Yeah, this is working out a lot better.
What did it look like? That is a question best left fully unanswered, or better yet, unthought. The form was bipedal, like that of the human victim the gold-witch had first ensnared, then consumed from within; but its elongated flesh scuttled queerly through space-time, rippling and distorted from forces imperceptible to mere human senses. Where a face should be was a writhing collection of lines and dots that blessedly made no sense — and yet, it constantly trembled on the very precipice of revealing a hideous meaning, and a soul-blasting anagnorisis. The glow that gave the foul thing its name had no honest color, either; it might have seemed closest to ‘yellow’ to mortal eyes, but it was a yellow infected with contagion and malice. It did not radiate like honest light, either; instead, it oozed slowly through the air, and on the walls.
A weaker man would have died in that room; but Greg Gimbal had been trained in a hard school, and the lessons learned there saved his life that day. He refused to see, refused to hear, refused to think about what was in front of him, instead forcing his entire will down to the consideration of the twin triggers of his shotgun. He knew that to fire immediately was to risk missing; but the thing would be upon him in two seconds…
How Greg managed to hold out a full second before firing, even he never knew. All he remembered afterward was the booming thunder of both barrels, followed by his defiant throw of the coach gun into the abomination that was the gold-witch’s ‘face.’ Only by then Greg was springing for the door, knowing that to look back was to die, or worse than die. He knew he had to trust in his training, his luck — and most importantly, in the double-barrel dose of depleted uranium buckshot that had just ripped through the gold-witch. To manifest in this dimension was to take on some of its characteristics; and it is a rare creature indeed who can shrug off a DU dose, at point-blank rage.