Grass is a promise the marsh does not always keep, but here, near the cottage, the ground is firm enough for feet.

You keep the lantern low so you do not blind whatever has a face. The alder trunks are wet black. The “face” in the nearest tree is an owl’s disk: heart-shaped, pale, two dark wells of eyes. A barn owl. It does not scream at you. It turns its head too far, which is a superpower owls have and people do not.

The scream happens again, in the field, not in the owl’s beak. It is ragged and furious and almost a word. Your skin tries to climb into your collar.

Something red and low moves between clumps of grass. A brush of tail. Fox.

Jonah’s flashlight finds you from the boardwalk. He has come looking, because Jonah would rather share a scare than miss one. “Banshee,” he whispers, like he is tasting a candy. “Woman in the marsh. That’s what my cousin said.”

“That’s two animals,” you say, not unkind. “One with a round face. One with a red tail. Your cousin stacked them.”

The owl’s cavity makes a shriek when the wind threads it—wood and air, a second almost-voice. The fox screams because foxes do that when they hunt or argue. Neither one wants your soul. Both want mice.