It was a cold night in September when the small gray car pulled in front of the cottage at the edge of the woods. The sky was clear, and the full moon illuminated the warm vehicle in bright silver tones. To the watcher sitting within the trees, just out of sight of the cottage, it gleamed like rippling water.

Nobody else saw the car, or the man who stepped out with slumped shoulders. His breath misted faintly in the chill air, casting an orange glow in the eyes of the watcher. The man rubbed his hands quickly for a second, then opened the back door of his car, removing a small, flat object.

As the man walked the edge of the woods, the watcher flexed its claws and considered eating him. The man was new, and the watcher doubted that anybody would miss him.

But in addition to the glow of warm blood, the watcher could see another sort of glow in the man. A glow that it only saw in the Lumberjacks and a few of the children.

The man buried the object, and sat until morning.

The man would live. For awhile.