Mary had a little lamb

Mary wandered for hours, the cold biting at her skin, but the world no longer followed rules she understood. The village looked the same from a distance—but up close, the houses were different. Windows boarded from the inside. Doors covered in old, brittle runes. No sounds. No voices.

As if the place had held its breath… and died.

The chapel, however, was alive.

Its old stone bell tower loomed over her as she approached, half-swallowed by frost and ivy. The front doors were ajar, creaking softly in the wind like they were waiting for her.

Inside, the air was thick—charged with something ancient. Candles burned without flame. A faint chanting echoed through the rafters, though no mouths moved.

And at the center, where the altar had once stood, was a book.

It was massive. Bound in leather that looked too much like skin, sealed with rusted clasps. Her hands moved without thinking, guided by something deep inside her. She opened it.

The pages pulsed.

She read.

“And the Lamb shall walk among them, Clothed in the shape of purity, Yet bearing the soul of the Hollowed One.”

Page after page, the same phrase repeated in different tongues, etched in blood and ash. Then came the illustrations—distorted depictions of rituals, of offerings made under eclipsed moons, of small white lambs with eyes black as obsidian… worshipped by kneeling men and women.

In the margins, someone had scribbled frantic notes in shaking hand:

"Not a beast. Not a demon. A vessel. Born when belief meets blood. He feeds on devotion. On love twisted into blindness."

Mary turned the next page—and froze.

There, etched in meticulous detail, was an illustration of her.

Standing in a field, holding a newborn lamb in her arms. Her eyes were closed. Smiling. Unaware.

Below, scrawled in ink:

"Chosen by the Echo. The one whose love will open the gate.”

She reeled back. Her hands felt heavy. Hands that once held Sebastian close to her heart.

“No,” she whispered. “No, that’s not possible. He was just a lamb… just—”

“You named him,” a voice echoed behind her. “You gave him identity. And in doing so, you gave him freedom.”

She turned—and saw Father Eli.

Or what remained of him.

His face was pale, flesh stretched too tight. Eyes milky white. His robes stained with ash. He moved like something puppeteered. was he an undead?

“I tried to stop it,” he rasped. “The ritual was done before you ever found him. He wasn’t born. He was made.”

Mary’s heart pounded. “Made for what?”

“To become,” he whispered.

And then the air changed. The temperature dropped. Every candle flickered out in unison.

From the shadows behind the altar, a figure stepped forward.

Sebastian.

But he was no longer small. No longer wool-cloaked.

He had grown.

Still four-legged, yes—but his form was shifting, stretching wrong. His white coat rippled like silk over writhing muscle. His eyes were not eyes anymore—but voids. Mirrors of a night sky that had never known stars.

Mary stumbled back.

He looked at her—and smiled.

Not with a mouth. With presence.

"You know now," he said, his voice like cracking ice. "You were the altar, Mary. Not the worshiper. You loved me with purity, gave me warmth and that is what fed the gate."

Tears blurred her vision. “I didn’t know… I didn’t know what you were…”

“You do now,” Sebastian said. “And that makes it real.”

The chapel shook. Cracks webbed across the floor. The book snapped shut on its own.

And above them, in the bell tower, the sound began again. The bell.

DONG. DONG. DONG.

The door behind her slammed shut.

Sebastian stepped closer.

The Hollowing was beginning.