Day 808

Recently a village has been found in a previously undocumented island along the Western Isles of Scotland. It was only a few miles all around and barely in contact with society, the people preferring to trade locally with the other islands and stay clear of the mainland altogether.

We thought they were just another isolated community. We thought they were humans - we set them loose on the mainland thinking we were helping them branch out, utterly ignorant of what we were actually unleashing. We didn't listen to their trading partners in Barra and now nobody will forgive us for letting them come over.

They called it Cúis Chaillte and said they'd been there for several hundred years, though their accent was heavily tinged with something Scandinavian and their homes very rustic they were aware of some of the major events outside of their immediate circle. Small groups from the mainlands would work their way over via the main port of Barra and, according to the spokesperson, they never wanted to leave

While it was confirmed by a young family who claimed the more rural life was what they'd been missing in Edinburgh, something in the way they said it seemed a little forced. Their smiles too rigid, their manners outdated and overly formal for their age. It was put down to the influence of the community, our mistake there.

The signs were clear as day now that we look back to the first meetings - the awkward postures, apparent lack of any kind of medicine or doctor of any kind, far too few animals for a farming community of their size and "spare" cottages that looked freshly made. They had been expecting us, perhaps some of their kind had already decided to begin invading the mainland before we had any idea that they existed over there.

How could we have known that such violent deaths were so close by, all these years and nobody outside of Barra had any idea and they refuse to admit to anything for fear that their truce will be broken. I suppose as they're closest to Cúis Chaillte they're effectively on the front lines of a war we stand no chance in winning.

Things that seem like awkward humans, stuck in the past and barely adapting to modern society prowl the streets wearing the skins and bones of the least likely folk. The last ones we caught looked like two elderly women, sitting on a park bench in Inverness, knitting. Their monstrous interior was quickly revealed when they attacked a teen on a skateboard, vomiting the spawn down his screaming throat. Police closed in while they attempted to throw him into the nearby pond to properly incubate.

The whole process is grim, from the spawn passing, to incubation, to the spawn dissolving the meat and eventually growing to wrap their gelatinous flesh around the host's bones, eventually moulding themself to fit every crevice that was their host. From there they have a lifespan of anywhere between five and eight hundred years, constantly secreting a substance that effectively freezes the host's skin and bones in a near perfect condition.

While they only seem to eat as spawn, they're going on feeding frenzies all over Scotland, roaming in packs of new children in nurseries, businessmen in old fashioned suits, the elderly on trips to big cities and leaving behind a trail of empty skinsacks every time.