The night Watcher

The Night Watcher

The wind howled through the trees, sending branches scraping and clawing at the thatched roof of the Thornfield farmhouse. Rain lashed against the shuttered windows, and thunder rumbled in the distance, deep and low like some great beast stirring in its sleep. Inside, the family huddled close, wrapped in blankets near the hearth, where the fire stubbornly refused to burn as bright as it should.

“It’s that damned damp again,” Osric muttered, tossing another log into the sullen, low-burning flames. He rubbed his hands together, trying to banish the chill that clung to the air. “Feels like the storm’s sneaking in through the cracks.”

“Could be worse,” Anwen, his daughter, said, forcing a half-smile as she wrapped a blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Could be stuck outside chasing after Tomlin.” Their loyal sheepdog lay curled by the fire, ears twitching in uneasy sleep.

Helga, Osric’s wife, let out a soft chuckle, though the tension never quite left her face. “That beast is smarter than you give him credit for. Probably found a warm spot in the barn while we sit here freezing.”

A sharp gust rattled the shutters.

They fell silent for a moment, listening to the roar of the storm.

Then—snap.

A twig.

Breaking.

Right outside.

The laughter that had been threatening to surface died in an instant.

Osric’s jaw tensed. “Loose branch,” he muttered.

Helga nodded too quickly. “Or the wind knocking something over.”

Anwen swallowed and forced a smirk, trying to keep the mood light. “Could be the spirits of the old shepherds, checking on their flock.”

The moment stretched.

And then—caw!

All three of them jumped as a crow’s harsh cry cut through the storm. Looking up, they saw the dark feathered shape of the bird huddled in the high beams of the roof, staring down at them with beady black eyes.

“Well, there’s your ghost,” Helga said, but her voice was tight.

Osric exhaled through his nose and leaned back, shaking his head. “Just nerves. We’re all jumpy as rabbits tonight.”

Scrape.

The sound was slow, deliberate—a rasping drag along the outer timber wall.

A claw.

Or something worse.

The fire dimmed further, barely more than a smoldering glow now.

Tomlin whined, his ears flat against his skull.

No one spoke.

The wind picked up again, and the sound was swallowed in the storm.

For a long time, they sat in silence, clutching their blankets, listening—to the wind, the rain, the faint crackle of a fire that refused to grow.

Eventually, fatigue won over fear. One by one, they drifted into uneasy sleep, the storm carrying on outside, the crow tucked into the rafters as though it too sought shelter from something unseen.

---

Morning

The storm had passed, leaving the air crisp and damp. Mist curled low over the fields as the sun cautiously crept over the horizon.

Osric stepped outside first, stretching stiff limbs and muttering about aching bones. He turned toward the barn, expecting to check on the sheep—

And stopped dead.

Helga and Anwen nearly walked into him before following his frozen gaze.

There, half-hidden in the tall grass, lay the carcass of a sheep—its throat torn open, the body half-eaten.

The ground was disturbed, as if something large had moved through the mud, heavy and deliberate.

But it was the house—the wall—that made Helga gasp and Anwen’s blood run cold.

A long, jagged mark stretched across the outer timber. A claw mark—deep, gouging, unmistakable.

A mark that hadn’t been there the night before.

Osric stared at it for a long time, his jaw set, his face pale.

Then he muttered, too low for the others to hear—

“Not just the storm after all.”