The witch in the woods

Her wiry jet black hair entangles in the eery gusts of land's breath, matting itself even more than before. It rushes from within the dark depths of horizons beyond sights grasp, weaving through towering gnarled locals imposing themselves on minor clumps of dark, moist moss clinging to the floor for dear life.
Her stature is not imposing but her evil will infectious, of horrid selfish indulgence and intrusive on the soul. The cackle of her laugh bellows throughout hidden crevices, causing shudders of fear throughout life of all kind. The hiss of her vocals echoes off both sides of her forked tongue. Future silence evokes solitude as bliss.