I admire my friend’s consistency and unwavering attention to my every unwanted feeling, nervous twitch, or anxiety riddled thought. While I’m huddled against my pillow, petrified of an open curtain, she is just outside my door, whispering.
Featured in the Winter 2026 issue of Spellbinder Magazine, Elizabeth Ingamells’ My Friend, the Hag uses an evocative personification of anxiety itself to guide our understanding of a cruel condition commonly endured by others. Fiction of this nature, especially when it exposes the darkness curling around our minds, can be deeply haunting, holding a mirror to our vulnerabilities. Those who’ve lain awake at night, heart racing, thoughts clawing against their skin, will connect to the raw vulnerability of Ingamells’ protagonist. Even if you’ve never felt the claustrophobia of deteriorating mental health, My Friend, the Hag may offer you greater insight into a phenomena which for many is inescapable.
Ingamells peels back the curtain on the deepest corners of our fears, pushing us into an adrenaline-soaked reality. Skin-crawling anticipation builds as a dark creature skulks towards the nameless protagonist, until the reader is desperate to escape.
As the humanised figment looms in the archway, Ingamells successfully heightens our senses, making us aware of the faintest touch, the overpowering smell of decay, and each unnerving creak of the floorboards. Sentences of varying length build morbid anticipation, and we frantically begin to guess at the creature’s next move. Will we feel the caress of its calloused hand? Will we hear the creak and snap of its mutated body? Will its rancid smell creep up our spine and wrap itself around our paling faces? Ingamells writes in a way that feels as if the creature is always one step ahead, driving the eerie and uncomfortable atmosphere of the piece.
We imagine ourselves as the protagonist, frozen in fear, following the creature as it scuttles over the bedsheets toward its intended target. There is no reprieve, no salvation, only our inner demons, which we turn into inescapable beings. Tragically life-like, Ingamells’ writing bravely exposes the struggles faced by the anxious mind, illustrating how our fears morph into reality.
I push myself against the wall and sit up, staring into empty space. My phone slips in my clammy hands, I’m drenched, but I just about manage to find the flashlight and illuminate the room, and my thoughts. I’m alone, as I should be. My pounding heart is the only confirmation of her visit.
Our minds may play tricks on us in the dark, but when we let the light in, as our protagonist does, the illusions fade and all we are left with is heavy breathing and a racing pulse. Ingamells illustrates the inner battle between imagination and reality through a build up and sudden relaxation of tension. As the distortion of the darkened room slips away, we are left to wonder if the same horror will return once more when the flashlight goes out.
This is my first season with Spellbinder and I was thrilled to find a piece that I connected with. I got to read many wonderful submissions, but my mind kept wandering back to this one. I had a personal connection with this piece and its haunting personification of anxiety. Everyone here on the Spellbinder Fiction team were enamoured with this piece and were grateful to be trusted with the fine tuning of this moving story, helping it achieve the powerful impact it desired. We hope our readers connect with it as we have.
Steph Carroll, Fiction Editor
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