They say the trees whisper in the Russian wilderness—old things, ancient warnings passed from one trembling branch to the next. If you listen long enough, the wind itself begins to speak. It tells stories. Terrible stories.
Children once sang songs about her:
"Legs of bone, house of bird,
If you see her hut, don't say a word.
Baba Yaga flies through air,
Bones and blood and tangled hair."
Most think they're just nursery rhymes, meant to keep kids from wandering into the woods. But in certain forgotten villages in northern Russia, no one speaks her name aloud. Not even in jest.
In those places, doors are bolted at sunset. Windows lined with iron. And no one, no one, goes into the forest alone.
That is where Ivan Morozov made his mistake.
---
Ivan wasn't a superstitious man. At thirty-eight, and after losing his daughter to a sudden fever, he had turned his back on everything — the city, his teaching job, the sympathetic looks from neighbors.
He wanted solitude.
He bought a small cabin deep in the woods, far from the city, the nearest village a good three-hour hike. His only companion was Mishka, a big mutt with thick fur and gentle eyes. A dog too kind to be a proper guard, but loyal enough to follow Ivan into the void.
For six months, it was quiet. Peaceful. The ache in Ivan's heart never went away, but at least out here, no one reminded him of what he had lost.
Until the snow came.
Until the first sign appeared.
---
Ivan noticed the footprints after a fresh snowfall. Massive. Each one shaped like a bird's talon, at least two feet long, pressed deep into the snow. They led from the trees into a clearing where the snow had been melted into a perfect circle.
Mishka refused to enter. He barked, growled low, tail tucked, and stood frozen at the edge.
Ivan studied the circle. Burnt trees at the edge. The smell of ash.
"What the hell made that?" he muttered.
That night, Mishka wouldn't leave the foot of the bed. The dog growled at the window every time the wind shifted. Ivan loaded his old shotgun and left it next to the fire.
He didn't sleep.
---
The next night, she came.
It began with laughter—dry and cracked, like someone choking on dust. Ivan sat upright in bed, breath held. Outside, the forest was deathly still. Not a single owl, not a whisper of wind.
Just the laughter.
Mishka growled. Deep. Unshaken.
Ivan crept to the window and peeked between the curtains.
She was standing just outside the treeline. Tall. Gaunt. Her spine bent in impossible angles, long limbs wrapped in torn shawls and black fabric. Her face looked like dried leather stretched over a skull, eyes sunken but burning like coals.
She stood perfectly still… until she smiled.
That grin cut through Ivan's heart. Crooked. Full of yellow, jagged teeth. And then she moved—not walked, not ran, just glided toward the cabin like a shadow.
He didn't hesitate. He slammed the shutters closed and backed away.
A knock came next. Not on the door. On the window. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Mishka barked furiously. Ivan clutched his shotgun and aimed at the door.
Then… silence.
No laughter. No knocking.
Only the faint scent of burning meat.
---
The following morning, Ivan found bones arranged in front of the cabin. Not animal bones. Smaller. Tiny.
Children.
He vomited.
Then he screamed.
He knew the stories. He remembered now. His grandmother had whispered about Baba Yaga. About her chicken-legged hut and the mortar she flew through the sky in. About the forest that devoured the unworthy.
He hadn't believed them.
But now… he did.
---
Ivan tried to leave.
He packed food, loaded his sled, bundled Mishka in his coat. He was going to hike to the village—warn them, beg for help.
But the path was gone.
Trees that hadn't been there before now blocked the trail. The woods had shifted. Every step he took circled him back to the cabin.
By the third hour, he fell to his knees in the snow, breath steaming in the cold air, tears freezing to his cheeks.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the forest. "I didn't mean to disturb her…"
A branch snapped behind him.
He turned.
Nothing.
But Mishka was growling again. Low. Protective.
Ivan stood, eyes darting through the trees, heart racing.
Then he heard the sound.
A deep, thudding boom… boom… boom…
Like the steps of something impossibly large.
---
He barricaded the door that night.
Piled wood against the windows. Loaded every shell into the shotgun. Mishka curled up at his feet, trembling.
When the night fell, the knocking returned.
Not gentle this time.
Pounding.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Wood splintered. The door cracked.
Ivan screamed and fired. The shot echoed through the house. When the smoke cleared… she was inside.
Baba Yaga.
She filled the doorway like a skeleton wrapped in cloth, eyes glowing, arms long enough to scrape the floor.
"You have no right here," she rasped. Her voice was wind and ash. "You took what was not yours."
"I didn't know!" Ivan shouted. "I didn't mean—!"
She hissed, and the fire went out.
Mishka lunged—but she ignored him. Didn't even touch him. Instead, her gaze stayed fixed on Ivan, her grin widening.
"You don't belong," she whispered.
Then she took him.
---
The villagers found Mishka weeks later.
The dog was half-starved, covered in frost, limping through the snow toward the village limits. They tried to approach, but he howled and backed away, only letting a child feed him from behind a fence.
Of Ivan, there was no trace.
Only bones in the snow. Arranged in a spiral. A child's mitten placed in the center.
Some say the cabin still stands, moving between the trees on legs of bone and rotted sinew. They say if you hear laughter in the woods, or find a circle of scorched earth, it's already too late.
But if you see Mishka watching from the shadows…
Run.
Because she's near.
And Baba Yaga is hungry.