He called it a Grümklauch, not knowing if it was a word he had heard in his youth or just something he invented, but it seemed to be a fitting sound. As summer wore on and the rains finally stopped, it (they?) was more active than the previous year, likely because of the large quantity of the hideous foodstuffs upon which it dined. Digger quietly cleaned up the torn dirt, replaced bits of bone as he could and buried others, telling no one of his actions or the causes. He had come into the habit of wandering the graveyard in the evening, listening for the scraping sound of tooth on bone. He heard it, and as he was able to draw closer at times, he also heard a wet sucking sound coming from beneath the dirt. He puzzled about that, his mind going back to the thin and empty thigh bone, so long now reburied. He had not seen the Grümklauch eating, so he could but conjecture.
It wasn't difficult to find the creature once he got close. The foul emanations of its body, the meaty carrion stench, the breath of hell drew a clear map. The pervasive stink of it, the vast putridity, was only discernible to a certain distance, a thing that amazed Digger. Surely such an odor would be noticeable far beyond, but it wasn't.
At times it left bones, well-gnawed and empty, lying near the site of its meal; other times, Digger found larger bones closer to (and, he suspected, well inside) the woods. Maybe it could only consume so much at once. Or perhaps it found the marrow darker and sweeter in the big skeletal parts and wanted to savour it at length.
He saw the Grümklauch on occasion, never closer than many yards. It would often hiss and squeal at him, then lope off to another site. It didn't threaten him, didn't attack. Digger thought that it didn't eat the living, only the dead, but would attack if threatened (he made oh so sure not to appear threatening).
Around three feet tall, the creature was gray-green, like natural clay or putty. Its nostrils were slits that flared wide then closed entirely. Long claws on its hands were filthy with dirt and ichor, and although it had similar talons on its feet, they didn't appear to hinder its speed.
Of an evening, Digger would consider the morality of digging up the dead, a definite taboo to humankind. He, after all, was not bringing the deceased to the surface, and really the Grümklauch didn't either, just bits and pieces now and again. And didn't he reinter the leavings of the Grümklauch with reverence and care? Surely that counted for something.
One particular Wednesday, Digger had brought home some fresh beef, and he began cutting it up for a stew. Looking up, he paused, took a goodly chunk of red cow flesh, and left the cabin. He walked to the nearest grave and laid it at the foot, clapped his hands twice, and went back to his meal preparations. A while later as he was stirring the savory liquid, he heard the telltale squeal that said it was nearby. Quietly he moved to the door, opened it, and peered out into the gloom. Yes, it was there, it had found the meat. It circled the offering, sniffing and grunting. Did it dine upon non-human flesh? With a sudden turn of its head, it seemed to stare directly into Digger's eyes. Not releasing its gaze, it quite deliberately stepped over the beef and released a stream of foulness on top of it. Then it scrabbled away into the darkness. Digger dipped his head and closed the door, having had his answer.
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