They come once every few months. We always know when it's about to happen. Their visits are preceded by wails cutting through the silent night. We see their lights flickering in the darkness as they approach. There's always six of them. Never more, never less.
We call them The Firemen.
We don't like it when they come, because by the time they do, it's already too late.
They run from the edge of the forest, flailing their arms and screaming in agony as the flames engulf their bodies. One by one, they fall and wither. There's nothing we can do to help them. We've tried. We've splashed buckets of water on them, we've set up sprinklers around the perimeter, we've patrolled the woods to try and catch them early. We never could find the source.
We don't know where they're from, we don't know who set them ablaze, and we can't ID their bodies because there's rarely anything left but ash and charred bones.
We call them The Firemen, and our town's cemetery is now overflowing with their remains.
Let's just say that they are not fire fighters, they are men who are on fire.