The Black Goat
by
Ron Shiflet

Randy Boyd had been driving on various, winding farm roads for hours and finally reached the inescapable conclusion that he was hopelessly lost.  He sighed,  rolled his eyes in helpless frustration and muttered a curse.  No map, no town, and a dark ominous sky concealing the sun.  "This is just great," he thought.  "Robert's directions were never the best but he assured me that finding his place in Tenoka would be a piece of cake."  So much for assurances.

The broad-shouldered youth pulled the light blue Ford Escort to the side of the narrow road and killed the engine.  He cautiously looked into the rearview mirror to ascertain that he was in no danger of being rear-ended  by traffic.  "Fat chance," he thought.  Randy had seen no traffic of any kind for at least an hour and was somewhat rattled by its absence.

Randy's intent had been to drive from his home in Houston, to the home of his friend, Robert Ballard.  Robert lived in a little podunk town called Tenoka that was situated deep in the vast piney woods of East Texas.  The directions had seemed simple enough when he had written them down during his phone conversation with Robert.  However, somewhere along the way he had evidently taken a wrong road and now found himself lost in a maze of unmarked two-laned blacktops and gravel paths.

Randy slowly opened the car door, got out, walked around the back of the vehicle until facing the weed infested bar-ditch and unzipped his jeans.  He warily surveyed his surroundings for onlookers and proceeded to relieve himself.  It was now almost dark and he could not deny the creeping sensation of unease that had been steadily setting over him for the past hour.  He gazed across the ditch into the thick piney woods which provided no answer to his problem.  Randy popped the trunk on the Escort and retrieved the last soda from a battered, Styrofoam cooler.  He longed for a cold beer but  had been unwilling to take a chance on getting stopped by some small town Barney Fife, all too eager to throw the book at some young punk who dared to flaunt the state's open container law. Randy disgustedly made his way back to the driver's side and got behind the wheel.

"I'll try the radio again," he thought.  Again he had no luck in picking up a single station, receiving only an unending torrent of static for his trouble.  "Damned peculiar," he said to himself with a puzzled expression on his round, bearded face.  The radio had been working fine earlier in the day but for the last couple of hours nothing.

Randy realized that he needed to find a town soon or he would be stranded when his gas gauge reached empty.  There was nothing to do but drive on, which he did as night rapidly descended.  After another twenty minutes of driving, with many worried glances at the fuel gauge, a surge of relief came over him as he detected a faint glow of light from above the next rise in the road.

"Yes!" he exclaimed, hoping that his absurd ordeal was finished.  With luck he could find a place with gas, or barring that, at least receive directions to the nearest service station.  Maybe he would even find someone that could steer him on the correct road to Tenoka!

With renewed hope he pressed the gas pedal and was at the apex of the rising road in a few brief moments.  At the bottom of the hill, nestled in a cut-out area of tall pines, he saw a fairly large building and a bright neon sign which flashed the words "The Black Goat."  The sign sported a placid black goat which continuously changed into a rather fearsome and demonic looking creature with each cycle of the sign's sequencing mechanism.

Randy sighed in disappointment.  This was not exactly what he was hoping for but he considered it a blessing under the present circumstances.  He coasted down the dark,  sloping road and turned the Escort into the graveled and moderately crowded parking lot.  There were an abundance of pick-up trucks and motorcycles.  "Great," he thought.  "Just my kind of crowd."  Randy found a spot to park his car, got out and walked across the floodlit lot to "The Black Goat's" entrance, steeled himself and entered the drinking establishment.

A thick haze of smoke filled the roadhouse and assailed his nostrils.  He momentarily stopped in order to get his bearings, walked to the bar and took a seat upon one of five empty barstools.  This would give him a chance to gather his wits, have a beer and either get directions to Tenoka or use a phone to call Robert.  Randy was surveying the roadhouse's clientele when a burly, bearded fellow asked what he'd have to drink.

"Beer,"  said Randy, trying hard not to stare at the deep, pink scar below the bartender's steely blue eyes.  The large man looked sufficiently menacing to discourage most would be trouble makers and Randy did not wish to antagonize him.

The big man flashed a crooked smile, revealing a set of stained, yellow teeth.  "What kind of beer . . .sonny?"  There was a definite emphasis on the last word which reeked of disdain.

Randy smartly decided to ignore the jibe and answered, "Coors Lite."

