Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

They came at dusk, always in silence, always in a line.

The people of Graypast Hollow had long accepted the rules: no lanterns after sunset, no loud voices on the third night of the new moon, and never—never—look directly at the herd.

Malric Bane didn't believe in rules. A traveler, ex-soldier, and fool in equal measure, he thought the village superstitions were cowardice disguised as wisdom. So, when the mayor warned him of the Hollow-Eyed Herd, he laughed and said, "Ghost cows? Really?"

The old man didn't smile. "They are not cattle. They are penance in motion."

That night, the wind died.

Malric sat outside the inn, pipe lit, eyes scanning the treeline for anything worth fearing.

He heard them before he saw them: soft footfalls, too many to count. A rhythmic cadence, like a funeral drum muffled beneath layers of earth.

Then they appeared—emerging from the mist that always clung to the edge of Graypast Hollow.

Dozens of shapes. Hoofed. Skeletal. Shaped like oxen or elk, but taller, more twisted. Their skin was gray and pulled taut over bones. Their eyes were gaping holes—black voids that drank in light and sound. And yet, they moved in perfect unity, a single breath of silence passing through the night.

Malric stood to get a better look.

That was his mistake.

One of the beasts turned its head.

And though it had no eyes, it saw him.

A low moan rippled through the herd—not a cry of pain, but of recognition.

Then it broke formation and walked straight toward him.

The others followed.

Malric ran.

But no matter how fast he moved through the village, no matter how many alleyways he slipped through or doors he slammed behind him, they were always there—hoofsteps behind every turn, hollow eyes burning into his back.

He collapsed at the chapel steps, breath ragged.

That's when the mayor found him.

"I warned you," he said, sadness in his voice. "They are drawn to guilt."

"I've done nothing!" Malric gasped.

"Not here," the mayor replied. "But somewhere. You carry a sin that hasn't been answered."

The lead beast stepped forward. In the cavern of its face, something shimmered—a memory. A village burned. A child screaming. Malric's hand, holding a torch.

He wept. "I didn't know anyone was inside…"

The creature lowered its head.

And gently touched his chest with its antler.

The herd turned.

And vanished into the fog.

By morning, Malric remained—aged, hollow-eyed, and unable to speak.

He still walks the edges of Graypast Hollow.

Watching.

Waiting.

And when travelers come laughing at old tales, he points to the woods and trembles.

Because the herd still walks.

And they always return for the next one who sins.

There are no innocents in the path of the Hollow-Eyed.

Only those who haven't been found.