Wicker

The winter air bit at my throat. Jogging is not what I wanted to do on this gray evening, but it was a necessity. My cheeks burned and my fingers smarted from the chill, motivation to run faster and end the torture quickly.

The path slopped downward to a tunnel under the highway. I had gone this route countless times. By the time your eyes adjusted to the gloom of the tunnel, you were being blinded by the sun on the other side. But today there was no sun; the tunnel was a void.

I thought nothing of it. Not until I heard the footfalls. They echoed from the looming tunnel. The quality of the sound was off-putting. So much so, I stopped short of the tunnel mouth. A shiver ran down my spine once I understood what I heard: hooves.

I shrank back against the concrete retaining wall as the source of the sound emerged from the murk of the underpass. First, I saw the cloven hooves, then coarse dark fur which sprouted from a pair of goat hind legs. Next, glowing ochre eyes set in a fur-covered, yet humanoid, face. The thing grinned at me revealing rows of fangs. A long crimson tongue unfurled and lashed about manically, as if its pointed tip sought to impale me.

The goat-man drew closer. In its right hand it grasped a bundle of birch branches which it used as a walking stick. On its back it carried a large whicker basket with its cover strapped down by a broad leather belt. The basket twitched fitfully and the thing rapped the side with the birch branches eliciting a chorus of children’s wails.

I was frozen in horror. As the goat-man passed, it tipped its head to me with a touch to its curled ram’s horns and said, “Good harvest this season.” It continued its leisurely evening stroll and left me with legs turned to jelly.