Wednesday, April 11, 2018

100 Words a Day 1170

Every full moon the residents of Marsh Edge lock and barred their doors. They shuttered and braced their windows. Children huddled under their blankets while fathers stalked back and forth, holding knives, clubs, or whatever other weapons they had at hand.

Well before the moon reached its zenith the wailing would begin, far off in the soggy marsh. It would wend along the crude trails to the village. It would go up and down, calling to the terrified residents in their crude dwellings. Sometimes one would answer. And the next day, their home would be empty of all its inhabitants.

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