She hides in my fear, in the shadows of mirrors. Unopened drawers and corners beyond my vision. Closed doors, drawn curtains. Hidden places, fearful spaces… the portraits see her, but they’ve no will, this phantom moves when I trance, when I glance she stays still. She’s filled with evil, filled with ill, thrives on hate, and desires to kill. My ignorance feared her, and imagination despaired what I constructed of this devilish bitch. A demon hell banished, Mephisto’s respawned witch, a terror reborn, but not… her flesh a mess of contagion and rot. Her bony visage crept from the crypt, kept me sleepless, supped when I slept. She caressed my face, her motives insane. I gave this nightmare an appropriate name: I called her Skullywitch: the brooding, withering, hate-filled lich. In fearful throws, my brother asked what irked me, so I described my foe’s disdainful trickery. The malice, deceit, and her cruelty were fought by our fraternity: my brother’s prowess, kindness, and ingenuity. He had me explain, rich with detail. Through my pain, we exorcised her evil. In my crying plight, I had to stop. He sighed with relief, like drawing out poison, her portrait complete… He handed the rendition, I peered slowly at the image; faced my fear, she couldn’t escape! The phantom finished, the boggart done. I hugged my elder, because we had won.