Shhhh. Listen.
Can you hear them?
They're down there. They're always down there. Nights like this, I can hear their hooves scraping against the underside of the foundation.
Are they a science experiment gone horribly wrong, the results left to run wild? Are they the loathsome spawn of some obscene elder god? I don't know, but they're down there. Underneath the house. Moving in their herds through the darkness.
We used to think the house kept shifting because of the soil. Warming and cooling, damp or dry, it expanded or contracted and caused the house to tilt and settle. But it's not the soil. It never was.
It's what's in the soil.
It's them.
They're down there. The blind, burrowing sheep of the apocalypse. There is no escaping them.
Listen.
Can you hear them?
(Pardon that. Sick child. Late night. Punch-drunk parents. Delusions of livestock. Surely that muffled baaaa-ing is only an auditory hallucination, brought on by lack of sleep. Surely...)
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