text: I felt a nudge on my back. The voice, which I recognized as my grandma's, stated again in her thick Arkansas drawl, "Get up and go kill that ole blue goat." Rubbing sleep from my eye, I half-sat up, rolling to face my Grandma and raising myself on one elbow. She was dressed in a plain black dress, the same dress she'd been wearing since Grandpa died almost 6 months ago. My parents had sent me to stay with Grandma "on the farm" for the summer, to help her out while they went on a cruise. "The farm" as they called it was really just kind of hodge podge collection of animals my grandpa had put together since he retired from the phone company. He hadn't grown anything really- they didn't even really live in the country, they just had a really big yard and didn't have any neighbors nearby. But that didn't slow them down. They'd started with a couple of chickens Grandpa got from a friend and built from there- a couple of peacocks, a few rabbits that kept becoming a lot of rabbits, a miniature horse, a smattering of other animals that often didn't live very long, and finally, the goat. The goat never had a name. They just called him "the old blue goat". He wasn't blue of course, that'd be ridiculous. He was, however, a sort of deep gray with some darker spots. He sported a wispy beard that, combined with the subtle glint in his eyes, gave him an unsettling look of almost human intelligence. Over the years, the goat had become known for its bad attitude and general distaste for everybody and everything. All this ran through my mind as I struggled to grasp exactly why it was that Grandma wanted me to kill this animal. "Um....why?" I muttered, still half-asleep. My eyes still half-closed could make out the gun tucked under my grandma's arm, an old single barrel pump-action shotgun with my grandpa's name engraved in the stock. I knew the gun well, I'd seen grandpa use it snakes and raccoons many times as a child. Grandma didn't say anything, just shoved the shotgun into my hands and grunted. "It's loaded" she growled as she turned on her heel and left the room, her battered old house shoes flopping as she walked. **** Shading my eyes from the early morning sun, I found the goat standing by the barn, hovering near the feed trough, apparently waiting for me to feed the animals. It eyed me blankly, the gun weighing heavy on my shoulder. It was hot already that morning, and I could feel sweat beginning to bead up on my head as I approached. It continued to stare, absently chewing at something as I readied my gun. "Come on Goat. Don't look at me like that" I grumbled. The goat almost seemed to shrug in response, its eyes never leaving mine. I tried not to think about it, raising the butt of the gun to my shoulder. The sweat was pouring down my face now. I tried to block out the poor dumb goat, staring at me, with no idea what was going to happen to it. I shut my eyes tight, as I slowly squeezed the trigger. A metallic clink sounded as the hammer on the gun came down. There wasn't a shell in the chamber. I'd forgotten to pump it. My eyes flung open. The goat still stood there, stupid as ever, still absently chewing whatever was in its mouth. I dropped the gun. "Grandma can kill you her damn self" I muttered, turning on my heel and stalking back to the house. **** A few hours later, I was plopped on the couch in Grandma's living room, drinking lemonade and watching her ancient console TV. She didn't have cable, but I always enjoyed "The Price is Right". A fat woman from Wisconsin had just guessed $50 when asked the retail price of a can of coffee when my Grandma walked into the room with a shovel. "Need to go bury that goat" she growled. Grandma was a smoker, had been since she was 8 years old she claimed, and her voice showed it. "Put him in the wheelbarrow and carry him out in the field" she instructed. She thrust the shovel into my hand and turned to go when I stopped her. "Uh... Grandma...." She stopped in her tracks, but didn't turn. "What?" "I uh... when I tried to kill the goat, it uh... the gun didn't go off, and the goat ran away." Her head turned sharply, In her gnarled old profile I saw a look I'd never seen on my grandma, The corner of her mouth drooped. Her eyes were wide. Her nostrils flared. It was... fear. "The goat... lives?" "Yea... um... " I rubbed the back of my head. "I don't know. It just ran away. It probably won't come back. I mean, it looked really scared..." Grandma crossed the room in three preternaturally quick strides and lifted me from the couch by my shirt collar. "Did it see you?" she asked, her face contorted in a savage snarl. "Uh, I, Uh..." I stammered, trying to find my feet and keep my balance. "THE GUN!" she yelled, shaking me. "Did it see the gun?" "Yes!" I shouted, struggling to maintain balance. "Yes! It just stared at me and looked all stupid and harmless and I was scared and I didn't want to kill it and-" Grandma released me, and I crashed back to the couch, landing on my back. "Fool!" she shouted, going to the gun cabinet. "Grandma I'm sorry, I just..." I watched as she flung open the cabinet door. Remembering the abandoned shotgun, my heart sank. Now she was *really* gonna be mad. "Um, Grandma, I uh..." I edged for the door. "I think I left it on the porch, I'll-" "DON’T OPEN THAT DOOR!" Grandma whirled around, stretching one bony hand toward me. "No no, it's uh... I think I leaned it up against... uh... " startled, I reached behind me to place a hand on the door handle, but just as I turned to leave, I was startled to see, standing on the porch, staring back in at me, was the goat. And Grandma saw it too. "GET AWAY FROM THE DOOR!" she bellowed, dashing across the room. I was too surprised to move when she grabbed me by the shoulder and yanked me away from it, slamming the curtain closed and turning the deadbolt. She threw her back against the door, bracing herself. Dumbfounded, I stood, staring at her. "WHERE IS THE GUN?" she demanded, gritting her dentures together. "I uh... left it outside when I ... " "YOU LEFT IT OUTSIDE? JUMPIN’ JESUS SON ARE YOU TRYIN’ TO GET