The Games Of The Children
Short psychological horror story
There was a sour wind that blew up the long grasses from the Morston isle and swum with the hollow sob of the gulls. It lingered there, bitterly cold on the warmest of days, haunting the reeds and the rushes before fading back with the withdrawing tides. The old folk called it the gulling wind, the dead wind, the ghosts of the drowned in the North Sea.
George had found the corpse there.