If you see sooty footprints circling the fields, pack what you can and flee, especially if you have children.
They’re hungry and many. They come from the dark and see when we’re blind. They say what they want – and what they want is flesh. Young and tender.
At first, the tracks will be distant, drawing wide arcs around the village like a wary predator. But with each night, the circles will grow smaller, ever more numerous, and the soot left behind in the tracks will be ever darker. The footsteps are smaller than a man’s, larger than a child’s, and crooked as if a hen had clawed through them. You’ll know. They can’t be mistaken for any other.
And when the footprints press close to your homestead, it’s already too late. Pray as you might, beg as you may – your children will be gone before dawn.
You should’ve listened.
Those who stand guard – fathers with axes, mothers with knives – will be found the next morning, their bodies torn and bloodied. Of the children, there will be no trace.
You should’ve run.
