The Porcelain Lamb

The first thing I noticed when we stepped into the Blue Heron Inn was the smell of old wood and cinnamon, a deceptive comfort that clung to the heavy velvet curtains and the creaking floorboards. It was October 15th, 2013, and my husband, Daniel, and I had booked the honeymoon suite, eager for a weekend away from the city. The innkeeper, a wispy woman named Mrs. Albright, handed us a skeleton key with a knowing smile. ‘Room 7,’ she said, her eyes lingering on us a moment too long. ‘Quiet floor. You’ll have the attic to yourselves.’

We climbed the narrow stairs, the wallpaper peeling in floral patterns that seemed to shift in the gaslight sconces. Our room was at the end of a hall lined with doors, each with a brass plate that looked like a child’s toy. Daniel unlocked the door, and we entered a space that was charmingly old-fashioned, with a four-poster bed and a dusty chifforobe. On the nightstand sat a small porcelain lamb, its paint chipped, one ear missing. ‘How adorable,’ I said, picking it up. Daniel laughed. ‘Probably worth a fortune.’ I set it back, and we began to unpack.

That evening, as I was adjusting the curtains, I heard a faint clatter behind me. I turned to see the porcelain lamb had moved from the nightstand to the center of the bed. Daniel was in the bathroom, humming. ‘Did you move this?’ I called. He poked his head out, shaking his head. I shrugged, placing it back. But an hour later, as we were about to leave for dinner, I found the lamb on the floor, its head turned toward the fireplace, where the embers had died.

We left it and went to the dining room downstairs. The inn served a fixed menu, and we were seated with a taciturn couple who spoke in whispers. Over watery soup, the wife leaned in. ‘You’re in Room 7,’ she said. ‘That was the nursery.’ I felt a chill. ‘Nursery?’ Daniel asked. ‘The owner’s daughter, Amelia. She died in there, oh, sixty years ago. She used to collect those little ceramic animals. They say she never liked them moved.’ The husband shot her a look, and she fell silent.

That night, we lay in bed, the wind rattling the windows. I woke to a soft ticking sound, like a clock, but too fast. I saw a faint glimmer on the dresser: a row of porcelain animals had appeared, a rabbit, a cow, a duck, and the lamb, all aligned as if on parade. I shook Daniel, but he groaned and rolled over. I got up, my heart pounding. As I reached for the lamb, the light from the gas lamp flickered, and I felt a cold breath on my neck. I spun around; the room was empty. But when I looked back, the lamb was now on the floor, its broken ear pointed toward the window.

The next morning, I tried to laugh it off. Daniel suggested we were exhausted. But as I dressed, I noticed my makeup bag was open on the floor, its contents strewn out. ‘Daniel, did you—’ He was already in the hall, pulling on his coat. We didn’t speak of it.

The following night was worse. We returned from a walk to find the bedclothes torn aside, and on the pillow lay a porcelain cow, on its side, a leg missing. I screamed. Daniel held me, but his hands were trembling. ‘We should leave,’ he said. But a part of me was drawn to it, to the tiny collection that seemed to grow each night.

On our third night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat in the armchair, watching the window. At three in the morning, the lamb moved. It slid across the nightstand and hovered in the air, then dropped to the rug with a dull thud. The other animals followed, one by one, until a line of them marched toward the chifforobe. I followed, my bare feet cold on the floor. I pulled open the chifforobe door, and there, on the top shelf, was a child’s shoe, so old it crumbled at my touch. Behind it, a faded photograph of a girl with braids, holding the very lamb. Her eyes were scratched out.

I don’t remember much after that. Daniel found me curled on the floor, whispering apology after apology. Mrs. Albright drove us to the station, her face impassive. As we boarded the train, I saw, in my peripheral vision, a small figure standing at the inn’s gate, clutching a porcelain lamb. When I turned to look, it was gone.

We never returned to the Blue Heron Inn. But sometimes, in our apartment, I find the exact same lamb on our nightstand. No matter how many times I throw it away, it comes back, its head always turned to face me. Last night, I woke to see it standing on the chair, watching me, its one good ear almost accusing. I don’t know what it wants, or if it will ever stop. But I know that some toys are not meant to be played with.