"Ain't got it," said the bartender with a smirk, seemingly happy that he was unable to fulfill his customer's request.  He gave Randy a look that dared him to be upset about the beer's unavailability.

"Well . . ." replied Randy,  "How about a . . ."

"Care to try the house beer?" asked the big man.  "I can vouch for it."

Randy was relieved to receive an easy out.  "Sounds good.  What's it called?"

"Black Goat," answered the bartender, with a certain absurd sense of pride.

"Black Goat?" said Randy.  "Like the neon sign outside?"

"That's right," came the response.  "And first one's on the house!"

"Hey thanks!" exclaimed Randy, deciding that the big man was not so ominous and unfriendly as first thought.

Randy sat on the barstool and watched as the bartender opened an old  beer cooler behind the bar and extracted a long-necked, brown bottle.  The man turned and sat the ice-cold bottle of beer onto the bar.

"Enjoy," he said with a two fingered salute, walking to the other end of the bar to take another customer's order.

Randy hefted the cold bottle of beer and gazed curiously at the label.  He was surprised to see that it had a picture of a black goat, almost identical to the fierce creature that flashed on the roadhouse's neon sign every few seconds.  The only difference was that the label art was better able to portray in greater detail the ominous looking creature.  Actually, the label showed the animal to be a semi-human creature, standing upright, but on the cloven hoofs
of a goat.  The figure possessed the torso of a human and the head of a goat.  It appeared to be emerging from a thickly wooded area that seemed to be alive with either snakes or tentacles?  This was difficult to determine with the "black goat" appearing in the foreground.  Above the illustration, in some type of gothic font, were the words "Black Goat Beer."  The picture and the words were framed with symbols or some sort of runes.  Randy found it odd that no brewery or place of origin appeared on the label.

"What the hell," thought Randy, taking a large swallow of the cold beer.  His face expressed a mixture of surprise and pleasure at the exquisite taste sensation.  It was definitely beer, but like no other that he had previously encountered.  So far, this had been the only pleasant surprise of his problem plagued trip.  Still, this did not remedy the problem at hand which he needed to solve as quickly as possible.  Feeling somewhat  relaxed, he took a few minutes to more closely survey the inside of the roadhouse and its many customers.

"The Black Goat" was apparently popular with a fairly wide cross-section of people.  Randy counted farmers in John Deere gimme caps, bandanna wearing bikers, well dressed business types and a large contingent of young folk in a variety of dress.  There was the obligatory jukebox which had, so far, blared an odd mix of hard-core country, album rock and classic blues tunes.  There was no noticeable animosity or tension between the different cliques that comprised the bulk of the patrons.  Everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves and Randy had witnessed none of the loud, drunken behavior that was frequently a staple of such establishments.

Randy took in the bandstand, the dancefloor and the signs which pointed toward the restrooms.  But more importantly, near a pair of pinball machines situated near the west wall, he spied a pay phone.  It was currently not in use, so without hesitation he left the barstool and walked a circuitous route between the occupied tables until arriving at the phone.  He fished a quarter from his jeans and dropped it into the coin slot.

Nothing.  No dial tone, no hum, no sound at all.  The phone was not working and had taken his quarter as well.

"Shit," he groaned in disappointment and frustration.

"What's wrong?" asked a tall, thin, blonde who had walked unnoticed to the pinball machines while Randy was attempting to place his call.

Randy quickly noted the girl's good looks, marred only by a silver stud which decorated her cutely formed nose.  Under other circumstances he would have happily made a play for this one.

"Damn phone's out of order, I guess," replied Randy in a futile effort to disguise his anger.

"Yeah," she said, "It's been that way for a week now."

The young woman smiled and turned to go.

"Wait!" blurted Randy.  "Maybe you can help me."

The young woman turned around and looked at Randy.

"Maybe," she said with a sad smile.

In a torrent of words, Randy related everything concerning his situation.  Being lost, the aimless driving, and his eventual arrival at "The Black Goat."  The young woman appeared  listened as he told his story and seemed sympathetic towards his plight.  However, she had never heard of Tenoka.

"Well, what about a gas station?" he asked.  "You must know where the nearest one is located . . .I used most of my gas while driving in circles."

The young woman again turned to leave as Randy was speaking.  The jukebox was loudly playing the mournful sounds of Hank Williams' "Lost Highway" which made the woman's parting words difficult to hear.  He was almost certain she had said, "In this place we are all lost."

