This island used to be an enchanted place before the military erected their hideous base upon the hillside. Paranoid about their enemies in distant lands - they didn’t listen to us when our children went missing. It was the opulent glow on the water’s edge. A grim beacon on a moonless lake at midnight.
The spirit of the water is a psychopomp, a trickster. A devil in the depths. She rides out atop the waves to snatch our kin from the seashore. Calling out like a siren to the lonely youth, misplaced and wandering; longing to belong. The brook horse has a back that stretches far so she can carry as many babes as she wants. Bound to eternal currents, she drags them down below.
The island is our fief and our bloodlines pay for clean water and safe passage. But for all our wards and changelings, our traps and trinkets fail. Keep away from the gun fire and the base upon the hill; and watch for Bäckahästen on the seabed and the shore.