The Sheeper

Ironforge (formerly Pittsburgh), Kingdom Of Pennsylvania

October 29^th, 2179 (167 A.E.)

In a dimly lit room, an old woman in rags sat on a worn wooden chair, encircled by a group of wide-eyed children. Their eager faces glowed with the flickering light, rapt with attention as the elder spun her tales of yore. Each word she uttered seemed to carry the weight of forgotten wisdom, her voice weaving lessons into the fabric of every ancient fable.

Today, her story drifted to the realm of the ancient Egyptians, a civilization shrouded in both mystery and grandeur. She spoke of their gods, their pharaohs, and the golden age of power and prosperity that once flourished beside the Nile. The children listened, spellbound, as she described the grandeur of pyramids piercing the skies and the legacy etched into the sands of time—remnants of a world that once was but could never be again.

Andrew Fairman stood at the back of the room, arms crossed, his thoughts wandering. Once a teacher, he now observed the old tale-teller with detached familiarity. He knew every story she shared—tales of the Romans, Greeks, Saxons, and Egyptians. To him, these ancient peoples were long dead, their legacies reduced to dust and irrelevance. For a man born in the New World, far removed from the lost lands of Europe and Africa, their histories felt distant and hollow.

He admired the old woman’s dedication to the past and the remarkable memory she must possess to recall every detail of those long-lost worlds. He, on the other hand, didn’t need to remember much. Hearing the tales every day, he knew they would repeat again tomorrow. Glancing at his watch, he watched the hands tick slowly toward the fourteenth hour, the end of his shift, when he could finally return home to his wife and son.

Half an hour more, and he could finally relax—unless the garden needed tending or his son needed teaching. Perhaps those tasks would be swift, allowing him to unwind with a beer in hand, listening to his wife’s cheerful ramblings. Then, as night blanketed the land in oppressive darkness, the candles would flicker out, and sleep would envelop him. In the realm of dreams, he would find solace, reliving his youth and reviving old memories. No finer enjoyment did he seek than the restful slumber that renewed his soul for the day ahead.

One day drifted into the next, each hour edging him closer to his restful grave. His days were filled with the old woman’s tales and the gentle chatter of his dear wife. Perhaps the tending of his harvest offered a sliver of joy, a laborious distraction from the void of existence. If a man could escape forever, would he not choose to embrace the nothingness, to avoid the relentless suffering of boredom?

The old woman’s tale of Egypt was drawing to a close, her voice softening as she neared the end. Andrew anticipated the children’s restless movement as they would soon rise to their feet and return to their lessons, their whispers filled with amazement at the stories they had heard. But as the old woman finished, a smile spread across her face, and she announced a new tale—one of mystery and horror, a mythical legend from the dense forests of Pennsylvania.

She became suddenly sullen as she spoke of a creature that terrorized the isolated farmers and ranchers, living as their Amish ancestors once did. Now, it seemed, everyone lived in the old ways. With little to no power, life was once again reliant on nature and the strength of men. Oxen plowed the fields, and men harvested the crops. The long-forgotten tractors—those great machines that once gathered vast harvests—were relics of the past, making man and beast indispensable once more. Now, every farmer was both reliable and exhausted.

The old woman described in vivid detail a monstrous creature that lurked in the darkest caves, dwelling among bats and giant rats. This abomination, she said, was the creation of men steeped in ancient, dark magic. A grotesque fusion of sheep and wolf, it was a hideous being, covered in matted, filthy hair. Its sharp, yellow teeth could tear into the flesh of both men and beasts. Stronger than any ordinary wolf in the forest, it was a terror even to nature itself.

The children's expressions grew cautious as the tale darkened, their wide eyes reflecting a growing fear. Some whispered in terror, already imagining the nightmares this ferocious monster would bring. The creature that preyed on nature itself began to intertwine with their imaginations, feeding their fear of the unknown.

The old woman seemed indifferent to their mounting dread as she continued, detailing the Sheeper’s atrocities against the helpless farmers of Pennsylvania. This monstrous figure, disguised as something so innocent, left no one alive.

“Every night, it leaves the dark cave it calls home,” she recounted, her voice low and ominous. “It prowls for the weakest of men, devouring their flesh and souls in ways unknown to nature.” She raised a candlestick to her face, the flickering flame casting eerie shadows across her features. A twisted smile curled her lips. “It particularly delights in the flesh of children. The Sheeper keeps the farmers’ children cowering in their beds, dreading the fall of night.”

That did it. The children, now terrified and panicked, let their imaginations run wild with the horrifying images conjured by the tale. Some began to cry, while others tried to hide, truly believing in the monstrous horror lurking in the woods of Pennsylvania.

"But, my sweet children, it's all just a legend," the old woman said gently, extending her hands to calm the frightened group. "Mythical, like the gods of Egypt or the tales of Ketos in the Italian seas." Her voice softened, offering reassurance. "There is no Sheeper, only the darkness of night, which holds its own dangers, but none as ferocious as the Sheeper."

A teacher, clad in rough, ragged clothing, walked into the room, her face etched with stress and weariness. She snapped her fingers, commanding the attention of the children, who looked up in surprise at their guardian. In a tone that betrayed her impatience and the monotony of her routine, she announced it was time to return to class and finish their day. Andrew observed her, recognizing the exhaustion in her demeanor. He did not envy her task of managing the youth; it was a tiring job, one he was grateful not to bear.

The schoolchildren lined up in a somewhat orderly fashion, their restless bodies shifting as the teacher counted them. Andrew watched as the students filed out of the room in the old house, guided by their teacher, one step after another. Once they had left, he walked over to the old lady. With a quiet sigh, he sat down next to her at the table adorned with flickering candles.

"Another good day, hmm, dearie?" the old woman said, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a match. She took a drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke. "I think they enjoyed the stories of Egypt. I know I enjoy telling them."

"What was with the last story? You nearly scared the wits out of the kids," Andrew said, pulling out his small pipe. He packed it with tobacco and lit it with his pre-event lighter, its metal plating engraved with an eagle.

"A wise old tale from my village. I lost my sister to the Sheeper. She was only six years old," the old woman said.

"I thought you said the Sheeper was mythical."

"It’s a metaphor for the darkness and unrelenting ferocity in the woods. The fierceness of mankind when he's in the dark," she replied, taking another drag.

"I lost my daughter to the woods. A long time ago, in a different life," Andrew said, puffing on his pipe. "She was three, snuck out while my ex-wife and I were working in the garden. Just a moment of distraction, and we lost her."

"I'm sorry, Andrew. What was her name?" the old woman asked gently.

"Angie Maria. The light of our lives. We never found her, so we buried an empty coffin," Andrew said, puffing away, holding back the flood of memories.

"The Sheeper isn’t real, but the pain it causes is as real as the sun. The world it represents, the darkness of the forest, is real and dangerous," she said, twirling the cigarette between her fingers.

"At least today we get off earlier. The kids are gone, and I’m heading home to tend to my garden," Andrew said, smothering the tobacco in his pipe. "I’ll see you tomorrow, Margaret."

"Yes, keep an eye out for the darkness, Andrew," she warned as he stood up. "I remember a time when people were less afraid of the dark and of men. Now, it seems the world is growing darker. I'm old, and I'm glad to be near the end. I don’t want to imagine the world in due time. The Sheeper may become bolder."

With that, Andrew left and began his journey home. He remembered better times but chose to lock them away in his memories, knowing the world cares not for betterment, only for the harsh reality of the moment—hardship or not.