US KILLED??" I didn't know what to say. I stood, flat footed, as my grandma hurried around the room, shutting windows and peeping out of blinds. She grabbed an iron fireplace poker and held it in both hands, her eyes darting this way and that. "Grandma, I'm sorry, I'll go get the gun. I'm sure it's still there." I started toward the door when she cut me off, wielding the poker like a club. "Boy, think" she snarled. "Did the goat see that gun? Did he know you came to kill him?" I shrugged. "Grandma, he's a goat. I don't think it had any idea what was going on." She slapped me across the face. "Idiot! Don't you know why I asked you to kill that damn goat? Don't you know what happened to your Grandpa?" My eyes widened. "M-mom said he had an accident..." Grandma smirked. "Oh it was an accident alright. That goat accidentally gutted him like a damn fish with its horns." My stomach knotted up. My Grandma glared at me. "And when a goat starts killin... it can't stop" Just then, the world exploded. The sounds of breaking glass filled my ears as a dark gray shape lunged through the living room window, showering us with bits of broken glass. I reflexively threw my arms up and covered my face, but still felt the sting of bits of glass lodging in my my exposed skin. "GET UPSTAIRS!" my grandma screamed as she turned to face the goat, who had climbed onto the couch, a menacing look in its eyes. Grandma whirled around and swung the fireplace poker at it, but the goat dodged deftly and leaped at her, issuing a threatening bleat as it did. I turned and ran for the stairs, taking them 3 at a time. Thinking quick, I pulled on the cord that released the ladder that gave access to the attic and scrambled up as quick as I could, pulling the ladder up behind me when I did. Once in the attic, I slammed the hatch shut behind me and tried hard to catch my breath. After long moments, I was calm enough to listen. All was quiet. I strained to listen, holding my ear to the trap door, hoping for any sign that grandma had prevailed. Finally, after what felt like a long time, I heard footsteps slowly mount the staircase. They came closer, trudging up the steps. Whispering a silent prayer, I risked cracking open the hatch. Peeking through, I cast about, hoping for some sign that Grandma had won. Then, suddenly, a gray head came into view. But not Grandma's. I tried to stifle a sharp intake of breath, but leaned too hard on the hatch, causing it to squeak. The goat's head turned sharply, immediately locking eyes with me through the crack. Too horrified to move, I stared back until it let out a plaintive "Naaahhhhhh". I slammed the hatch shut and backed away. The goat leaped up, slamming the hatch with its horns over and over again. Desperate, I began throwing boxes over the hatch till the goat could no longer move it. I heard its hooves clomping around on the floor for a couple of minutes, then they faded away, going back down the stairs. I breathed a sigh of relief as it left. The summer heat in the attic was sweltering, and after a few minutes I was drenched in sweat. I began to wonder how long I could hold out, when there was a sudden scraping noise. I started and looked around. Had I imagined it? Soon, I heard it again- A steady scraping, scratching sound. I cupped a hand around my ear to listen, trying to figure out where it was coming from, when suddenly little bits of dust began to filter down in front of me. It was coming from the roof. I barely had time to think when the hole burst open in the roof, the horrible leering face of the goat glaring down at me in a mad fury. It let loose a furious "Nyahhhhh" as it scrambled to widen the hole with its front hooves. Mad with terror, I flung the boxes away from the exit hatch, and I had just barely finished and dove out of the attic when the goat crashed through the hole in the ceiling and lowered its head to charge me. I hit the floor below with a jarring thud and heard a sickening crack in my ankle. I drug myself to my feet, knowing I was hurt too badly to run. I made my way to the stairs, thinking I could get myself to my grandma's car, but the goat was following close behind. I heard it crash down from the attic, bellowing a challenge as I limped my way down the steps. I glanced over my shoulder when I was halfway down and saw the goat rounding the corner, slowly, craning its neck at an almost unnatural angle to find me. A demonic furor burned in its eyes as it began to follow me. I turned back around, moving as fast as I could down the stairs, barely keeping myself up right. As I came into view of the now destroyed den, it was obvious the goat had destroyed the place. Blood was everywhere, and I knew my grandma must be dead. The sound of the goat's hooves slowly negotiating the stairs followed me, almost like it was too confident in the kill to hurry. I finally reached the bottom of the stairs and made for the front door, half hopping and half walking on my broken ankle. The goat continued calmly behind me, the steady clomp clomp of its hooves descending the stairs. I flung open the door and tried to get out and slam it shut behind me, but at the last second I lost my grip on the door handle and crashed to the ground, landing flat on my stomach. A satisfied bleat behind me told me the goat was about to close in for the kill. I knew this was the end, when out of nowhere, right in front of me was a battered old pair of house shoes. I looked up at my grandma, bloody and bruised, but clutching the shotgun in her gnarled old hands. "Goat, you're like a damn hemmorhoid- a pain in my ass that keeps comin' back" she said as she pumped the gun. I rolled to my side to see the goat rear back on its hind legs in fear, but it was too late. A resounding boom rang out, and the goat's blood spattered everybody and everything. My grandma spit blood and a couple of teeth at her feet, threw the gun over her shoulder and walked into the house, leaving me and the dead goat lying in the doorway. "Almost as bad as that God damn rooster a few years ago" she muttered as she slipped into the kitchen.