Dinner for two

Author's note: This story contains disturbing themes.

“There is no Goatman, Peter.”

“But I saw it!” 

“Oh, what have I told you about trying to start a fright? Now please eat your supper. I will hear no more of this nonsense.” 

Peter’s freckled nose scrunched up at the smell of the porridge. The smell itself was rather bland and faint. Similar to smelling a field of corn about a few blocks away. It had been porridge for weeks now. Bland grits and spotted water from the well. Black particles floated to the top of the yellowish water and slowly drifted down like it was pushing through goo. 

The winter had frosted the outside wood of the cabin over, causing it to groan, like an old ghost, with each crash of the wind. The cabin itself was two bedrooms, with Peter’s bed resting up top a loft, no bathroom, and one dining area with a vaulted ceiling. A large black cauldron hung over the fire pit, it was boiling. Adjacent to the fireplace was a rotting wooden cabinet with a white pitcher resting on top. The pitcher, though with paint chipping in various places, had a rose watercolor design on it. 

The window rattled, and a breeze of cold air scratched him. It had crawled in from a crack in the window. Rosemary paced a bit towards the window and leaned some of her body weight on the wall. 

“Go fetch me wood for tonight's fire.”

Peter grumbled and looked out the window of the cabin. The crack stretched across it like limbs on a tree. The winter stripped the world of all life, revealing the skeletal frame of the old oak. The tree where his father had hung himself... Had he known of the cruel world he would be born into, it painfully occurred to him, he would have clawed his way straight back into his mother’s womb and nested himself there like a baby bird avoiding the world. 

Rosemary placed her pale, boney hand on his face and caressed it slightly. Forcing him to look at her face once more. Her cheekbones were gaunt, her lips slightly chapped and cracked with a canker sore resting on her bottom rim. 

“I know you don’t want to, dear… but now that your father is gone and with the little one on the way... I need all the help I can get.”

Peter closed his eyes and let out a heavy puff of hot air. Why did he have to do everything? It wasn’t like it was his fault that Father died. 

“Peter?” 

“Yes, Mother…” 

“Drifting off, love?”

“I’ll fetch the water, Mum.” 

“I told you to fetch firewood.”

Pale cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he nodded his head.

“Yes, Mother…” 

Swiftly and reluctantly he buttoned up his brown vest, a few buttons were missing and dawned on his plaid designed black hat. Draping an ulster coat over his shoulders, a gift from his father, he let out a heavy breath of scattered air. Wrapping his tiny fingers around the railroad loop of his lantern and the ax which had been hanging on the wall. He ventured into the blistering unknown of the frost. Partially, he was thankful for his rough stroke of being sent out into winter. It was a shut-up of the old church-bell. Though, he would never admit it out loud and even became blushed from distress at the thought. 

His lantern barely shined through the white abyss as snow scattered around him. 

The frosty air bit his cheeks and nose until they turned a rosy pink. 

He shivered as he tried to pull the ulster coat slightly more around him. 

A stump of wood lay in the center with a circular log rack strapped to the side of the cabin. Stacks of logs lay on top of each other, pulled together by rope. The snow stayed bundled up in small scrunches in various corners where spiders, normally, would have resided. He placed the lantern in a compact bundle of snow next to the stump and a small log ready for chopping. 

Taking a deep breath, he pulled his legs slightly apart and brought the ax down over his head. The fibers of the wood quickly pulled apart as the log was split into two. He looked back at the barren Oaktree. Its branches twisted like broken fingers. Its bark sturdy and bulging out from the cold ground of its birth. It truly was a conquered beast. The branches rattled in the wind, and an icy breath of air licked his shoulder. 

Crunch.

He froze in his spot, ax still in hand.

Crunch.

He looked to his left.

Nothing but just fields of dead trees.

Crunch.

He looked to his right.

Just the log rack.

Crunch. 

There were footsteps.

Crunch.

And they were getting closer to him.

Crunch Crunch. 

It stopped.

He took in a shaky breath and looked down...

Imprinted in the snow were hoove marks leading directly to him. 

The ax fell from his loose fingers and his breath quivered.

His pond muddy eyes widened and breath billowed out from his parted lips. 

Crunch.

Two glowing eyes stared at him from beyond the foggy winter. Glowing like two beacons beckoning him forth. Entranced by the light like a moth to a flame, Peter stood frozen in time. 

Violently he came to and took off running. Bursting through the cabin door, he nearly melted to the floor, drenched with sweat and gasping for breath.

“Peter!” His mother swept down to his level and cradled him in his arms.

“What happened to you, love?” 

“Did you see a wolf?”

