Her body swung gently in the breeze. Though the branch that bore her noose was young, it barely bent under her weight, especially now that her thrashing had subsided. Dark hair shrouded her face and the Good Reverend Paul was glad for it. Months in the village jail house had transformed her from cunning seductress, to a gaunt, emaciated corpse that hung limply in the winter air. Gone were her full, rosy lips, the generous swell of her hips and breasts, and plump, blushing cheeks. But the eyes, they remained the same. Large, wide and unblinking, they had once looked upon the world full of mischief and questions. Over the months, the joy had left them, but the questions remained. Now they were empty, he told himself, they held nothing. No more mocking laughter, no more questions. 

If she had just confessed, he could have saved her. He tried his best, employed every method of persuasion he knew. Still, she refused to repent for her crimes and he’d had no choice. Now she was beyond God’s reach, beyond his reach. 

A frigid gust of wind blew through the sparse crowd gathered at Gallows Hill and a shudder rippled through the small huddle. It swept the hair off her face and revealed, for just a moment, the sunken features of a child. The Reverend flinched.

“Father? Are you alright?” The old farmer Harding reached out a shaking hand to brush his shoulder. 

“I’m fine.” He snapped and swatted his hand away. “I uh, I apologise, Goodman Harding, I just thought…” he trailed away because he could not bring himself to say… she had looked at him. In her gaze, for the briefest of moments, he had seen the little servant girl he had taken in 6 summers ago. He recalled the pink flush of her cheeks when he praised her for minding the sheep well and the wet glistening of love in her eyes. All had been well then, but as the years passed, she had grown. She had changed, he thought bitterly. She had morphed from that innocent little lamb into a minx. She became vain, flaunting her youth and beauty to all the men of the parish and enchanting them with a coy smile. But she reserved a special torture for the Reverend, batting her doe lashes and sending him sultry glances during Mass. How easily she had fooled them all, a wolf in sheep's clothing. 

The wind subsided and the black curtain of her hair fell limply in front of her face again. The moment was gone. A trick of the eye, he thought. No, a trick of the devil. Witch, he thought venomously. She would burn in hell like the whore she was. 

“I’m sorry for your loss, Father,” Goodwife Gibson interrupted his thoughts, “Your wife was such an upstanding woman and I’m sure she is watching this hanging with much satisfaction from Heaven. I never would have thought. A witch! Right under our noses! In the home of our good Reverend no less! What a tragedy, yes yes.” She tut-tutted and shook her graying head solemnly. 

The Reverend prickled with annoyance but kept his expression somber, “Yes, I never thought it could happen here, but the devil works in mysterious ways. We must always be vigilant and disciplined in our pursuit of a godly life.” He was about to excuse himself when Goodwife Gibson leaned in conspiratorially. 

“I heard she was a bastard child, born of a whore from Massachusetts Bay. Filthy, sinful thing.” She spat disdainfully, “I would never let a whoreson into my house, let alone near my children.” 

The Reverend fought to keep his face even, but his jaw clenched against his will. Amongst the crowd, people were turning to watch and listen. “Well-”

“Of course you did it out of the kindness of your heart, Father! How could you have known she would turn out to be such a wicked creature? No no, you did a good, Christian thing by bringing her into your home…” Goodwife Gibson stared contemptuously at the gallows, “But there are simply some things you can’t teach. Chastity, for one-” 

“How right you are, Goodwife Gibson.” The Reverend interrupted smoothly, voice heavy with regret. “Clearly, it was a lapse in judgment. How I wish I’d had your wisdom to guide me. Perhaps, since you seem to know so much about ethics and morality, you’d like to give the sermon during Sunday Mass tomorrow?”

He watched as her wrinkled cheeks went pink with embarrassment, “Oh no, Father, I could never be so bold. Forgive me if I overstepped, I merely wanted to express my condolences.”

“Why of course, Goodwife Gibson, you did not overstep in the slightest.” He flashed her an understanding smile, much to her relief, “Though we must naturally be cautious of others, we must never question God’s plan, or why He may have placed someone in our path. And let us remember, no matter how we may strive to save the souls of the damned, only the elect,” he gestured knowingly at the crowd, the majority of whom had turned to listen, “may join the kingdom of heaven, and receive their just reward.”

