There are scratch marks around the door handle.
That’s not…
There are scratch marks around most door handles. Shaky hands, wear and tear, random chance. If you go and look at your front door, there will be scratches around the handle.
These aren’t like that.
My wife thinks it’s the local kids. Thinks they keyed her car. Thinks they fucked up our door. Thinks they shoved our bins over to make a mess.
She doesn’t think they killed the neighbour’s cat. She blames that on a wild animal.
We got married over the summer - about four months ago now. Happiest day of my life. We went on honeymoon. Nothing crazy, nothing big. Just a little cottage in the hills. Cozy. It had a hot tub, and these big iron gates that separated you from anything else. A small river, and a few dozen semi wild sheep.
We actually had a hell of a time getting there - no signal that far out, so we couldn’t download the instructions on how to get the key and - not important. Sorry, I’m rambling. I haven’t been sleeping well.
We were told there was a dog. Not, like, a pet dog. An old sheep dog who refused to come inside. Long as we left the sheep alone, we were told it would be fine. But we shouldn’t get too close, the last people who rented the place said he looked sick, and we should leave him to his final, peaceful days. A tiny note at the bottom saying to make double sure we closed the gate, because he could sometimes get a little aggressive and it was best to keep him off of the property proper.
The first night was bliss. Married life. Not gonna paint you a picture.
The second, we spent a few hours in the hot tub. It was outside, on a balcony thing, and we could look out over the sheep. They were, you know, doing sheep things. My wife pointed up the hill, to the treeline. We could just about see something pale and skinny in the darkness.
Sure looked like a sick dog.
The third day we needed supplies. And I know for damn sure that I shut that gate. But it was open when we got back. A sheep was in the middle of the driveway, looking around in that… you know, sheep way.
We left it alone, it was pretty wary of us but wouldn’t leave, so we left it alone.
That night the dog came for it.
I wasn’t dreaming.
I wasn’t.
He was mangy, bald all over except thin strands of greasy hair. His legs were wrong. His body was wrong.
THE WAY HE TURNED AND LOOKED AT ME THROUGH THE WINDOW LIkE HE KNEW I WAS WATCHING AND THE WAY HE PUT A FINGER TO HIS LIPS WAS WRONG
I’m not crazy.
I thought it was a nightmare. Too much cheese before bed. Something… you know, normal. I made extra sure I closed the gate that morning though. Just a little thing. And I didn’t tell my wife.
The thing was pretty clear about that, after all.
I wonder, looking back on it, if I should have.
I saw him three times more.
The first was the evening of the fourth day. He was squating in a tree, up the hill, surveying his flock. Just a shadow really, a gangling silhouette.
The second. God. The second time was on the last night. I saw him out the window. Sniffing at the front door. He had a handful of… trash. Long rocks. A few sticks. A can lid, bent in half.
He put each one against the lock and turned it before trying the handle.
Like he’d seen people do with keys.
The third time was as we drove away.
I don’t think we hit the sheep, I really don’t. But he did. I saw it in his eyes.
It’s taken him months to find us.
But now there’s scratches around the door handle, and things missing from our bins, and my wife’s car has a great big scratch down one side, and the neighbours cat was found on our welcome mat, missing it’s face.
I only have one excuse. I haven’t been sleeping well, these last few months.
I forgot about the spare key.