Sheepskin Bach

An original horror story

In the midday gloom, the old man shielded his eyes from the flurry of snowflakes and regarded the crimson-sodden snow with a stoney expression on his face. The resurgence of bitter weather had been devastating to his flock; the new lambs that had sprung to life just as the daffodils did had been almost entirely wiped out by this second wave of winter that arrived just as harshly as it was unexpected. He could not remember such a false-starting spring before, that had struggled so helplessly against the icy grip of a winter that refused to relent. There had been much death as a result. But none like this.

He shuffled cautiously forward, each step an effort in the thick and heavy snow. Each time he set down a boot it landed with a hollow crunch, yet when he went to raise that foot again it was as though the ground had frozen tight around it and refused to release it without a fight. Though his face was numb and pale with the frigid air, beneath his many layers he felt a trickle of sweat snake its way down his back, from the nape of his neck to the crack of his arse.

Most of the carcasses he’d dealt with this spring were newborn lambs, frozen to death by the sudden brutal cold. Decimated when they should be frolicking. But at least their bodies were clean.

Blackened red pooled around a mutilated sheep’s corpse, casting an ominous stain on the pristine white ground. Darkening. The adult ewe’s matted wool was harsh with blood. A trail of bloody hoofprints emanated from a ragged gash across the animal’s belly as though some cruel and violent mimicry of birthing had occurred. Over the course of three or four meters, the prints gradually faded until they were simply impressions in the snow headed down the mountainside and away.

The old man crept closer to the body, wincing with disgust at its ruin and destruction. Thankful for the freeze, knowing that the smell would otherwise be unbearable. The wound ran the length of the animal’s abdomen. Certain organs — guts, intestines — lay frozen on the ground next to the body at once brittle and unmalleable. The barrel had collapsed in on itself. He lifted the flap of flesh with the tip of his shotgun to see inside the opening. A mashed and steaming hollow. He recoiled. It stank.

A gloved hand covering his nose, he turned and stared around him. Blinking at the snowdrops that continued to fall. There was nothing but whiteness all about, falling off at intervals with the slope of the landscape, the sky so thick with clouds he couldn’t even see the peaks beyond his own. His eyes stung and watered with the blinding vastness. It felt in that moment that it had gotten much colder.

He tracked the mysterious hoofprints down the slope for a while before they vanished altogether beneath the more recent snowfall. Then he cut briskly across the hillside towards his stone cottage; the flickering eyes of its windows a beacon in the murky weather.

Inside, he stomped his feet to shake off the compressed ice from his boots and the dusting of snow from his shoulders and hat. He pulled his stool up near the fireplace and tossed on a couple more logs. Warming himself and taking pleasurable comfort in the hissing and spitting of the flames. As he gradually defrosted, he removed his hat, his coat, his boots. He made himself a supper of bread and cheese with a pot of hot tea.

After eating, he looked out of the window. Wondering about the violated sheep. Worrying about the remainder of his flock. Hoping that this storm would soon relent and spring could come once more — and that this time it would stick.

Then, out of the darkness across the hillside a shape emerged. It was a boy. A child. He couldn’t quite believe it at first, but as the figure drew closer, he was sure it was not a mere figment of his imagination. He was a young boy, naked and dirty and covered in dried blood — his eyes big and dark and black — stumbling forward, trembling violently from the cold.

The old man paused only to put his own boots on, then dashed out into the blizzard. Had he been a second later the child would have collapsed into a snowdrift where he would have surely perished, but the man’s arms were there to catch him. He carried him inside, laid him by the fire, and stacked mounds of blankets on top of him. He didn’t know what to do then, so he stood stupidly over the boy, watching him. Breathing heavily. The old man’s eyes widened in panic and confusion as he noticed that the child, who appeared otherwise ordinary, had two black cloven hooves where his feet should be.

A tremor of fear squirmed down his spine. His forehead knotted into a tumor of anguish. Exhaling purposefully, he steadied himself then set about boiling a fresh pot of water. He found a bowl and a washcloth and knelt beside the boy, carefully cleaning his skin of the crusted blood and filth that had accumulated all over him, although he left the hooves well alone.