   

***

 

The puritanical parish of Bragg Rock was more of a cobbled-together village than a town. At best, it was a small, compact settlement of humble cottages and a meager plot of communal farming land. At worst, it was a miserable gaggle of rickety shacks that perpetually stank of both human and animal waste. Hidden away on the edge of the woods and the known world, the dwellings seemed to huddle together in fear. It lacked beauty and had very little charm, save for the quaint stone Chapel at the center of town. It was a sturdy little thing, with tall, grand oak doors and elegant pews cut from the same wood. It was the Reverend’s great pride and though it was also a community meeting hall, he considered it his, to keep and care for. He had even built his house and barn directly opposite, so he was never more than a few paces away. 

In the late afternoon, the Good Reverend Paul limped briskly past his barn and adjacent Chapel, shooing chickens out of the way as he marched to his door. His knee ached, an old injury from his youth that hindered him still. He was alarmed to find that despite the success of the hanging, he was in a foul mood. This was not aided by his son, Gabriel, who pointedly ignored him upon his arrival to the house. “Come help me with my coat, boy.” He didn’t mean for it to come out so sharply, but struggled to control his rapidly rising temper. 

“Yes sir.” was the monotone response. 

Gabriel helped his father shuck off the heavy garment reluctantly, he stood as far from the Reverend the narrow entryway would allow for. A dense silence descended on the pair of them, filled only by the noises of their feet scuffling in the dirt. Plumes of dust floated up after each footstep, and caught in the cobwebs that were creeping in the corners of the small room. The groan of the chair as the Reverend pulled it out was deafening, and he slumped into it with a grunting sigh. “What have we for supper?” he asked wearily, eyes closed. 

Gabriel busied himself with bowls and a thin grey sludge that bubbled over a weak fire in the hearth, back turned to his father. “Oat porridge and boiled bread from Goodwife Finch.” 

“Again?” the Reverend sat up sharply. For months now, he had eaten only watery, bland meals, and he was growing to dread sitting at his own dining table. 

“I’m sorry, father.” 

Gabriel set their meal down and joined his father at the table without looking at him. He prodded at his porridge sullenly with his spoon. The Reverend stirred the colorless, lumpy mush dispassionately as well, it was a far cry from what he was used to. A few months ago, when the girl was still under his care, they’d eat roasted squash, with freshly baked bread to dip in a rich, flavourful stew. Gabriel was a poor substitute as a cook. His rough, field working hands were clumsy in the kitchen and he was slow to learn new skills. 

“Was there nothing else in the pantry?” the Reverend asked through gritted teeth, eyes narrowed dangerously at his son. 

Gabriel squirmed under his father’s gaze but said nothing. 

“Well?” the Reverend demanded. “Must we continue to eat this slop?” 

There was a long pause, as Gabriel frowned and chewed his lip. Slowly, he said “I do not know how to cook, father.” Then, as if the words were forcing their way out of him, “It is women's work and it is demeaning that I should have to do it. I haven’t the time for these chores when I must also tend to the sheep and the farm, and I cannot continue like this anymore! Things were better when she was here-” 

Gabriel caught himself and abruptly stopped talking. He wrung his hands in his lap and stared at them nervously. The Reverend was suddenly reminded how young his son was. Yes, he had grown into a tall, strapping boy, but he remained naive and simple, just like his mother. Though born of his blood, he shared no talent for theology or leadership. The Reverend fought to conceal the flash of frustration and distaste evoked by this realisation. Before he spoke, he reminded himself that it was only through his strength that Gabriel had been allowed to retain his childlike softness. 

“My son,” the Reverend addressed him in a stern, authoritative voice, “I know the past few months have been hard for you, as they have been for all of us. But you are a strong young man, my pride and joy, and you must find a way to persevere.” He placed a tender hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “Let faith be your strength, let discipline be your foundation. Trust in the power of the Lord and his plan for you. This life is difficult, but we are among the chosen few. Many are not as fortunate…” He studied Gabriel’s face, still finding it twitchy, restless and full of guilt. “Why were you not at the hanging, boy? I was certain I instructed you to attend.”

He watched as Gabriel’s expression twisted even more, lips pursed as he struggled to find the right words. “I did not wish to see it.” he finally said. 

“No? But it would have done you good to see it. At times like this your hubris is evident, you seem to think you know better than your father.” He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re still swayed by her lies and trickery?” 

