Tilly the Wicked Witch wanted the cursed forest to obey her. Every creeping vine, every howling wolf, every frightened bird. One forbidden potion could grant her that power. She had the recipe memorized. She had the dark herbs drying from her rafters. For years, only one thing had stopped her: her old cauldron. It sat on her hearth, small and ugly. A crack ran down its side like a frozen lightning bolt. Tilly ran her finger along it and frowned. The forbidden potion needed a deep, strong pot. Brew it in this broken thing, and the magic would boil over wrong. Weak potion meant poison. Poison meant a dead witch, not a forest queen. Then came a knock at her leaning front door. Tilly's crooked little house groaned on its uneven legs. She found a brown box waiting on the warped porch boards. Cobwebs stretched across the railing above it. She tore the tape with one black fingernail. Inside sat her new cauldron. It was enormous. Iron bands wrapped its wide black belly. Glowing symbols curled around the rim in purple, orange, and green. Two handles curled like question marks. Tilly lifted it with both hands, grunting, and her heart raced. "Finally," she whispered. She hauled the heavy cauldron inside and set it on her hearth. The old cracked pot she kicked into a corner. It rolled and clattered and lay still. Tilly did not look at it again. She built her fire high. She poured in black water from her well bucket. One by one she added the dark herbs. Nightshade. Crushed beetle shells. A pinch of graveyard dust. The brew turned thick and purple. It did not boil over. It did not hiss and crack. The new cauldron held every bit of the power. Tilly leaned close and breathed the fumes. No sour poison smell. Only the sharp, clean scent of real magic. She laughed, loud and wild, and the sound shook the cobwebs on her windows. "It works," she said. "It finally works." She filled a small vial with the finished potion. She lifted it toward the firelight. The liquid glowed from inside, alive and hungry. One drop on the forest floor would spread her will through every root and branch. But as she held the vial, something tapped against the glass. Tiny legs. A spider had dropped from the rafters and landed in her palm. It was no ordinary spider. Its eyes shone purple, matching the potion exactly. It had drunk the fumes. The spider swelled. It doubled, then tripled in size. Eight legs pressed against her fingers. Tilly's grin froze. Her potion worked. That was the problem. Any living thing that touched it would grow, and want, and obey no one. The fumes had already escaped into the forest air. Somewhere out among the dark trees, every creeping thing was waking up hungry.