The boy slept through it all. The man watched his chest rise and fall as his eyeballs danced beneath their lids. He looked to be at peace. The old man barely slept that night. Instead, he sat at his small table and kept watch over the sleeping child, only occasionally moving when his back got too stiff or when he needed to refill the tobacco in his pipe. Eventually, however, he too surrendered to the Sandman.

When he woke, the boy was gone. He started, refusing to believe that it had all been a dream — but no, there was a pile of blankets on the floor where the boy had lain. He stoked the fire, then pulled on his outdoor gear and headed out into the sparkling morning.

It was cold out and the sky was still white-grey, but the air was clear. The world was quiet and calm. The ground was wrapped in a pristine covering across which it was easy to track the path of the abominable child. He trudged after him, breathing roughly as the cold air hit his aging lungs, whispers of fog dancing on his lips.

He found the boy just around the curve of the hill beneath his cottage, wrapped in one of his blankets, suckling on the teat of a grieving dam. The ewe seemed unbothered and there was something about the way the boy suckled that implied he’d gained sustenance this way before. The old man held back so as not to intrude. Eventually the boy noticed him. He turned to the old man and bleated a greeting in what sounded to be an annoyed tone, then resumed his feeding.

Once he was done filling his belly with fresh warm milk, he trotted over to the man and looked up at him. His expression blank, betraying no suggestion of shame nor satisfaction. The man saw now that whisps of white hairs were showing on the boy’s arms and shoulders. He was certain they had not been there the night before.

“This way,” croaked the old man — for it had been a not insignificant time since he had cause to speak aloud, “let’s get you some proper clothes.”

He turned and headed back uphill. He didn’t check to see the boy was following. Somehow, he knew instinctively that he was.

He found the boy a pair of thermal long johns that was surely far too big, but beggars can’t be choosers. To this he added a woolen jumper and an old wax jacket. He determined that the boy had no need for boots. He made them each a plate of toast and a cup of tea, but the boy touched neither. He just sat and watched the old man eat. The old man was amused by the boy’s blank stare, his big black eyes always watching. It was nice to have some company.

When it was time for the old man to head outside and track down his flock and ensure all his animals were well, the boy followed him. He remained always a few steps back, never drawing attention to himself, never getting in the way or being a bother. Simply shadowing. The boy never said a word, never shifted the vacant expression on his face. The man was satisfied to let the boy be; he asked him no questions because he was sure the boy would provide no answers, even supposing that he was able. As the day wore on, he found himself increasingly comfortable with the boy always being at his back or in the far reaches of his peripheral vision.

That night, the man prepared them both supper while the boy sat in front of the fireplace and watched the flickering flames. Once again, the boy ignored the food that was offered, but he sniffed around the mug next to his plate and, realizing that the man had provided him a cup of sheep’s milk, he chugged it down. A thin line of milk graced his upper lip which remained as straight and as expressionless as ever. He looked at the old man with those big blank eyes and watched him as he ate.

Over the next few days, the man and the boy grew ever more comfortable in each other’s presence. The old man was satisfied with the silence between them. He was accustomed to it. As the boy became familiar with the old man’s routines, he grew to understand the man’s grunts and nods and gestures, and so the boy became his apprentice: wordlessly assisting in breaking the ice on the sheep’s water trough, dragging a bale of hay from the barn, milking the childless mothers into a bucket. But though the old man enjoyed having the boy around, he knew that there was something very unnatural about the child.

The growth of hairs on the boy’s skin had become thicker and more pronounced until it got to the point where the old man recognized it for what it truly was: a burgeoning fleece of lamb’s wool. Added to the hooved feet and all-black eyes, it was impossible to ignore that this boy was some kind of impossible sheep-child.

One evening, after they were done with their chores for the day, the old man shaved and then offered his razor to the boy. He was thinking that the boy might want to sheer himself of the fleece which was now getting quite thick. The boy simply looked at the razor, then back at the man, simply staring until the man felt foolish and hurriedly put his shaving kit away.

