The fence that surrounds me is made of human bones, and human skulls are stuck on the spikes. At night, they gleam and light the glade as bright as day.
My doors have human legs for posts, and human hands for bolts. A mouth with sharp teeth serves as a lock.
I house a witch named Baba Yaga who comes and goes on her mortar. She prods it along with a pestle and sweeps her traces away with a broom.
You’ll never find her. Unless, of course, she wants you to.