He is a wretched old thing.
He is all black tendrils flowing and insectile legs skittering across the ground.
He crawls now, slowly, in those places that used to be bogs but are not bogs anymore. Bogs are a thing of the past, an ecosystem in collapse. Who wants a bog on their property when they can have a lake or a field?
He belongs to the bog. A long long time ago, when someone would walk into the bog and never come out, it would be because he had got them. Got them and consumed them.
What a marvelous feast those fearful children were. Delectable. Gone, gone.
How powerful he had once been. What fear he commanded in the hearts of humans. A boogey man that parents told their children about to scare them away from the bog.
Now, humans only really fear each other. They do not fear the minor spirits of nature. Forests are orchards now. Rivers are irrigation. Bogs are drained and made into quarries and the quarries are made into parks.
No more space for him, no more fear for him, and so he starves and grows weaker each century, day by day. His insides scream with hunger and he cannot feed, for he has grown so weak that his tendrils can barely pierce the veil between worlds.
But perhaps. Perhaps if one of the humans was weakened enough. Their vigor depleted enough. Too self-absorbed to see what was coming. Imagining themselves dead. And their spirit open enough that it would be a cavity, a thin part of the veil.
Perhaps then he could have one more meal. And grow strong again.