The Egg, the Note, and the Skull

Branches sway in a sudden breeze and leaves stir around your feet. The tree at your back groans. You flinch away as it shifts, its "roots" more like a massive chicken's foot as it lifts over your head. It stomps. You dodge, tripping over your own feet.
Arms held up in defense, your gaze travels up the leg, one of four, supporting a shack.
"That Russian scent again!"
Instinctively, you clutch the egg in your pocket, heart beating madly. The voice is loud, annoyed, and sounds like gravel.
Clamoring comes from inside. The door slams open and you backpedal, already reconsidering your life decisions.
Warm light from inside the house highlights an old woman with tangled hair, a long nose, and stick-thin limbs. Her teeth are sharp and cast from iron, each like miniature daggers. Though hunched, her stance suggests nothing but power.
The Baba Yaga.