He fell silent while taking in a few extra gasps. Staring up at her, he clung to her like a baby bird that had just fallen out of the nest.

“I saw him…”

“Who?” 

He paused for a moment. 

“The Goatman.”

She sighed and shook her head. 

“Peter, you had me sick like a dog. You should know better than to fib.”

“But I’m not fibbing! Just look outside!”

She rolled her eyes slightly before shaking her head once more. 

“If I check, will you stop bringing up this ridiculous nonsense?” 

He looked up at her. His voice had fallen silent. Even if she didn’t see it… He knew the Goatman was out there. He had to be out there. 

Heaving a heavy breath, her bosom shivered. 

She had known him to fib often. Such as when he said a wolf had raided the chickens or when he pretended to be sick with scarlet to free himself from farm labors with his Father. Yet even still, there was a lingering suspicion that perhaps this was more than the average fib. The likely rejoinder for this is he had been putting butter onto bacon and was basking in the extravagance of his unbelievable fib. Or…. 

 “I’ll go check.” 

Turning her figure away from Peter, she moved the oil lantern from side to side, using the light to navigate the empty plot of forest. 

“I see nothing but the winter fog.”

“But what about the hoof marks!”

The lantern shook a bit similar to a church bell being rung. Frosted air escaped her parted lips. 

“Peter… those are just snow prints from the rabbits.” 

“Didn’t your father ever teach you what rabbit prints look like?” 

Peter cast his head down and looked at the prints once more. They were indeed just rabbit prints. Had his fears caused him to see them as something entirely different? No… He had seen rabbit prints all his life. He knew what he saw.

Rosemary closed the door to the cabin and let her gaze roll down to the floor as she wiped her damp fingers on her apron.

“Come on, love. I think you need some rest.” 

She rested her droopy fingers on the nape of his neck and carried him away to his bedroom with one swoop, like a mother hen. 

The deer skull mounted on the wall watched over his bed. Its antlers twisted and mangled in various places similar to the branches of the old Oaktree. Soulless empty eyes staring on as his forest guardian. What had made him different from the wolves? Hesitantly, he drifted off into a soundless sleep. His eyes, laying behind a tarp of orange curly hair, fluttered closed and his breath became slower. 

His mother walked over to his bed and leaned over him. Her delicate frame barely gliding off the mattress. Having the same lightness and tenderness as a lone ghost. She pulled the blanket over his chest and placed a hand on his cheek, caressing it. “Goodnight, my love.” She kissed his forehead gently as she brushed back some of his curly hair. Tears fluttered down her cheeks as she pulled the pillow from under his head before firmly pressing it over his face while she rested her entire body weight on his chest. He violently tugged at the pillow, which was bearing down upon his face. 

“Mmmppphhh!” 

Roughly trying to take in gasps, he began to hyperventilate and his breaths became shorter with each passing second. That’s when he felt it.   

Hooves bearing down on his ankles and wrists, pressing into his tender flesh. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He could only stare on with a pit of dread forming in his stomach at the horror show that was before him. All he could see was darkness. Awaking with a scream, he pushed the blankets off of himself and held himself while rocking back and forth. He had been having this dream for weeks now. His tired eyes rolled close and then open while he took in deep breaths. Rosemary raced up the stairs to the loft and stood at the foot of his bed. 

“Peter? What’s wrong?”

“I keep seeing him, Mum.” Tears formed down his round freckled cheeks. He clung to her and buried his small head into her apron. 

“Just please— make it stop.”

She raised up his head and looked into his pond blue eyes. They were wide open and his white cracked lips slightly ajar. His pupils were tiny and his breath frantic and unruly. Heaving out a deep breath, her eyebrows tipped downwards.  

“Oh, Mary... the Devil is playing tricks on us, Peter.” 

“Sit down here with me and pray. Pray to the lord he rids you of these demonic terrors.”

Rolling herself to her knees, she crossed herself before grabbing his hand, ready for prayer.

He pulled his hand away. 

“Praying isn’t going to help Mum!” 

“Peter!” She gasped and shook her head violently. 

“Did it help when Father died?”

“Did it help when we were so hungry we had to kill our horse?” 

‘Did it help when yo--” 

The slap from her spongy fingers radiated throughout the cabin. The forest fell silent. 

“Go back to sleep, Peter…” His cheek still red from the lick of her touch. A tinge of regret lingered in her muddy eyes. She left the oil lantern on a cabinet next to his bed and slowly descended the stairs of the loft into darkness. Staring at the light as an orange-colored tear rolled down his cheek. 

