Along a desolate shoreline, the dying rays of the sun cause the sand to glisten like gold. The granite cliff rises heavily and steeply by the coast. There are precipitous dips, and threatening overhangs, and even if the sun were shining bright, this cove might still be dark and shadowed. The surf is heavy in spots, hammering at the stone. Angry. Violent. Basalt formations form weird step-like levels. As if giant, carved interlocked pegs were pounded into the water and mud. Above the thundering crash of the waves there is the sound of laughter. It drifts in and out, rising with the water. As the mist crashes against rocks with a hiss, it forms into strange mumblings. Far away squeals.

And after a moment, a group of young boys and girls, some dressed in rags, some naked, rush out onto the rough stone. Bouncing over the foam, and through crevices, sharp and dangerous, playing as children do. Some are kicking a large round indistinct object about, others poke at the sand and rocks with sticks. Innocent enough. Their hair is long and matted, eyes wide and nervous. Movements perhaps a bit jerky. Unnatural. Almost animal like. One rough moment of play suddenly turns vicious. A swift grapple. Little fists pummel. Teeth are bared. And an instant later back to play as simple as that and no one the worse.

Suddenly a long shadow looms across the rocky beach, and Willy the coachman steps down onto rough pebbles with a crunch. His eyes are wide at the sight of so many young children, numbering now about 25 or 30. And with a sly, disturbing smile Willy moves towards them.

One of the male children, alert as a wildcat, sniffs at the air and suddenly snaps his head towards the menacing figure down the beach. The other children, en masse, snap their heads to attention. Some vague scent has drifted their way.

The coachman moves towards the group slowly. "Heee...little children...here...come here," he says in a manner obvious to all, save innocent babes. He motions for them, and they slowly, cautiously step towards the strange figure.

"That's right my wee ones. Old Daft Willy will no hurt you, eh?"

The children move closer. "Where are your folks, eh?" Willy asks, looking about for signs of intruding adults. "Left you alone have they? Heeee. No one to take care of you in such a lonely, dangerous place, eh? Heee," Willy sputters.

He moves closer still to the children, his eyes aglow and just catching the final light that sinks below the horizon. "Here now, here...Daft Willy will take care of you..." He says as he now squats down to come eye to eye. "Safe as home, eh? Heee. We'll have a game of ball will we?"

Willy extends his filthy hands towards the children who now surround him. A young girl steps forward, staring at him. At his outstretched hands. Staring. Blankly. Focused with heavenly blue eyes.

Willy is oozing now. "Oh aye, pretty one, that's it. My wee bairn. Safe as..."

The girl suddenly springs at Willy's hand, plunging her sharp teeth into it! Blood explodes! He screams and shoots upwards, the little creature hanging on only by her teeth as she is hoisted off her feet. Willy slips back across the large wet pebbles, desperate to break free as the girls head shakes violently back and forth like a mad dog, determined to tear a piece of flesh. Flesh that stretches elastic and bloody, with a horrible sucking sound as it comes away from tendons and bone.

Willy's eyes go white. His mouth open in howling terror. The rest of the children are at his heels as he stumbles, twirling in circles back towards the water's edge. The coachman sinks to one knee, and the feral children launch themselves onto the poor creature, howling and jabbering in a strange guttural talk that is inexplicable. They bite, nip, claw and stab with pointed sticks as they pull him down to the ground. As if a swarm of ants, there is nothing but the undulating pile of children. One young boy, younger than the rest, who has not taken part suddenly turns on his heel and runs down the beach.

A short distance and the wee boy finds himself at the entrance to a partially flooded cave. A bent defile so obscure that it can only be seen from out at sea. The boy calls out in a garbled version of the Scots tongue. Primitive. Archaic. All is silent for a moment as he stares anxiously ahead...and then. The sounds of splashing from the pitch black of the cave. Louder and louder until the dark form of a monstrous figure looms up, pouring out of the shadows. Sinewy, muscled, weathered yellow skin. A mane of gray hair, and wisps of rotting beard. A make-shift belted plaid of dark browns and reds. Iron hands gripping horrific weapons of bone and metal. And eyes, eyes that could melt stone and kill with a stare. The eyes of Sawney Bean.