They see it out there, on moonlit nights, hopping between the low peaks of the Cullis Hills with a long scarf trailing behind. Old folk blame some parkouring kids, but those young enough to still believe in the unexpected hold out for something different, a shadow in human shape for whom the scarf is the last thing binding it to this world, the place it once roamed. Some versions of the legend even have the mysterious scarved shadow as a forlorn lover, hopping between peaks in search of its lost sweetheart.

But everyone–or at least everyone who doesn’t dismiss the shadow as some punk kid in need of a good drubbing–agrees on one point. If you see the scarf, do not take it.

Do not touch it.

Or whatever lonely shadow inhabits that place will take yours, and you will be cursed to wander until such time as you can divest yourself of the infernal scarf for another fool to take up.

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