Now, before I go into depth on the event, I think it’s important to address the circumstances in which it happened. Back in ‘51, I was around thirteen and lived with Ma, Pa, brother Joey and our hired help, Phil on our farm about two and a half miles off of Rock Mill in Randolph County, Alabama. The place as a whole was pleasant as far as farms go, with orderly fields, well-maintained hog pens and a very rustic looking red barn that had been on the property for what Pa says was near a hundred years. This sounds all fine, but there was this one place close to where our property line lays where the fields, pens, and shacks just stop. The area as whole was always a sinister one, housing a wood that consisted mostly of dead oaks, which in turn sheltered a mysterious dark crick that no one knew flowed where to or where from. Now, Pa liked to consider himself a woodsman, and claimed that there was no jungle or forest too dark or brambly to keep him out, but he never voluntarily stepped foot in that wood for as long as I knew him.

With that in mind, I’ll go on with the story. It was around the middle of March, when the frogs were in full breeding swing. You could hardly sleep it was so loud. At the same time, however, our little farm saw several of our hogs disappear in the course of a week. All that my poor Pa had that could point towards a culprit was a couple droplets of blood that lead into that dark wood. Well, after our prize eight-hundred pound Angeln Saddleback vanished one night, Pa decided he had about enough and gathered me, Joey, and Phil, three .22 varmint rifles and his trusty 12 gauge and told us to head out into the forest pen to fend off what he presumed was a fox or band of feral dogs. We headed out to the border of the woods at around six, just as the spring sun was beginning to wane. Right when we arrived, we knew something was up. Instead of the usual scent of pine cones and aging wood that characterized our land, the air was alight with the smell of a mixture of hospital mixed with a burned out circuit. At this point, Joey got real worried. He said that the smell was a characteristic of a demon that lived around these parts. Part man, part goat, and part demon, with eyes red as a stop light and teeth gnarly as rusty nails, the local folk called him goatman. A real trickster, too, able to communicate in a human tongue and proficient at shapeshifting. Pa took no mind, and told us to split off into the forest. As I headed off alone into the darkening wood, letting loose a string to mark my path, things went south real fast. The farther I went in, the worse the smell became, thick as the perfume section of a women’s store. As I navigated the mess of brambles and branches, there was a frightful rustling, and the rest of the forest went quiet. The frogs that were usually so happily croaking went quiet as a funeral. Spooked, I was continuing to move up the forest when my flashlight began to flicker. As the rustling got closer and closer, I caught my first glimpse of the monster. It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen, shambling on the ground on all fours, much like an ape would. It had to have been close to seven feet tall, and had a thick coat of matted, tangled fur. And on top of it all, two fearful horns, curled like those of a ram, sprouted in an ungodly way from a skull that was bent forward like that of a steer. As I stared in horror, the red eyes looked right into me. Strangely enough, it seemed to take a moment to consider me, looking near as startled as I was. Then, it let out a fearful roar, gravely and low in tone, but was cut off halfway by my crack of my rifle. Right after I fired, the beast seemed to disappear, but any wishful thinking that it had vanished was quelled by a frightful scream. Like that of a little girl who found a spider in her bed mixed with the pained squeal of a rat caught in a spring trap, the voice was so loud and fearsome that I nearly dropped my gun out of shock. Even this was not enough to quell my sheer instinct, however, and I lit out like a stuck deer across the forest. Halfway through, I stopped to catch my breath, and noticed that the wailing had stopped as well. Instead, I heard Phil’s familiar voice calling out into the night for help. I set out for him as fast as I could, dodging  brambles, thorn-bushes and felled logs. As I neared, I saw that he had was bleeding fiercely from a  wound on his arm. Scrambling to bandage him, I noticed that he was smelling terrible- like the stench we had encountered earlier, only a hundred times worse. My concern allowed for no precaution though, and as I grabbed his limb to tie it up, I noticed that his blood was deathly cold. I jumped back in horror, and saw his eyes flicker between the familiar blue-green opals to a deathly red, and his face contort into a snarling fierce look. The beast, now fully transfigured, rose up on its hind legs and shambled towards me. I hardly had time to consider running when I passed from terror.

I wasn’t too sure what happened for the next few hours of that night, but I do know that I wasn’t the only one that answered the creature’s pleas for aid. Pa showed up only a few moments after I did, and shot the abomination right through the head. It has been around a decade since that fateful evening, and Ma and Pa have long abandoned their rural life for a more “sensible” life in Montgomery. Joey went off into the army, and I never quite knew what happened to Phil. Pa only mentioned him a few times in hushed tones, something about him being shipped of to Bryce Hospital for the Insane. I myself have left my childhood home, not that I had much choice. The area was quarantined, the state citing something about a chemical leak, and I moved out to Virginia    to pursue a career in law. I still drive out there from time to time, however, and every time I do, I can almost feel something watching me, looking for vengeance after all these years.