stickiestickers

Everyone knew the stories about Old Lady Wolfsbane. Every small town had that one house on the hill, the house that had likely been there since the town had first been built and looked very much the part: old, rickety, and like something plucked right out of another period in history. The house that was often owned by a little old lady that had been there for as long as anyone in the town could remember, one who rarely, if ever, seemed to venture outside the walls of her home. And, as with that one house in every town, it inevitably gathered a long list of fantastical stories and tales about it and it’s owner only spoken about in hushed whispers, none of them very flattering and likely not helped by the fact that she had the unusual last name of “Wolfsbane”. Some said she was a witch, one that would sneak out in the middle of the night and snatch naughty children right out of their bed to make them into a stew. Others claimed that when the moon was full, she would transform into