At the entrance of a shadowy den, day was waning to night without a discernible change in the sky’s tapestry. Moody clouds curtained the heavens, unrelenting in their desire to drown out life below. Thunder rolled in a fading crescendo, its echoes rumbling off the jagged cliffs of the valley.

The threshold and short path to the hovel's bowels were littered with the bloodied, bloated carcasses of unfortunate small animals. White, wriggling maggots squirmed with delight at the feast of filth and decay. Others were stripped. Bare, pale, picked-over bones laid in messy heaps. Snapped. Sucked dry. The air, a putrid miasma of shit and other refuse, gagged the senses.

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“Who goes there?”

A hooded figure stepped into the anemic glow of a small fire. Mud squelched under his worn leather boots and clung to the fringes of his dark, dripping cloak.

“Who are you? Answer me now!”

“Stop your squawking, witch. You know who I am. You know why I am here.”

Soft hoots of mirth escaped a grotesque gummy mouth. The hag, gnarled and fleshy, sat perched on her feet. Three toes with dark, talon-like nails remained on each foot. A motley of feathers peppered her dripping folds. Each was forcibly punctured into naked skin, festering and decaying. Surviving strands of white hair fell over her face and woefully failed to conceal her now lidless, cloudy eyes. Rotting and blind, the crone leaned forward.

“Why yes… You seek a curse.”