Chapter 417

The first time Thomas saw the sheep, he was playing by the fence at the edge of his family's property. It was a large, wooly creature, with eyes that seemed too intelligent for a farm animal. It wasn't grazing like the others, no, it just stood there, perfectly still, staring directly at him.

He was eight years old, not old enough to understand the strange pull of its gaze. He did understand that it was different, unsettling even. The other sheep moved in herds, their eyes vacant and focused on the grass. This one, however, only stared at him, its dark pupils fixed like pins on a board.

It didn't move, didn't blink. Thomas felt a cold sensation settle at the base of his spine, even under the afternoon sun. He tried to ignore it, returning to his game. But every so often, his eyes would drift back to it, and it would still be there, unmoving, watching.

Days turned into weeks, and the sheep never altered its position, never stopped its silent observation. It was always there, near the fence, if Thomas was outside. It didn't seem to matter what time it was, the sheep would be there looking at him. The other sheep would roam in the pasture, but this one stood apart, an eerie monument of wool and bone.

Thomas began to avoid that part of the yard. He stayed closer to the house, played in the front, always aware of the presence beyond the fence.

But even from a distance, he could still see it. He would get the awful feeling that it could see him as well. The intense awareness of its constant gaze created a discomforting feeling that grew stronger every passing day.

He tried telling his parents, but they just laughed, dismissing it as childish imagination. "It's just a sheep, Thomas," his mother said, patting his head, her voice dripping in condescension. His father, equally dismissive, told him not to be silly, there's nothing to be scared of on the property. Their lack of concern made him feel all alone in his unease, intensifying his sense of isolation.

The nights became difficult. Even within the safety of his own bedroom, Thomas felt the sheep's eyes on him. He'd close the curtains and stuff blankets under the door, but he couldn't escape the feeling that he was being observed, scrutinized by those dark, alien orbs.

It was as if those unblinking eyes could see through walls, through sleep, directly into his mind. It was a deeply disturbing sensation, making it increasingly harder to sleep.

He tried not to think about it, to pretend it wasn't there, but it was an impossible task. Every waking moment was punctuated by the awareness of the sheep's stare, it felt like the world was constantly getting closer and closer to him, pressing down onto his fragile psyche. Its image was burnt onto the back of his eyelids, a constant companion in the vast lonely landscape of his own thoughts.

One morning, Thomas woke up to silence. A heavy, expectant silence that was deeply different from any he had ever experienced. He went to the window, as was now his grim habit, and looked out at the pasture. The sheep was there, of course, still as a statue. However there were differences now, its posture was slightly tilted, and it's gaze felt harder, more predatory. But the most notable thing, and the thing that sent a cold shiver down his spine, was that it wasn't alone.

Around it, the rest of the flock was now facing him as well, forming a loose circle around the black-eyed sheep, each pair of wooly heads pointed towards his window, their eyes glinting in a way that made him nauseous.

This was no mere coincidence; it felt deliberate and planned, like a strange silent ceremony. Thomas recoiled, moving back from the window with an uneasy feeling in his stomach. The world seemed distorted, like it had become something alien, something he no longer understood.

He hurried downstairs, wanting to tell his parents, to break this horrifying silent ritual, but they were gone. The house was empty, cold, and dead, even the air was still. It was as if they had vanished without a trace, swallowed by the early morning mist.

A profound sense of despair washed over him. He was alone, truly alone, with the silent, watchful flock. He had a sickening feeling that this was exactly what it had all been leading to.

He went back to the window, a knot of fear tightening in his stomach, and looked back at the pasture. The sheep still stood, its gaze never wavering, the surrounding herd of vacant eyes acting as it's silent audience. He couldn't understand how this happened, how his parents could just leave without a word. Or, had they been taken? He had a terrible feeling that they had been.

He decided to leave, to get away from the house, to find help, but as he opened the front door, he saw something that made his heart sink. The other sheep had left the pasture, and were now all outside his property, they had spread out across the yard like a wooly carpet, surrounding the house, blocking any chance of escape.

Their eyes, like the black eye of their leader, were all fixated on him. He closed the door quietly, and pressed his back onto it, as the slow, dreadful dread began to wash over him.

He knew it was hopeless. He was trapped, cornered, by an unseen force. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The world he knew had become a prison, a stage for this horrifying, quiet nightmare.

He looked back out the window. The sheep in the pasture were now moving, they were all facing the house, starting slowly but surely to walk towards it. They walked in perfect unison, their hooves a soft, slow drumbeat on the grass. It sounded like a slow march, a dirge for the living, a prelude to the coming horror. Thomas felt a strange calm settle over him, it was a hopeless resignation to the inevitable.

Thomas walked outside, not into the yard, but onto the porch. He sat down on the edge of it, his gaze fixed on the wooly army that now surrounded his home. They looked like they were approaching with intent, a relentless tidal wave of flesh and bone and wool.

He made no move to stop them, nor to save himself, and he watched on as they got closer, each hoof beat like a hammer on a coffin nail. It was a show, it felt like a show just for him.

The black-eyed sheep was at the front, leading the charge. It stared directly at Thomas, and he stared back, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and acceptance. He could feel his life, his own body, begin to disappear, his mind becoming distant as the mob began to close in, their dark, soulless gaze fixing upon him as the world faded around him. The black-eyed sheep came first, and with a swift move it nudged him from the edge of the porch, sending him straight down into the mass of wool and hooves.

He felt them, all over, pressing in, not hurting yet, but there was an awareness of them everywhere around him. He felt their bodies, their coats, their hooves, their hard heads. Then, as if they had received some kind of mental command, the pressure began to increase, slowly at first, but with a clear purpose.

The soft wool was crushing now, it was not so soft any more, and the hooves became hard, they became hammers. It felt as if he was drowning, not in water, but in a mass of flesh and bone and wool. The air was escaping, replaced by a thick, wooly density.

Thomas was slowly enveloped, his small frame was nothing against the mass of the herd. He felt a crushing pressure, and the last thing he heard was the soft, thumping sound of hooves on the grass.

It was not the sound of a herd, no, it was the sound of a single drumbeat, a deep, low, relentless rhythm. And then, after a while, it was just silent, as the wooly mass that was once his captors simply dispersed, each one returning back to its place, as if nothing had happened. But Thomas was gone.

The house stood silently, a testament to the strange and terrible events that had unfolded. The sheep returned to the pasture, but now there was something different. It was like something had come back with them, something had changed.

They no longer grazed peacefully, they stared at the house, their eyes dark and intelligent. They had an awareness to them now, like they had just witnessed something that changed them, and with their eyes they all looked on. Waiting. Watching. For another.