From enough of a distance they looked like a cluster of baby's heads standing on cattail stalks, gently blowing in the bitter winds that drifted across the saltwater marshland. We called them Whipowills and prayed they'd move into better hunting grounds before we lost as many as West Mowsey up the coast had.
There've been five gone so far, five new heads on the hydra-esque little beasts and five new voices given to the damned things that now know all our names and beg us for help as soon as they see us. A sensible person can easily ignore this but Lord knows people like those are few and far between, especially around here.
Personally it's the kids I fear for - the ones who hear mummy and daddy out on the marshes and don't know any better than to rush out and help. I've not let my own out of my sight since their granda was taken last week, not with how fond they were of him and not with how much they miss him.
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