirits. And as a matter of fact, there's one right here.”
The boy glanced around. “Where?” he asked.
“Right here, underneath this bridge.”
The boy looked over the edge of the bridge. “I don’t see any good-luck spirit.”
“Oh, you won't,” said the man. “But it's here and if you believe in it, it will believe in you and watch over you.”
“All I have to do is believe in it?” said the boy.
“That's right, son.”
“How can I believe in something I can't see?”
“That's where faith comes in," said the man.
***Baba Yaga arched back from the caldron, scowling with rage. She fumed at the man's insolence and the boy's insulting disbelief in witches. She pointed her weathered finger into the image, signaling the serpent’s release.
As the snake vanished into another world, Baba Yaga wrenched suddenly over her shoulder. She spied slowly around the hut then jerking her head upward, she stared at a slight ripple in the air, next to a wooden beam. She began chanting in an ancient tongue, rolling her hands oddly over each other. Then with a sudden, rapid move, she threw her arms back and her eyes turned in on themselves, gleaming pure white. The still air about her started to whirl, like a personal tornado, scattering the vermin to the not so far corners of the hut. She then thrust her hands forward, her eyes spinning dark as she launched a bolt of energy into the intrusion.