“No! I-”

“Have you forgotten what she did to your mother? That she tried to seduce you, deceive you? Just as she tried to deceive me! She used her witchcraft to lead you astray, fornication is a very serious sin-”

“Yes father, I know!” Gabriel burst out, ears pink with embarrassment, “We have discussed this many times and I understand!” he took a deep breath, then continued in a grave tone, “I apologise. I meant to say, I know I have given into temptation and let you down in the past but I will not allow myself to stray from the path again. I have confessed my sins before God and I ask for his forgiveness, but it…hurts me to see her like that. I am not strong like you.” Gabriel looked at his father earnestly, “I am committed to God, please believe me father.” 

The Reverend looked into his son’s wide, pleading eyes, how uncomfortably familiar they were. Months ago, in the heat of summer, the Reverend recalled the look on his face when he caught them behind the barn. Guiding his parish through the unforgiving wilderness of the New World was proving more difficult each year. They faced yet another drought, and he was under constant stress. Strangely, he’d taken comfort in her presence. His late wife had been sickly and bitter for months and the loneliness was starting to weigh on him. The girl’s soothing words and gentle caress had made him feel treacherous, dangerous things. She made him think secret, intimate thoughts of her, thoughts he tucked away with a flush staining his cheeks. It was innocent enough, just a kiss, a bubbling giggle, but seeing them together had enraged him. He ripped them apart with a guttural scream of anger, throwing her painfully against the ground. When he wheeled around to face her, he was a storm of fury. How dare she touch him like that after she had been so coy? With his own son no less! Did she seek to make a fool out of him? To corrupt his own kin right under his nose? Betrayal. This was treachery of the highest order. Slut. Bitch. Liar. He was about to strike her when Gabriel threw himself in front of her. He looked up at his father with those desperate, beseeching eyes, and only then had the Reverend been able to reign in his temper. That was the first time he had seen her true character, he thought bitterly, but that was not her first sign of wickedness.

“I believe you, my son. But your sympathy betrays your immaturity. Remember, she was a bastard, sin was in her very making.” he said coldly. “You will go to the gallows on the morrow. It will strengthen your resolve.” 

Gabriel fiddled with his spoon and said nothing, a curt nod was his only response. The Reverend let out a weary sigh and pushed a thin, graying strand of hair off his face. “Everything I do is to protect you and the parish. God chose me to lead, showed me the truth of his word. To be a shepherd on his behalf, to act as the very Hand of God, is a heavy burden. You understand, don’t you?” 

Gabriel nodded again, but stayed silent. 

“Very well. Let us say grace.” 

The pair said a quiet prayer, then forced down their now cold porridge in silence. Gabriel ate very quickly before excusing himself to draw more water. He was almost out the door when he paused, “The ewe gave birth while you were gone. But I don’t think the babe will last the night.” 

Then he was gone, leaving the mighty shepherd hunched and alone at the head of the table. 

 

***

 

The Good Reverend Paul bit back a curse as he withdrew his boot from a particularly wet dollop of manure. His mood had not improved since his meal with his son and now his prize ewe had given birth to a runtish stillborn? He couldn’t fathom how the day could get worse, until he flung open the doors of the barn and laid eyes on the lamb, black as night. Despite what Gabriel said, it was by all accounts a healthy babe, and the Reverend realised with horror that it was sucking greedily from its mother's teat. He could not explain why it distressed him so, but the thing was unnatural. Seeing it gulp so hungrily filled his stomach with a pit of unease. He could see it guzzling the very lifeblood of his ewe. 

Disgust welled up in him, and an anger that he could not place. No one, except himself, could be trusted to do what was necessary. In one swift motion, he grabbed the thing by its neck and wrenched it off the ewe, ignoring her bleat of shock and pain. Holding it by the scruff of its neck, he limped quickly to the chopping block. 

Even touching its wool felt disturbing. Strangely soft and lacking any remnants of after birth, he was flustered by how much he wanted to stroke it. By how little he wanted to let go. 

The Reverend brought his woodchopping axe high above his head. A rush of blood thudded painfully in his ears. Black animals were a mark of the devil and he could not have another blight on his house. Sucking in a deep breath, he steeled himself for the deed. But as he made to bring the blade down, he locked eyes with the lamb. It gazed up at him, eyes large, wide and unblinking. Her soft round pupils glistened unmistakably with tears. The Reverend faltered. His grip on the axe weakened until it slipped from his grasp. It thumped uselessly onto the grass beside the block and he felt a shudder of relief pass over him. The lamb let out a plaintive bleat and he was involuntarily reminded of the girl’s yelp of dismay when they kicked the ladder out from under her feet at the Gallows. All of a sudden, his throat tightened and he felt the ache of tears behind his eyes. Why could she not have been good? 

