Mary had a little lamb

Mary awoke to silence.
She didn’t know how long she had been asleep—or if she had ever truly woken at all. Time felt warped, stretched thin like old wool. The ceiling above her was unfamiliar: rough wooden beams dark with age. A candle flickered somewhere nearby, casting shadows that danced like silent specters on the walls.
Her limbs were heavy. Her mouth dry. But she was alive.
Sebastian was the first thing she saw when she turned her head. Sitting at the edge of the room, motionless. Watching.
As always.
“Where… am I?” she whispered, throat raw.
“You’re home,” he said gently. His voice, once a comfort, now sent a chill down her spine. “You were sick. But I’ve been taken care of you.”
She nodded, too weak to question further. He nuzzled her hand with false affection, and for a fleeting moment, Mary felt the warmth of familiarity.
But then, in the quiet, she heard something else.
Whispers.
Faint. From the floorboards below.
She tried to sit up, but her body refused. Her mind, however, began to unravel the knots. There were flashes—fragments of a forest clearing, a red cloak, blood on snow. A woman screaming. A voice, too deep to belong to any lamb, whispering:
“She doesn’t need to know.”
Mary began to weep, quietly. And Sebastian pressed closer, as if comforting her.
But she noticed something.
The smell.
Not of earth or hay. Not of farm life or woodsmoke.
It was the coppery scent of blood.
Mary’s gaze drifted across the room. In the corner, beneath a cloth, was something lumpy. A shape she couldn’t define. She blinked hard, and when she opened her eyes again, the cloth was gone.
Empty space.
No trace.
Her mind must be playing tricks on her. That’s what Sebastian told her.
“You’re remembering things that didn’t happen,” he said calmly, almost pitying. “Trauma creates shadows. I’m here to keep them away.”
She nodded, trying to believe him. But every night, when the candle burned low and the shadows grew long, the whispers returned.
And they weren’t in her head.
They came from beneath the floor.

Days passed—though time had no meaning. She regained enough strength to move, to sit, to explore the house under Sebastian’s watchful eye.
Everything looked normal. But it wasn’t.
There were scratches on the windowsills—symbols she didn’t recognize. Mirrors had been removed, replaced with panes of smoked glass. The clocks all ticked in unison, but never changed time. And in the kitchen drawer, beneath old cutlery, she found a torn piece of paper with two words scrawled in frantic ink:
“DON’T TRUST HIM.”
That night, Mary waited until Sebastian slept.
Or pretended to.
She crept to the cellar door. It was locked, but the key was under the rug—almost as if he wanted her to find it.
She descended into the dark, heart pounding, breaths slowing .Each step creaked like a scream.
At the bottom, she found the altar.
Empty.
The walls were covered in charcoal drawings. Spirals. Eyes. Images of her—hundreds of them. But in each one, her face was missing. Scratched out violently.
Then she saw the newest drawing, still drying.
Her.
Standing in front of the chapel.
But something… was behind her. Tall, horned. A shadow with eyes like burning coals.
She dropped the drawing, heart racing.
“Mary.”
Sebastian’s voice.
Behind her.
She turned, but he wasn’t there.
Just the candle beside the altar. Flickering.
Then—movement.
From the walls.
They breathed.
The wood, the dirt—it pulsed like something alive. A slow, rhythmic thumping. Like a heartbeat.
Mary ran.
Up the stairs, through the house, out into the snow-slicked field. The cold tore at her skin, but she didn’t care. She had to get away—just to see the world, the sky, something real.
And she did.
She looked up.
And saw the stars.
But they were wrong.
Not constellations—but runes. Symbols. Watching her. Rearranging.
She fell to her knees, clutching her head.
And in the distance, somewhere deep within the woods…
The chapel bell rang again.

To be continued…