Every year,‭ ‬the English fields are ploughed,‭ ‬corrugating the earth.‭ ‬Every year,‭ ‬the plow overturns the long-discarded history beneath the surface,‭ ‬a new layer exposed.

Every year,‭ ‬as darkness falls,‭ ‬I watch for them,‭ ‬and every year they come.‭ ‬Their clawed feet filthy,‭ ‬they scour the rich,‭ ‬dank furrows for broken china,‭ ‬clay pipes,‭ ‬lambs‭' ‬teeth,‭ ‬bones,‭ ‬shards of clouded glass,‭ ‬searching and crawling and clutching.

Leathery fingers snatch,‭ ‬serrated fangs crunch and crush and grind,‭ ‬saliva strings cobweb across open,‭ ‬grinning jaws.

Finally,‭ ‬nourished by their spoils and the weak February moonlight,‭ ‬they slink back to dormancy.
Every year.

Joanne Sheppard was born in Ware,‭ ‬a small town in the south-east of England,‭ ‬but now inexplicably finds herself living among the dark satanic mills of Salford,‭ ‬Greater Manchester.‭ ‬She wrote her first story in‭ ‬1979‭ ‬at the age of three,‭ ‬but only started to submit her work for publication this year as she didn't want to appear pushy.