Short Story By Jackie Brewster
“There’s a light ahead!” Dale gasped, climbing over the stile. “It must be the Inn.”
“Get out the way.” Graham gave the young man a shove. “I need to see for myself.”
It was like peering through closed lids. Night had fallen, and a thick mist clung to the moor. Even if Dale hadn’t lost his compass, it would be no use to them now. Not that Graham was ready to forgive Dale. It was just his luck to be paired up on this team building exercise with the most incompetent member of staff. His other colleagues would be cosied up in the bar by now, while he was lost on the moor with the village idiot. “Sir, it’s there,” Dale insisted, “less than a mile away, I reckon.”
The mist parted and a faint light flickered. Finally, their destination was in sight – The Vengeful Goat Inn.
“We’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Dale said, “as long as we stick to the path.”
“Let’s not delay,” Graham said firmly. “You go in front, and I’ll bring up the rear.” If there were any treacherous bogs, thought Graham, at least Dale will stumble into them first.
The footpath was flinty and narrow, but a welcome relief from the soft uneven moorland. The cold had crept into Graham’s joints and his feet were numb. His wheezing breath punctuated every footfall, but there was a new sound. It was like something being dragged behind him.
“Halt!” Graham barked. “I heard something.” The two men stopped. There was silence, as though the mist had stolen their ears as well as their eyes. “What did it sound like?” Dale asked. “Footsteps,” Graham frowned, “but it’s gone now.” “Let’s hope it’s not that crazy ghost goat,” Dale laughed. “Enough, Dale!” Graham said crossly.
He had no time for superstitious nonsense, and didn’t care to be reminded about the stupid ghost story the inn keeper had told them over supper last night. “Any more talk of ghosts and you’ll have a written warning on your desk come Monday morning.” “Sorry, sir,” Dale muttered. Graham might have known the legend would affect someone as gullible as Dale. The locals claimed a vengeful goat haunted the moors, preying on travellers. It was nonsense of course, but just the sort of thing to spook a daft lad.
“Let’s crack on,” Graham said firmly. As soon as they began to move, Graham heard the stumbling footsteps again. It was like something with a monstrous limp dragging its feet. “Come on, pick up the pace!” Graham grew anxious. Sweat prickled his scalp. The faster they walked, the greater the urgency of the creature that shambled after them. He dared not look over his shoulder, and regretted insisting Dale go first. The boy was expendable; Graham had to save himself.
The mist parted, revealing the creaking sign of the inn. Sanctuary was seconds away. He pushed passed Dale and broke into a sprint. The cloven clattering behind him grew louder. He reached the doorway and threw himself through it. “Bar the door, the goat’s right behind me!” he shrieked to the barman. But too late, the creature snatched at his ankle, sending him sprawling. “It’s got me!” he cried, closing his eyes. There was stunned silence, followed by laughter. Graham felt Dale helping him to his feet. “Something’s got you!” Dale laughed. “You said I’d lost it, but you’ve been trailing it behind you.” And Graham saw his beast was just the cord attached to his compass. It had been tangled around his boot all along.
