Chapter 1: Blood in the Kitchen

When I was a kid, my grandpa killed the old mountain goat that had lived with our family for twenty-eight years. Grandma’s voice cracked as she stomped hard enough to rattle the dishes in the cupboard. “That old goat’s got a soul—it’s more human than animal! How could you kill it?”

Her words boomed through our cramped kitchen, bouncing off the wood paneling and the faded wallpaper covered in coffee stains. Even the clock on the wall seemed to tick louder, like it, too, couldn’t believe what Grandpa had done. That goat had been around longer than me—a fixture, a legend, maybe even a secret guardian of our mountain home.

Grandpa’s face was grim, his voice cold as winter creek water. “We’ve got company coming tonight. Ain’t right to let ‘em starve.”

He didn’t spare Grandma a glance, just stared down at the animal, jaw set so tight you could’ve cracked a walnut on his chin. Outside, the wind rattled the storm windows, bringing in the bite of early winter.

I tried not to look at the blood, but it was everywhere. I wondered if the goat’s ghost would haunt us, or if Grandpa would even care.