Rags and Bones by Carys Crossen

The villagers decided she was a witch. They exiled her to the desert, to die of heat exhaustion or go mad of thirst.

She did neither.

She made a scarecrow, constructed it out of rags and bone. She placed it near a trading route, and waited.

In verdant lands, a scarecrow repels. In this desolation, it did the opposite. Birds, travellers, stray children flocked to it, for water, for succour, for company.

She feasted like a queen on the flesh of lost things. Blood could quench any thirst. Their bones and clothes she hoarded.

Soon, another scarecrow joined the first.