Randy's anger, frustration and anxiety steadily increased during the next forty-five minutes as patron after patron pled ignorance on how to get to Tenoka.  Vague, nonsensical answers were given when he asked about the closest gas station.  Often the person's face would go blank and they would mumble incomprehensible gibberish and walk away leaving Randy to fume in bewilderment.  He knew these people were "jerking his chain" but was extremely leery of forcing a confrontation on this, to him, foreign soil.  If necessary he would wait until the crowd began to disperse for the evening and chance following someone in the hope of reaching a populated area.  He would have to hope like hell that his gasoline would last until a gas station was found.

Randy returned to the bar, found an empty stool and ordered another Black Goat beer.  The bartender handed him the brew with a sly smile and conspiratorial wink.  "You gonna catch the band?  They'll be on in about ten minutes."

"Sure, why not?" said Randy.  "It's not like I'm going anywhere."

The big man ignored his sarcasm and returned to wiping the bar.  Randy drained about a third of the bottle and felt the unmistakable buzz begin to course through his body.  He was shocked to discover that he was well on the way to being inebriated after less than three beers.  Suddenly paranoid, he wondered if the beer had been laced with anything.  He realized that the idea was nonsensical but was unable to dispel the feelings of misgiving given his recent experience in attempting to secure assistance from the Black Goat's patrons.

Randy was distracted from his musings on the matter as the crowd of people began to whistle and applaud the appearance of the house band, now silently taking the bandstand.  The band consisted of four males and one female, all dressed alike in black denim jeans and sleeveless t-shirts.  They were attractive people by almost any standard but the moment they walked onto the stage the mood in the tavern seemed to subtly shift.  There was an almost tangible feeling of expectancy in the air and the laughter and easy smiles of the past hour were no more in evidence.  Randy could sense that almost everyone else in The Black Goat had an idea of what would soon be happening.

Randy finished the last of his beer about five seconds before the house lights dimmed.  This was followed by a brief period of silence in which no one seemed to breathe.  Suddenly "The Thousand Young" commenced a scorching version of "Voodoo Chile," as good as any version Randy had heard, including the one by Hendrix.  The incredibly segued into an unbelievably true cover of Hank William's "Lost Highway."

"What's with these guys?" thought Randy.  He had never known of a band with the talent and audacity to mix such an eclectic choice of tunes.  "Lost Highway" was followed in rapid succession by seven more incredibly varied songs and styles.  However, the most truly amazing occurrence was that the crowd sat still and silent during each song.  It came alive once the female vocalist stepped up to the microphone and announced "Now we're gonna play Blues For Shub-Niggurath."

Randy was again startled as the crowd began to slowly and repeatedly chant the word "Shub" while "The Thousand Young" stopped to drink a few swallows of Black Goat beer that each had carried on stage with them at the beginning of their set.  The audience had been chanting for at least a couple of minutes when every light in the tavern was extinguished.  Randy slightly jumped but then realized that it was probably part of the show.  The rest of the crowd remained silent and after several moments a green, phosphorescent cloud appeared over the center of the bandstand bathing the band in its eerie glow.

Randy was very impressed that an unknown local band could afford such professional stage effects.  "The Thousand Young" began to play, grinding out strange and intricate riffs unlike anything Randy had heard before.  The music was at times almost spiritually invigorating yet would then meander into dark, ominous realms of despair.  So transfixed by the talent on display was Randy that it took him several moments to notice the changes that were occurring in the cloud which was still hovering over the bandstand.  It began to boil and roll, producing lightning effects which revealed writhing shapes inside the cloud.  The hair on the back of Randy's neck stood on end as he watched this awesome display.

As the band continued to play the temperature inside the tavern noticeably dropped.  A renewed sense of fear and unease settled over Randy and he began to feel nauseated.  Something was definitely amiss but he could not place his finger on it.  The song was reaching a crescendo when without warning something rope-like shot out of the cloud and into the mesmerized audience.  Several people shrilly screamed as a young, chubby woman seated at one of the front tables was lassoed by the snaky tendril, jerked from her chair and whipped through the air like a rag-doll.  This event was immediately followed by a loud snap.  Her neck was broken almost instantly which was a blessing in light of the events that followed.

Almost immediately, other thick, monstrous appendages emerged from the swirling green cloud and began to rip and tear at the lifeless body.  Randy watched wide-eyed in terror and revulsion as the female's wildly lolling head was pulled from her torso sending a spray of blood into the crowd.  He clutched his stomach and vomited on the floor, sickened and incredulous that "The Thousand Young" continued to play as if oblivious to the events that were transpiring.  The tavern begin to fill with screams and the sickening stench of fear, wild panic ensuing once it became clear that a horror was in their midst.

