The goatman legend

As recounted in the year of Our Lord 1869, by Thaddeus Wren, resident scribe of the Gracewind Parish

In the wildernesses north of Gracewind Lake, where the fog hangs thick as wool and the pine trees groan with burdens unseen, there once dwelled an aged widow by the name of Alice Mirewood. A woman cloaked in solitude and sorrow, she had buried both husband and child in the cruel span of one bitter winter. Her home—a modest cottage of timber and stone—stood upon the lake’s edge, where the wind hummed like a hymn and loons wailed like grieving women across the dark water.

On the first day of October, in the year of 1853, whilst sweeping her threshold and casting a weary gaze upon the misted shore, Alice heard a soft and hesitant knock upon her oaken door. Upon opening it, she beheld not beast nor known man, but a child—if child it could be called. The creature was malformed in limb and strange in countenance. Its skull bore the subtle rise of budding horns, its eyes were dark and glassy as river stones, and its mouth, though boyish in shape, revealed sharpened teeth unsuited to any cradle.

Yet the thing did not flee, nor did it growl. It merely looked upon her and wept, and in a voice like soft bells mimicked a word it could not possibly have learned: “Mother.”

Whether by enchantment or the long erosion of grief, Mistress Mirewood took the creature in. She wrapped it in wool, gave it warmth, and called it Philip. In time, it learned her words and her ways. It spoke in mimicry, perfect and eerie—birds, bells, her own voice—but seldom did it speak of its own accord. Still, it called her “Mother,” and she came to call it “Son.”

For a time, their life was peaceful.

But the people of Gracewind are not blind, nor were they merciful. Whispers turned to warnings; warnings became weapons. “A changeling,” they said. “A beast suckled on a witch’s teat.” The widow’s kindness was mistaken for consort with darkness. One autumn eve, as the trees turned red and the mist grew thick, they came for the creature—cloaked in fear, in faith, in fury.

Alice, upon hearing them approach, clutched her trembling child and whispered her final plea:

“Scare them away, my sweet. That is all. No harm. No blood. Just frighten, and they shall leave us be.”

Philip obeyed. But he did not return.

They found his body broken and twisted on the chapel road, hung from an elder tree like an offering to wrath. The townsfolk rejoiced. But Alice did not weep where they could see her. She simply turned away.

Three nights later, clad in her wedding gown, Alice Mirewood was seen walking alone to the lake. She bore no lantern. She spoke to no soul. Only silence followed her, and a bottle, tightly corked, hung from her hand.

At dawn, her garments were found neatly folded on the shore. The bottle drifted in the reeds, its glass fogged by the cold. Inside was a single note:

“I go now to join my ancestors... and my dear boy.
Goodbye.”

Her body was never found.

In the years that followed, the tale should have faded. But instead, it grew. Men and women spoke of a creature—tall, monstrous, and unnatural—that prowled the deeper woods. It bore the horns of a goat, the claws of a beast, and a voice that echoed back your own words—mocking, perfect, hollow. They named it the Goatman, for no other name would pass their lips.

They did not know what they hunted.

The creature walks upright. It mimics to lure. It listens to the world through the veil of death. Its body is cold, for life has left it. And it walks still, for the last words it heard were these:

“Scar them away.”

A mother’s wish, misheard by a child too broken to understand. A command meant to protect, mangled by death and grief into something far worse.

And so he obeys—forever searching, forever frightening, forever waiting for the mother who will never return.

Say not her name in the woods. Mock not the twisted creature’s face. For it does not know it is dead. It does not know the world has moved on. It knows only love… and loss… and the command echoing through its withered mind.

And if, in the stillness of night, you hear your own voice call to you from the trees…

Do not answer.