Goats In the Mist

Andrew looked out the window of his newly purchased home on Ridell Road as he sipped a steaming cup of rich, dark coffee. They were back again. They appeared last night, the little buggers, eyes opaque and glowing through his bedroom windows. He could hear their soft baaing sounds as they each tried to get a peek inside while he lay in bed pretending to sleep. What the hell did they want and why only at night? The strangest damn thing he ever saw. Their soft snorts and baas continued through most of the night like some Old McDonald nightmare. Occasionally they would butt the side of the cabin in frustration, disappearing around four am.

With early dawn painting the sky with strokes of lavender and rose, they returned, their ghostly white figures emerging out of the morning mist as if they were a part of it. Most were whitish in color, but some were pitch black with white patches. With tails constantly flapping, long ears twitching, it was a choreography of endless movement. If he didn’t know any better, he swore he could see through them. The head goat, a large white male with horns like a battering ram, led his harem out of the forest every morning for the past two weeks. He was also the first one in the windows at night. If Andrew got up to use the bathroom, they followed his movements in the house from window to window. He never thought in a million years that goats would scare the bejesus out of him. He should have known there was a reason he’d gotten the place way under fair market value. Picking up the phone, he looked up a number and dialed.

“Hello? My name is Andrew Wilde and I’m pretty sure my property is being ensorcelled.”

“Excuse me? Ensorcelled?”

“Yes sir, that's right. You know, taken over, haunted, bewitched.”

“Oh, of course, ensorcelled. So you’re saying you have a ghost problem?”

“Yes, goats.”

“Ghosts?”

“Goats.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re being haunted by ghosts, you say?”

“Yes, by goats. They come at dawn with the morning mist and again at night to peer in my bedroom windows.”

“The ghosts?”

“Yes, the goats. They come every morning, without fail, then again at night to watch me sleep. I know what they’re thinking. They know, that I know, something funny is going on around here.”

“Sir, how can you claim to know what they’re thinking? They’re ghosts. We don't even know at this point if they think at all!"

"Oh, they most certainly do! Why else would they come?"

"You know this, sir? You know why they come?"

“Well, it’s this look they give me with those beady little eyes, so knowing. It’s as if they’re aware of how much they scare me.”

“The ghosts?”

“Yes, ma’am, the goats.”

“I see. Uhhh, sir? What do they do when they come out of the woods?”

“Well, they eat, I believe.”

“The ghosts eat?”

“Yes, ma’am. Everything in their path. Especially clover.”

“Could you repeat that?”

“They like the clover best.”

“We weren’t aware that ghosts like clover, sir.”

“Oh, yes! And new shoots of grass, as well!”

“Oh dear, that’s not good.”

“Exactly! So what do you suggest I do?”

“Well, have you tried conversing with them?”

“Actually, yes. But all they said was ‘maaaa maaaa'”

“There’s children?”

“Well, yes, I think I did see a couple of kids, but no more than three or four.”

“Sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but, I’m really not sure we’re talking about the same thing.”

“Goats! Goats, you ninny! My property has been invaded!”

“We deal with ghosts, sir, hauntings! Things that scare you!”

“Yes, goats! Exactly! And they do scare me! The way their glowing eyes stare at me is quite unnerving! The way they materialize in the mist is altogether haunting, wouldn’t you say?”

“But sir, I’m sure there's nothing we can do for you. Your problem is going to have to be solved some other way. I’m sorry.”

“But, you can’t just leave me like this! What’ll I do? The farm down the road from me recommended you. They said that you took care of their little problem for them.”

“We did? What problem was that, sir?”

“Poultry heists. They claimed weird things were going on in their hen houses. Chicken disappearing, different ones re-appearing in their places that wouldn’t lay eggs. Poultry heists!”

“Don’t you mean poltergeists?”

“Yes, that’s what I said, poultry heists!”

"Oh dear, I'm quite confused. These ghosts, do they materialize during the day as well?"

"Only at night and early morning. They come with the morning mist."

"Ghosts in the mist? How many?"

"I'd say at least a dozen, maybe more. They all seem to blend in together, especially the kids. The larger ones are easy to see because of the horns."

"Oh my, they have horns, too?"

Oh, yes! Hooves as well! And when my laundry is on the line, sometimes they steal it!"

"Now this is becoming quite preposterous, my dear man! Hooves? Horns? Laundry-eating ghosts? I think I’ve had quite enough of this conversation, thank you. Now please, sir, if you don’t mind, I’m going to be on my way now.”

"But you can't just leave me hanging like this! I..."

Click….

"Well, what do you make of that!" Andrew said, slamming down the receiver. "The nerve of some people!"