His grip on the lamb’s neck loosened and he reached out to pet it, wanting to sooth it after its ordeal. But with a flash of teeth, the lamb shot its neck out and nipped the Reverend, hard. He reeled back in surprise, cursing as he tripped over the fallen axe, his bad knee giving out beneath him. His finger stung sharply and when he looked down dark, thick crimson oozed from the gash and down his hand. The cursed thing had actually drawn blood. Fresh anger rose like bile in his neck and his face grew hot. With a cry of rage, he swiped at the lamb with a paw-like fist, but it darted out of the way, surprisingly sure on its legs. 

Rolling over like some great beached walrus, the Reverend groaned in pain as he tried to make it back to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the lamb slip silently back into the barn and to its mother. Suddenly very tired, he found he no longer had the strength to chase it. 

The sun had vanished some time ago and dusk was quickly turning into night. The wind whispered through the trees and the dark shadow of the woods loomed above him. Clutching his smarting finger close to his chest, he started to hobble home. Without his coat, the night air pierced his bones, making him shiver miserably. He was cold. 

 

***

 

As the Good Reverend Paul lay in bed that night, he slept fitfully. His dreams were full of hellfire, demons, and naked, flying women. He had awoken several times in just a few hours, covered in cold sweat, only able to get back to sleep after he recited the Lord's prayer. However, the sixth time he woke it was not from a nightmare, but from the sound of rustling in the kitchen downstairs. The silence throbbed in his ears as he listened for more noise. He sat upright in his bed, tense as a coiled spring. He considered waking Gabriel, so they could investigate together, but dismissed the thought as soon as it arrived. Gabriel’s quiet sobs could still be heard through his door. Once again the responsibility of protecting this family fell on his shoulders. Stepping as quietly as he could with his aching knee, he shuffled cautiously to the top of the stairs. 

The trembling light of a fire in the hearth bathed the bottom of the stairs in a hazy, warm glow. As the Reverend crept further down the stairs, the shuffling he’d heard became the clear sounds of someone tending the fire. Logs popped and crackled pleasantly as they were shifted around and when he strained his ears, the Reverend could hear a woman humming tunefully. He was now low enough on the stairs to see the kitchen, and indeed he saw the hunched form of a young girl kneeling by the fire. Confused and embarrassed at his earlier fear, he lumbered down into the kitchen in a rush of outrage. “Who goes there?” 

The girl rose to her full height and turned to face him. His heart stopped. Even silhouetted against the firelight, she was unmistakable. His Witch. She was still in the white shift she’d been hung in; it was stained badly with dirt and the hem was torn. But in the gentle light of the hearth, her beauty was restored. Her full lips, her ample curves, even the rosy blush of her round cheeks. The Reverend stood spellbound. He noticed that she seemed to flicker with the fire, as if she  would slip from between his fingers like a shadow. But when she met his gaze, her eyes had come alight with recognition and joy. Now she stared at him, unblinkingly, soft round pupils full of a tenderness that could only be love. “Father…” She started. 

At her words the Reverend snapped out of his trance. “What devilry is this?” he staggered backward, voice quivering like a child. 

“Father, I've missed you.” she continued, her hands hovered in front of her in a placating gesture as she stepped forward tentatively. The Reverend stumbled as he backed into the wall. His breaths came shallow and fast as his lungs struggled to keep up with the rapid palpitations of his heart. 

“Please don’t be afraid of me.” she pleaded sweetly. She was right in front of him now, so close he could smell the sweet perfume of her skin. “I’ve come to beg for your forgiveness Father,” slowly, she lowered herself to her knees in front of him. 

“Witch! Thi–This is a sorcerer's trick.” He gasped, without conviction. 

“Please Father,” she looked up at him, doe eyed and innocent. She clasped one of his shaking, arthritic hands with both of hers and brought it reverently to her lips. They were soft and wet. He could scarcely help himself as he cupped her cheek and she leaned into his palm, eyes closed in rapture. “I’ve come to repent. I was wrong and now I see that.” 

“How can this be?” He murmured. 

