You look out the window, down the street or across the open field, and you see them: a row of shadowy figures that seems to trail for miles and miles. As slow as mist, and appearing with as little fanfare (indeed, they seem to have risen right out of the ground) they move along their way, seeing nothing and no one. Ghosts, you think. Ghouls. They must be-- the great and the small alike, the ones that trudge and limp or the ones that seem to float above the ground.

When you open the window to get a better look, you're chilled to the bone to hear that they are singing.

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