It was the summer of 1999, and I was in Fort Worth, camping on the banks of the Trinity River, just outside Lake Worth. One evening, we walked among the trees, which cast long blue shadows as mosquitoes bit into our ankles and elbows.
We went to a clearing where the campsite managers had set up a small bonfire. They told us the legend of the Goat Man.
“Listen closely and you will hear his cry on a clear night like this,” they told us as we sat with wide eyes full of fear and curiosity.
The older boys in the camp easily explained it to us. The administrators simply wanted to speed up our meal so we wouldn't disturb them. They must have been the ones making those noises at night.
We walked back to our campsite, barely breathing in the humid, hot air. I knew the stories about the Goatman were meant to be just that, stories.
That night, as I climbed into my sleeping bag and listened to the cicadas outside, I heard something unnatural: a mournful bleating coming from far across the lake—undoubtedly the sound of a lone monster
Brak komentarzy:
Prześlij komentarz