Mary had a little lamb

Winter came early that year. The cold was sharp, the air brittle. The village huddled into itself, smoke curling from chimneys as the snow crept silently across the fields. Mary barely noticed the change. Her world was warm, safe—protected by Sebastian. Or so she thought.

It began with the dreams.

Mary would wake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, gasping for breath. She couldn’t remember the details—only flashes: a woman screaming in the woods, blood soaking into snow, eyes—black, gleaming, watching. Always watching.

She tried to dismiss them, but the feeling lingered—something was wrong. She began to hear things. Soft whispers echoing through the barn when she was alone. The animals had grown restless. The cows would bellow in the night, chickens flapping wildly as if frightened by something unseen.

And Sebastian… he was changing.

He’d always been close to her, always affectionate. But now, his presence felt oppressive. He would stare at her for long stretches of time, unblinking. At night, she’d find him standing at her bedroom door, silent as a statue.

One morning, Mary awoke to find deep scratches along the inside of her bedroom window. Too high for a branch. Too jagged for an animal. And just beneath the sill, written in something dark and dry: "He sees you."

She tried to tell herself it was a prank. Kids from the village, maybe. But deep down, she knew it wasn't. Because that night, she heard the whisper again—clearer this time.

"Mary… he isn't what you think…"

She followed the sound to the barn, lantern in hand, trembling. The flame flickered, casting long shadows over the stalls. And there, in the far corner—Sebastian stood, unmoving, watching her. His eyes caught the light, glinting red for a moment. Just a trick of the flame, she told herself. But then he turned away, trotting to a section of the barn she rarely entered.

Drawn forward, Mary noticed something odd—boards in the floor pried loose, as if something had been digging. Beneath them, a trapdoor she didn’t know existed.

Hesitant, she pulled it open. The air that rushed out was foul, damp. She descended into darkness, the ladder creaking under her weight. At the bottom was a room carved from the earth, lit dimly by the glow of dozens of candles. Along the dirt walls hung drawings—childlike sketches of Mary, all with Sebastian by her side. Some showed the two of them smiling in the meadow… others showed him standing over her sleeping body, hooves raised.

And in the center of the room was a table.

Upon it lay relics—objects missing from the victims over the years. Thomas’s toy boat. Sarah’s scarf, stained with dried blood. A dog’s collar. A piece of shattered horse bridle.

Mary stumbled back, bile rising in her throat. Her knees hit the dirt. This wasn’t just a hiding place—it was a shrine.

Then she heard the hoofsteps behind her.

She turned, lantern shaking, and saw Sebastian at the base of the ladder, his face bathed in the amber glow. But his eyes… they were no longer just dark. They were bottomless, swirling pits of something ancient and cruel.

"You weren’t supposed to find this," he said.

His voice no longer soothing. It echoed like wind through a grave, inhuman and hollow.

Mary dropped the lantern, the flame snuffing out. Darkness swallowed her.

The next morning, villagers found the barn doors swinging open, snow drifting inside. Mary was gone.

They searched the woods for days. No sign. No body. Only her shawl, torn and half-buried near the creek.

Sebastian was found back at the house, curled up on Mary’s bed, as serene as ever. The villagers pitied him, believing he’d lost the woman he loved most. They decided to take turns feeding him, caring for him.

One by one.

They never noticed the eyes.

Never saw how he watched their children with quiet calculation.

Never heard the whispers that filled the house after dark.

But he was patient. He’d wait.

Because Mary might be gone…

…but someone new would believe in him again.

And that’s all Sebastian needed.