The days wore on. The snow stopped and hardened into ice. Over several days, the sun melted it into translucency and then to nothingness. Only the larger drifts in shadows were spared to linger. Mottled patches of green and brown appeared in the tundra’s crust and there was a resurgence of yellow flowers. The clouds above grew less impenetrable. Though he was cautious in his assessment, it seemed to the old man that spring had finally arrived at last.

The delayed progression of the seasons was welcome and spurred a change in the old man himself. He was energized and eager to break free of the confines of the overlong winter. The grass was lush and fresh, so his sheep required less regular attention. He could take a break for a day or two, so he decided to take the boy on an excursion to the far side of the valley. They would camp out beneath the stars, the old man thought. He boy would enjoy that, wouldn’t he?

And so he packed his rucksack and tried to articulate to the boy what they were up to. He wasn’t sure that the boy understood, but still he followed the old man as he hiked off across the meadow. Only when they reached the furthest reaches of the flock did the boy hesitate. The old man looked back at him. The boy himself looked back at the grazing sheep. He seemed unsure. Eventually, though, he continued following the old man.

They walked. The exercise felt good to the old man as the movement worked out the stiffness that had settled in his bones in the cold winter months. His famished muscles that had felt tired at first now felt eager as a renewed sense of energy was unleashed through his veins. The boy seemed excited by the adventure too — it didn’t take long for him to bound ahead of the old man, skipping and frolicking on the bare rocks as they scrambled over the hillside.

The old man liked watching him. He felt a paternal joy in doing do. As he looked upon the strange child, he felt a burgeoning smile grow across his lips into a broad fatherly grin. He’d had no reason to smile in years.

By late afternoon, they had reached the far side of the valley where the old man intended to set up camp. The sky was thick with clouds, but they were not laden with snow or rain. It would be a cool night, but dry and not too cold. He had decided to forego a tent as his thick sleeping bag would provide sufficient warmth. The boy would be fine curled up. That was what he was accustomed to, such was his nature.

They set about building a fire. The man made some coffee. The boy drank some milk. As they sat on the hillside and watched their flock across the valley the old man suddenly spoke, the words flowing out of him before he even realized the thought of them had sprung from his head. “One day, all of this will be yours, bach. You’re a good boy and I’m glad that you came to me. There’s probably not too many years left for me, so I’m glad to know all of this will be in good hands when I’m gone. It’s hard work as you know, and a lonely life, but I’ve always liked it. I think you will too.”

The boy just looked at him with his black unreadable eyes as impenetrable as ever.

In the morning, the old man woke to the sight of the boy scrambling across the hillside towards him on all fours with something limp and red hanging from his mouth. Suddenly the boy was upon him and dropped the carcasses of two freshly killed rabbits at the old man’s side. He nudged one of the bodies towards the man. As the old man studied the offering, he considered how this new development impacted what he thought he understood of his companion. Up until now he had only known the boy to drink milk. True, there was one time when he caught the boy chewing on some hay, but he had ignored it, had no desire to make a fuss about it. He wondered now whether that had indeed been a one-time occurrence as he’d allowed himself to believe or not. Certainly, he had never known the boy to touch meat.

But today was that day. The boy tore into his own rabbit. Ripping away the fur with his bare hands and biting straight into the raw and exposed flesh beneath. For the first time, the old man saw just how sharp the boy’s teeth were. They were more wolf’s teeth than sheep’s. Blood dripped down his chin as he ate, and when he was done the entire lower half of his face was smeared in scarlet. The boy smiled. Satisfied.

The old man felt sick to his stomach. Seeing the boy eat in that manner had utterly nauseated him. He gestured to the boy that he wasn’t hungry, but the boy didn’t seem to understand. He pushed the rabbit away from him, but the boy nudged it back. The man raised his hands, no, but the boy pushed his face closer to the man’s. The boy bleated as though giving a command. The man stumbled backwards in fear. The boy nudged the rabbit towards him. Bleated again. It was a threatening cry of a bully and a beast. You will eat.