Unbelievably, a large portion of the crowd seemed unperturbed and continued to mindlessly chant the name of "Shub," seemingly entranced by the repetitive words issuing from their mouths.  Tables were overturned and chairs broken as patrons of  The Black Goat tried desperately to avoid and escape the writhing, flailing tentacles that seemed to endlessly shoot forth from the strange cloud.  A deafening clap of thunder almost deafened Randy, causing him to stagger as he frantically searched for the exit in his disoriented state.  A part of him prayed that this was all some drug induced hallucination but the voice of truth inside his head said otherwise.

Randy quickly took note of the band's silence.  They no longer played and were not visible on the bandstand.  In the center of the slightly elevated platform stood a dark and menacing creature that was surely the inspiration for the demonic goat that appeared on the label of "Black Goat Beer."  But, this creature was enormous, at least eight feet in height.  It glared from the bandstand with red, baleful eyes, taking stock of the ongoing carnage.  Randy's blood ran cold in the presence of this dark, malignant figure.  It was neither male nor female but had attributes of both.  A hair covered phallus obscenely hung between the thing's legs.  Fur covered and bloated breasts swung pendulously back and forth as the horror  swayed from side to side, taking delight in the chaos which surrounded it.

Amid the confusion and terror of  The Black Goat , Randy witnessed horrible transformations occurring around him.  Many of the patrons had taken on the form of strange, hybrid creatures not dissimilar to the beast that stood atop the bandstand.  These less imposing beings were attempting to subdue and restrain the other members of the panic-stricken crowd.  When successful, they would drag their struggling victims to the stage as if in offering to the imposing goat-man.  The large beast would then rake his long, black nails across the victim's throats, sending out crimson sprays of blood in all directions.  While yet alive, the pitiful victims would then be flung towards the churning cloud to be snared by the flailing tentacles which continued to emerge from the swirling mist in search of prey.

Amid this terror and confusion Randy made his decision to act in self-preservation and fled the tavern.  The only light in the tavern was that which was being emitted from the terrible cloud and had so far allowed him to remain unnoticed.  In the midst of confusion and screams he somehow fought his way through the crazed pandemonium, burst through the roadhouse's front entrance and out into the graveled parking lot.  In horror and stunned disbelief his addled senses vainly tried to cope with the unbelievable changes that had been wrought while he was inside.  The surrounding woods had disappeared to be replaced by a grayish, rocky terrain from which sprang sickly looking plant tendrils of an unwholesome nature.  The slowly pulsated and emitted a greenish glow or phosphorescence.  The steep, craggy hills which now surrounded the roadhouse appeared to be alive and swarming with the ropy plants, seemingly advancing wormlike towards The Black Goat and the doomed patrons inside.

Randy, for a brief instant, stood frozen in horror and bewilderment, trying to reassure himself that what he was witnessing was no more than a vivid hallucination brought on by his unwise consumption of the Black Goat Beer.  God only knew what drugs had been added to the heady brew.  This entirely unbelievable tableaux was bathed in a violet hue from two twin moons that hung large in the sky.  The floodlight that normally illuminated the parking lot was no longer burning.  Still, the two eldritch moons provided sufficient light for Randy to find his car and attempt a quick exit from the his bizarre surroundings.

Fumbling with his keys, he at last opened the door, jumped inside and frantically turned the key.  "Thank God," he gasped as the car engine started on the first attempt.  Randy, at this point, had no idea if what he was experiencing was real or hallucination.  He only knew that leaving the immediate area was of the utmost importance.  He turned on the car's headlights and was mildly reassured to discover that there was still a road, though not the same as had been there previously.  Still, he decided to take his chances as any exit from the Black Goat Tavern was worth the risk.  Flooring the gas pedal he kicked up gravel and drove onto what was now an unpaved road, more of a dirt trail really.  Tears began to trickle down his cheeks as he quickly became aware of a violet fog that was rapidly settling over the area.

Randy attempted to keep the car on the rough pathway and wondered which would be depleted first, his gasoline or his sanity.

All Things Dark and Dangerous is Copyright ©  2000 by Corey Whitworth
"The  Sacrifice" is Copyright © 1997 by Ron Shiflet