“I’ve been sent back to make amends. To give myself completely and fully to God. I should never have scorned you. I love you, and I’m sorry. Please forgive me Father, please grace me with your warmth and love once more.” she beseeched him. 

He stroked her face, watching the flutter of her lashes hungrily. She looked real, certainly felt real. “You have sinned greatly, my child. Words… may not be enough to atone.” His tone was an attempt at sternness, but the breathlessness of his speech gave him away. 

“Tell me what I must do,” she purred, “I submit to you, Father. Body and soul.”

“Rise now, my child.” her wide, glistening eyes stared up at him as she stood. “Let me look upon you,” he whispered, “to discern your sincerity.” 

His head reeled from her the sweetness of her scent and he leaned in for more. Her head lolled to the side and a delicate hand swept lucious, dark hair aside as she presented her neck. Before he could stop himself, he was burying his weather worn face into the crook of her nape. He drew great lungfuls of her delectable scent, as if dragging from the headiest of opium pipes. 

It was overpowering and yet… he found it was not enough. Something nectary lay just beneath her satin-smooth skin. Something delicious that he was increasingly desperate to taste. His tongue darted out of his mouth and left a slimy mark on her otherwise untainted shoulder. She let out a gasp and he did it again. This time, he let his tongue slide further up her neck, leaving a viscous trail of spit. She squirmed weakly in his grasp, but he’d wrapped his arms tightly around her waist and she had nowhere to go. “Be still.” he said, words muffled by her flesh. 

As he spoke, he felt her peach fuzz skin twitch and quiver beneath his thin lips. A shudder of pleasure coursed through his body as her tender flesh brushed against his teeth. His jaw clicked impatiently, his teeth itched, and at the back of his throat an unquenchable thirst was prickling. It was becoming unbearable. He could hardly think. In the fog of desire, he became vaguely aware that he was slobbering, nibbling and sucking painfully on her neck and shoulder. The realisation passed through his mind and out of it like a cloud passing across the sun. Distantly, he heard her voice, “you seem hungry, Father.” He nodded emphatically, fists tightening their grip on her shift. “If you are hungry you should eat. Take a bite, Father. It will be the sweetest thing you’ve ever tasted.”

Why should he deny himself? Just one bite. Just one mouthful of that honeyed ambrosia. His teeth split straight through her skin and he sunk them greedily around a hunk of her flesh. She let out a breathy moan, eyes closed, head thrown back, bosom heaving, and it was unclear if she was in great pain or great ecstasy. 

The moment her blood hit the back of his throat, all other thoughts left him. It was hot, saccharine and rich. He fell upon the open wound of her neck like a starving dog. He slurped and suckled up her blood, ripped more chunks of meat off her body with his jaggard teeth and didn’t bother to chew before he gulped them down. 

Still, it was not enough. His hunger, his thirst, his desire, roared like wildfire behind his ears. They ached and burnt in his throat. Each mouthful of throbbing tissue only offered a temporary salve, for after each swallow, the burning, bottomless hunger returned even worse than before. He was ravenous, rabid, wild. He gnawed through tendons and sucked sinew out of his teeth. He didn’t register the limpness of her body or the lifelessness of her eyes. He was too busy chewing on her lips. His piggish, greedy fingers scooped her perfect eyes right out of their perfect eye sockets. They popped with a burst of juice when his molars bit down on them and he slurped up the trailing optic nerve for good measure. Frenzy clouded his mind. More. More. More! More! 

For the first time in his life, the Reverend feasted with unrestrained indulgence. How long had he restricted himself to a life without butter? Why? What for? The answers to these questions seemed a million miles away. So did the kitchen. The walls of the small room warped and flickered with the firelight. Far less solid than the meat in front of him. 

A dark red froth was leaking out the corners of his mouth, oozing slowly down his stained chin. It pooled and stuck in the wrinkled folds of his neck. Her clavicle, neck and face had been stripped to the bone, where only small, stubborn flecks of pink flesh remained. He needed to get to the flesh that lay beneath the barrier of her ribcage. He needed to get his hands into her guts, to see them wriggle and writhe whilst he plunged his head into the cavity of her body to chase them. He jammed his hands under her ribs to pry them apart, but instead of smooth skin, they brushed against what was unmistakably fur. Matted with liquid, but soft and wooly nonetheless. 

