The Ragjaw A scarecrow-like figure stitched from hospital rags, its head nothing more than a gaping cloth mouth filled with teeth made of broken pens and screws. It sways when there’s no wind, and its arms are too long, bending twice at the elbow. Its chest cavity is filled with scribbled notes from insane asylum patients, fluttering in an unseen breeze. Its voice is a garbled blend of emergency room alarms and whispered prayers. At night, it paces outside hospitals, looking for the one who wrote its name. And when it finds them, it lets them finish the sentence