It started like a normal human.
Then the eyes got that “I must control literally everything” glow, and the vibes tanked straight into the basement.
You could feel it in the air: a cryptid had entered the home. Not the fun kind like Mothman. The petty kind, made of double standards, gallons of booze, and grease.
Some monsters hide in closets. This one hides in technicalities, guilt trips, and pretending she doesn't remember the nice things you did.
Important scientific note: the cryptid is the problem. The victim is the protagonist. The cryptid is just background noise with uncombed hair.
When threatened by basic honesty, the Household Hag emits a cloud of “That never happened” and attempts to rewrite the scene in her head.
Reminder: You are not crazy, you are not too sensitive, and you are not the villain.