In my youth, I saw them often. They came, through the trees at the foot of the garden, and gazed upon the house. Once, I saw my mother go and speak with them; an exchange of bundled items, I fancied, and then a parting. When I spoke to my mother of it, she scolded me for making wicked lies. My baby sister cried less after that.
After a time they stopped coming and I came to believe it was a fiction, a dream. But lately I have seen them again, watching, always watching.
My daughter cries so.