I am captivated by the universality and diversity of folklore across the world. So many cautionary tales exist, so many terrifying stepmothers. Every word is steeped in blood, every turn conceals peril. What I admire about folklore is its ability to pierce the core of life, death, vengeance, and passion—precisely what we, as disenchanted moderns, have lost. Even those among us who cling to religious faith cannot escape this truth. We inhabit a world where the "veil of Isis" has been torn asunder, to borrow the metaphor of Renaissance scientists. The notion of a world without distinction between the natural and supernatural feels utterly alien to us, a reality we must confront when interpreting ancient Slavs, Celts, or even medieval Christians and Muslims. Part of this reckoning involves recognizing how every facet of life for those who came before us was saturated with the supernatural—infusing even the most mundane spaces: corridors, doors, windows, attics, ponds, and the very earth beneath their feet.