The Watchers.

Sometimes, under the full moon, they would stand at the far edge of the meadow. They were pale translucent shapes, like statues made of mist or smoke and they watched. We watched back, torches in our hands and the small black notebooks in our pockets. If it came to it, we had incantations scribed for us by the keepers of the liminal lands. These would keep them at bay, at least, that was what we had been led to believe. We fervently hoped it would never be put to the test but still, each night we gathered beneath the trees and scanned the meadow for the watchers. Then, one night, it changed.