He looked down. Really looked, for the first time in what felt like several hours. He did not see the half eaten remains of a girl. Instead, he was elbow deep in the guts of the lamb. Its dark, furry belly had been ripped open and he knelt in front of it, arms, shirt front and lap soaked in a black ooze. There was something thick and foul in the Reverend’s mouth, coating his tongue and throat. He wretched. The scent of shit and blood was overpowering. Alarmingly, it seemed to emanate strongest from his own mouth. His gut was swollen painfully, taut like a pregnant belly. He gagged again. The contents of his stomach surged up his esophagus but stopped short, and he was forced to swallow. 

Where was he? Almost everything was dark, except for a dim sliver of light from under a large door. Beneath his aching knees, the ground was cold, rough stone. The Church. Around his forearms, the intestines of the lamb jerked. Its insides were warm and slick. But when he tried to pull his arms out, they stuck fast. The lamb’s belly lurched with the motion, but it remained stuck to the ground. He pulled harder, feet scrambling on the smooth stone floor. But the harder he pulled, the tighter the innards coiled around his wrists. He screamed, he cried, he beat the inside of the lamb’s body with his fists. Nothing worked. Eventually, he collapsed in defeat, weeping hysterically into its soft black wool. 

“What’s wrong, Father? Not hungry anymore?” A deep, rich voice chuckled next to his head. 

The Reverend bolted upright. “Who are you?” he demanded, “What is this?”

To his utter dismay, the lamb raised its little head and turned toward him, “Must we always play this game? You know who I am.” 

“The Devil…” he breathed, “this is her doing! She brought you here!”

“Ha!” The lamb let out a barking laugh, “let me tell you a secret, Good Reverend. She was not one of mine.” 

“No…”

“She did not bring me here. You did.” 

“You’re a liar!” 

“She was too young for my tastes” The lamb mused, “I mean, she was only 13 summers old, no? She had barely been bleeding a year.” It looked wryly at the Reverend, “I prefer them a little more… jaded, myself.” 

“I-I rebuke you!” 

“After all our time together? I’m wounded.” the low timbre of its voice turned patronisingly hurt. 

The Reverend bowed his head to pray, what else could he do? “Our Fa-F, Ou-O-” 

But the words did not come. The gunk in his mouth turned gluey and thick. His tongue felt too fat to make articulate noises, and he heard himself grunting and sputtering in place of speech. And, no matter how hard he tried, he could not recall the lord’s prayer. Words he had uttered a million times now slipped and slithered around, refusing to stay in place. 

“What’s wrong Father? Goat got your tongue?” The lamb cackled maliciously. 

A broken sob escaped from the Reverend. “Why? What do you want from me?”

“To congratulate you, of course.” The lamb thing grinned, “You’ve been a very bad boy. You’re vain, prideful, jealous and greedy. All winning traits where we’re going.” 

“No, no no no no.” he bowed his head and shrunk into himself, “I am a servant of the Lord. I will not be swayed.”

“Don’t kid yourself. You tortured and murdered an innocent girl because she… what? Rejected you? Found you too old, too repulsive to spread her legs for?”

“She killed my wife!” the Reverend protested.

“Your wife was sick. She died of infection, and you were happy to see her go.” the lamb thing smirked, “You prayed for her death so you could fuck that girl without commiting adultery.”

“No! She was a witch!” the Reverend wailed. 

“Don’t. Lie.” 

“She deceived me! She made a fool of me! It was I who saw her evil for what it was. It was I who rooted her out from my own house and bore her wickedness to the damning light of God!” He was shouting, full of fervor. “I am the lone savior of this town! Only I can do this because only I know the truth of God’s will! They chased me out of England because they refused to acknowledge that God chose me! It is I who will lead this flock to the kingdom of heaven and I alone who will stand at His side! I. Am. The Hand of God!” 

The Reverend’s breaths heaved as a trail of red spittle dribbled onto his tunic.

“So, I take it you don’t repent?” The lamb thing asked, in a lazy, unhurried way. 

“Of course not! She was a filthy bastard and damned from the start.”

The lamb thing smiled wide. It showed off two rows of tiny, perfect teeth. “Have it your way, Good Reverend Paul. I’ll see you when I see you.”

With that, the lamb’s head went limp and the tall, grand church doors were flung open with a bang. In flooded the cold, bright light of morning, blinding the Reverend. 

And his beloved flock, gathered for Sunday Mass in front of the Chapel, turned at the noise to face their shepherd in all his glory.