Damp mustiness spoke of wicker men left to rot.

Gideon had forgotten the rule. Never walk the fields between Blessings. The changing tide of seasons curled the edges of protection the village elders renewed each Hallows Eve.

A ragged crow man hung from a lacquered post. Straw spilled from its burlap guts. Gideon stopped. A scuffle of sound came from the crow man. A dry shift of hay.

“Just a critter,” he said skirting to the side of the post.

The movement grew louder as he passed it. He broke into a run without looking back. A wet thud hit the ground behind him. A scream escaped his lips. His legs kept pumping. The line of the field in sight.

And then the ground.

He struggled to reason the change before he felt a shaft of ice in his thigh.

A vicious slash lit his neck with fire. Gideon’s scream slumped into a mew as blood pooled around his brittle form. A deep rhythm of thudding steps circled the boy.

A heavy voice echoed around him as a cold wave approached.

“Tribute.”