“Every morning, my grandfather counted the sheep before sunrise.
‘Ninety-nine,’ he would whisper.
Always ninety-nine.
Never one hundred.
When I was little, I thought he was just old and forgetful.
But one winter night, I finally asked him why he kept recounting them over and over again.
He froze.
Then he looked toward the dark forest behind our farm and said something I still can’t forget:
‘Because one of them isn’t a sheep.’
I laughed at first.
Until the dogs started screaming.
Not barking.
Screaming.
Grandfather grabbed his rifle so fast the chair crashed behind him.
Then he looked at me with pure terror in his eyes and whispered:
‘Tonight… it finally came back.’
The next morning, there were only ninety-eight sheep left.
And bloody human footprints in the snow…”
[Part 2 link in comments]
“The shepherd noticed one sheep always staring at the forest instead of eating.
Every night, it stood near the fence completely still.
Then one morning, he counted the flock.
Thirty-six.
But he only owned thirty-five sheep.
He checked again.
Thirty-six.
That night, he took a lantern outside and walked slowly through the flock.
The sheep stayed silent as he passed.
Until one of them smiled at him.
The next morning, the shepherd was gone.
But the flock had grown to thirty-seven.”
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