Baba Yaga, Queen of Fear

In the shadows of the birchwood grove, where whispers curl and the wild

winds rove. There's a tale of teeth, of bone and flame,

a name you don't dare call by name. Baba Yaga, her house on

claws, it creaks, it moans, it snaps its jaws.

A skulled path, the forest hums, the old witch waits for those who come.

Baba Yaga, don't look back, her shadow's long, the sky turns black.

Run, child, run, her laughter's near. Baba Yaga.

The queen of fear. A mortar grinds through leaves and ash,