The lantern flickered out like a whisper, and darkness befell his small room. Why did Father decide to leave them? Didn’t he love them? More tears rolled down like pebbles in a stream, dampening the pillow. Pulling the blanket over himself, he began focusing on the incoming darkness and unsatisfying sleep. 

With the speed of a train, he sprang up from the sheets. His anger festering inside of him like maggots in his chest. Looking at the deer skull mounted on the wall, his thin fingers rolled into clenched fists. He was going to find the Goatman… No matter what it took. 

Reaching up on his tippy toes to grab the shotgun mounted on the wall, he once again ventured into the deep unknown of the frost. 

Snow became a puddled and watery mess. Brown slush scattered through the muck of dirt and soil from below. Summer brought on the promise of fresh crops and the now nesting birds. Peter never did.

The door of the cabin was wide open, it quivered from a soft brush of the midnight air causing it to rock back and forth. Two bowls of oatmeal were set on the table. A fly quickly flew into the room, most likely lured in by the scent, and landed on top of one of the bowls. Round red eyes gazing up and down the room. Hairy black arms rubbing together, preparing for the feast that Beelzebub had prepared for him. Rosemary gazed at the table, candlelight radiated through the cabin casting forth a light through the dark summer night. A scattered sigh escaped her lips as if she was about to scream. 

The chair groaned with each rock. Her hair frizzled and tangled in various places as she placed a droopy hand over her belly. Why did God have to take everything away from her?  She felt the kick and even, when she focused hard enough, could hear the tiny heartbeat. Ba Dum Ba Dum. 

Lighter than the beat of a drum. The softest, most beautiful sound she had ever heard.

Ba Dum.

Like a small pebble landing in the water. 

Ba Dum.

Like a raindrop rolling off a leaf.

Ba Dum Ba Dum. 

The door to the cabin rattled and eventually slammed shut after a harsh brush with the wind. A cold breath of air entered the cabin, making the candle blow out. The forest once again fell silent. 

Faintly, she could hear whispers as smoke from the candle began to cloud her vision.

That’s when she saw him.

His horns curled and pointed at the tips like two spears. His black fur, coarse and mangled. Two hooves beneath his ankles. Eyes glowing white...

The Goatman was here.

Cradling her large belly, she rose to her feet, lantern in hand. 

“What did you do with my boy?” 

His skeletal mouth unhinged, and he rose to his hind legs. 

If he was planning to bring hell upon her. She was going to bring it upon him first. She held up the oil lantern in front of her as water poured down from between her legs. 

“What have you done with my son?” 

His teeth raised into a skeletal grin, and he stepped a bit closer to her. His branch fingers extending towards her, ready to pluck out the child which was growing inside her. The child that would have been the savior for the hungry, lonely widow. Eyes widening as she slashed the lantern across herself. A streak of light encasing her petite figure.

“You stay back, you hear?”  

A deep laugh radiated inside the cabin, and the hooved man stepped closer to her. His voice was calm. However, something sinister laced the overtones of his gentle coo. The dark unknown of the forest. 

“I’ll pull you with me into the shadows.” He wasn’t talking to her. 

He stepped closer. His shadow cast over the wall of the cabin along with the warm glow of the oil lantern. Flickering in and out of view, with his hellish figure. He was leaning over her now. 

“And laugh with pleasure as you writhe in agony under my touch.” His long fingers were only a hair away from touching her now. For 9 months he had waited in the shadows to devour the soul of the tiny infant growing inside her. To break her down to her knees and, eventually, take her screaming soul down with him too as she twisted in his grasp. Closing her eyes, she swiftly brought down the oil lantern over one of his horns. Flames exploded from the impact and quickly began to engulf his entire being, almost just as ravenous as the beast's own appetite for innocent souls. White eyes glowing through the ever-present and now growing flames. He had waited too long for this feast. Months waiting in the darkness, patiently observing his prey grow plumper and plumper… Now nothing was going to stop him. A sprite spell that now served to ward off all creatures from the hellish landscape. Flames climbing up the wood of the small cabin and eventually onto her apron. An unstoppable red sea racing to gulp them both up whole. Sparked up like a candle in the center of the forest. The Goatman remained still. Its soft glow creates warmth across the forest canopy. Yellow shining and flickering inside the watery pupil of her eye. 

Veronica tightened her apron and shook her head as she placed a bowl of chicken stew on the table. The stew was a brown muddied color with various vegetables swimming inside. 

“There is no hanging man, Michael.”

The old Oaktree stood tall outside the window of the cabin. Its branches twisting and bent like broken fingers. Always standing as the ancient guardian and watcher of the forest. 

“But I saw him.”