Obediently, the old man did as the sheep-boy demanded, but he did it his way. He relit the fire which had gone out overnight. He butchered the rabbit and strung the meat to a branch he positioned over the flames. While his breakfast roasted, he set about packing up his gear. He’d left the guts and other inedible parts of the critter to one side but noticed now that they had disappeared. He didn’t know for sure, but suspected the boy had eaten them when he wasn’t looking. The thought sickened him. When the rabbit was cooked, he forced himself to eat. The gamey taste was welcome, but it was very greasy and there wasn’t much meat. He offered a leg to the boy, but the child had no interested in it.

Afterwards, the boy seemed smugly satisfied at having won their standoff. He skipped around near the old man as he prepared to leave. It was like before, except it wasn’t at all. The power dynamic had shifted between them.

The old man nodded back towards his cottage and his flock. Ready to go. But the sheep-boy shook his head and scowled. He gestured in another direction, towards a distant hillside dotted with some other flock. The old man shook his head, gestured again towards his home. The boy grew angry, got close into the old man’s face again, but this time the old man did not back down. The sheep-boy headbutted him, knocking him to the ground. The old man sprawled in the grass as the boy towered over him threateningly.

“No,” barked the old man like a master might command his dog, “I’m going home. You want to go that way, fine. Go that way. Leave me be. Good riddance to you.”

The sheep-boy did not react.

“Go!” yelled the man again.

The sheep-boy bent and grabbed the man’s trouser cuff in his teeth and started dragging him towards the distant hill.

“No,” cried the old man. “Leave me be.”

But the sheep-boy continued to tug him away. The old man reached out and tried to grab anything that he might hold on to. Wet grass and dirt slipped through his fingers, but eventually he clutched hold of a rock. He drew it up inside his fist and hurled it at the sheep-boy’s head. It struck his skull with a hard wet crack.

The boy released the man’s clothing and dove on top of him, his razor-sharp teeth now gnashing at the old man’s face. The old man held him off with one flat palm while the other searched desperately out of sight for another stone. It found one. He smashed it hard against the monster’s head, knocking him off and causing him to roll a little ways down the hillside. Wasting no time, the old man scrambled to his feet.

They boy stood too. He was nowhere near so tall as the man, but stood straight with his shoulders up and his chest out, fangs bared. They stared at each other like that. Both angry at the other, but neither willing to back down. They sheep-boy snarled at the old man, his lips and nose now looking more like a sheep’s muzzle than ever before. Then he turned and walked away, heading down the mountainside. The old man remained where he was, watching the boy until he was far away down the hillside and then no longer visible at all.

All the way home, the old man kept watch over his shoulder; fearful that the boy would return and launch a sneak attack, but he never did. Finally, he reached his own hillside. His sheep were all fine. He went inside his cottage and shut the door.

The next few days were a hangover reintroducing him to reality. The time he had spent with the boy — a horrid creature he had been tricked into thinking of as a son — was now nothing more than a fantastic memory which didn’t seem like it had ever been real. As he worked his chores, normality returned. It had always been like this.

He dug a trench a satisfactory distance from his cottage, deep enough to bury the bodies of those lambs that had not survived the freeze. As he filled in the last of the dirt and smoothed it flat with his shovel, he told himself that this time next year the scar on the earth would be covered with grass that his living sheep would graze. Life would continue and no-one would be any the wiser.

That night, he woke with a start. Terrified and instantly certain that he was not alone. The fire was dying and the moon and stars were bright. He saw something rush past his window. He heard dull scrapes against his door. He sprung from his bed and grabbed his shotgun. Checked it was loaded. He burst outside and pointed the weapon.

“Where are you?” he demanded. “I know you’re here, I know it’s you.”

But there was nothing but the night.

The next morning when he woke there was a dead rabbit on his doorstep torn asunder. Dismembered, scattered. An ear here, a leg over there. Clotted blood everywhere.

The old man’s legs buckled. He was scared and suddenly filled with overwhelming sorrow. He sunk to his knees in the doorway. Just beyond his cottage, his flock continued to graze, unaware and unconcerned about the horrors he had endured.

He never saw the boy again.