That night, after a dinner of homemade beef stew and soft buttered bread, Andrew hunkered down in his favorite comfy chair in the living room with a good book and some hot chocolate. Kicking off his shoes, he leaned back with a groan of delight. Not quite cold enough to build a fire, he settled for the blanket his Jenny made for him before her sickness. Around his shoulders, it felt like a cozy hug from her and he sighed with longing. Retired, after forty years with the bus company, he and Jenny made plans to buy this property together and spend their last days here. He could feel her presence in the cabin with him and it was oddly comforting. They had their fifty-year anniversary two years ago, their marriage gentle and filled with love. He knew she was the one for him the moment he saw her in her garden wiping sweat out of her eyes as she worked, her soft, light brown hair sticking damply to her face and neck. Introducing himself, the chemistry between them was sweet and exciting. He sighed sadly thinking of her sudden demise as a brain tumor ravaged and killed her.

"I got the cabin, though, Jenny!" he said out loud, "I knew you wanted us to have it, so I got it. Now, can't you say something to those goats about sneaking around the property?"

He laughed at himself. He was really losing it. Opening his book, he wondered how people used those e-readers without getting headaches every time. As for him, he preferred the feel and smell of the paper pages of a real book. Using an e-reader, which he did try, just wasn't the same. A soft thud from in the kitchen made Andrew freeze and sit forward

"Now, what in tarnation?" he said softly, sitting up. Again, the soft thud, along with a scraping sound.

Andrew got up quietly, putting down the book, the cocoa, and walked softly to the kitchen doorway. With his back against the wall, he took a deep breath and prepared to peek around the corner.

"Baaa-aaa!"

No way. A goat in the kitchen? How in the hell did it get in? Swiftly, he went into the kitchen to shoo it out, stopping dead after seeing nothing but a mess. How could this be? He just heard it! The door was shut and as far as he knew, goats didn't have thumbs. Running to the window, he peered through the mist, (which seemed to be present whenever they were), and saw the culprit as it skipped away to join the others.

Well now, Andrew thought, this was something. This was just something. First looking in his bedroom window and now invading his kitchen? He ran outside towards the mist, hoping to scare them away. He spotted the lot of them right near the tree line, stomping their feet and shaking horned heads, ears slapping. The smaller ones bleated at him, bucking and kicking up sideways. Andrew hurried as fast as his arthritic legs would let him, ready to lecture them about being in the house.

"Hey! You goats!" he yelled, "Stay away from here and I mean it! I don't care if you stay by the woods, but stay out of my kitchen!"

But all he saw was mist. The whole herd was right here, right in front of him and now they were gone.

"Hey! Goats! Where did you go?" he yelled again. "I mean it! You’re not allowed in the house!"

From far away he heard an answering bleat, further angering him. Oh, they were tricky, all right, he thought to himself. Turning back, he noticed a small barn on the edge of the property. Probably had a horse or two, he thought. Curious, he grabbed a flashlight from the cabin and walked over to the barn, its age really showing.. Years of rain, sleet, and snow had taken their toll on the bleached-out, dilapidated structure. The roof had more holes than a gap-toothed sailor, and patches of sun-bleached red paint clung stubbornly to the rotted wood. The door lay open as it hung on one hinge, rays of morning sun finding their way in, illuminating old, stale hay on the dirt floor. There was one stall with the door intact and Andrew walked over to it. Inside lay the skeleton of a goat, forgotten and abandoned by previous owners.

"Well," Andrew said softly, " well now."

Taking off his shirt, Andrew gathered the old bones together and wrapped them tenderly in the shirt. Snorts of excitement and bleats of the kids told him the herd was back. Was this what they’d been trying to tell him all this time! He brought the bones out of the barn, the goats parting to let him through. He could feel their ghostly noses touching him as he passed, their soft bah's following him back to the house. The mist covered them as they walked, swirled around them as if they were part of it. He grabbed his shovel on the side of the house and walked to a row of cherry trees on the other side. Laying the bones down softly, he started digging. The goats surrounded him, watching his every move, bleating and stamping as he worked. The hole dug, he placed the bones reverently inside, covering them with dirt until all that was left was a gentle mound. Standing back, he watched as all the goats lowered their heads one by one, blowing softly through their noses into the dirt, then disappearing into the mist. All but the large male. It came up to Andrew and lowered its horned head, butting Andrew softly as if thanking him, then he, too, disappeared into the mist.

"Well, what do you think of that, Jenny?" he said, looking up, "Have you ever seen such a thing in all your life?"

The goats didn't come to his bedroom window that night or any other. But every morning, as Andrew sat by the kitchen window with his coffee, they came to visit. He would watch as they grazed their way over to his back porch, wagging tails and flapping ears as they ate. Actually, they were kinda cute. He liked the way the kids kicked up their heels with goatish abandon, butting the older goats for fun. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe he and the goats could reside in peace together and they wouldn’t cause too much damage. Maybe he’d open a bed and breakfast and start rumors of ghost goats. That would certainly draw people in. He’d call it Goats in the Mist Inn. Perfect.