Sawgrass Shadekin

Aster's shirt stayed whole for two breaths after the Shadekin passed. Then seven green cuts opened it.

The sawgrass had bowed in a narrow line against the crosswind. Something ran inside, knees too high, arms trailing into translucent blades. Moonlit water left holes in its body. We stood back-to-back. Around our little island, the reeds leaned outward to make straight shadow roads.

I struck my pole flat through them, remembering the burn crews. The tangled silhouettes stopped its next run. It surfaced waist-high with a face of pale stalks tied in swamp hair. Aster threw our lantern into the water. Broken reflections crossed the lanes, and it fled shrieking.

It runs the perimeter until fear draws a group together, then combs straight lanes through the surrounding grass. Cuts disable movement: knees and straps, hands on navigation tools. It doesn't stay to feed. Tangled reeds and intersecting reflections break the continuity it needs. It may whisper a victim's last direction from several places at once. A flattened trail can stop pursuit, but it waits at the first upright grass beyond. Rain dims the body without slowing it.