GOAT ISLAND

Supernatural Stories | Jun 8, 2013 | 12 min read
12 Votes, average: 3 out of 5
Supernatural Stories

GOAT ISLAND

Xavier
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Tomorrow they will lead me to the scaffold and stretch my neck with a rope for murders I did not commit. Because my allotted time is short, I must not waste it in lamentation or too prosaic a prose. So here is the telling truth of the matter's dark heart, for it is far too incredible, terrible, and near to speak of aloud.

Upon beaching my canoe in the last days of '07, I pulled its flat aluminum bottom well ashore and first set my feet to a casual stroll upon the wooded and deserted island. Immediately my love and notice of nature arrested me for I found tree nuts unmolested in such late season. Quickly deducing this meant there were no squirrels (or other rodents for that matter), I soon discovered the island to be completely barren of mammals at all times altogether, except for the infrequent man and his rare nervous companions, woman and dog; and then, almost certainly, only in a few good summer months.

Being late December I had the atoll all to myself, just as I planned and preferred it. Old-growth trees, never having feared the axe, cover the island; some possibly there for centuries before the surrounding lake was created, existing as a bulwark against erosion on a rising hill or headland bluff. Most of the trees are nice and straight while those near the edge lean crazily and crookedly over the water with half-exposed and deep clutching roots. Large metamorphic boulders protrude from Earth near the island's center, presumably from ancient volcanic upheavals, and the woods work well to obscure these great stones, almost as if by intent, from any who would pass the island by. The islet is quite circular with a roughly uneven shoreline. It is easy to access by boat from the expansive lakeside but overhanging craggy, steep and inadmissible on the side closer to land. Sometimes the island grows and sometimes shrinks with the rise and fall of the lake in which it rests, maintaining an average three hundred striding paces in diameter year-round.

About five miles away, just barely visible as a rise, stands Dunn's Mountain… home to a vast quarry where granite was extensively mined during the last two centuries until most of the pink variation of the stone was extinct. The passing decades have cloaked the stark and dangerously precipitous site in dark rumours of Devil worship and animal sacrifice but that is another story. It has since been taken over by the County (of Rowan) and a little park with protective-fenced hiking trail has been established there. On the mountain's summit are high-powered, partially moveable, binocular instruments and a quaintly rustic museum which, among other myriad items of curiosity, contains a tiny exhibit detailing the legendry and historical naming of Goat Island.

Accordingly it was once owned and used for decades by the family of Obadiah Walser to shelter and graze his goatherd. In the summer of 1863, Obadiah left his family (and goats) with a rickety shack upon the then high tip of a jutting promontory to join Stonewall's Brigade in defending the Confederacy in its struggle for freedom against the Northern Aggressors. He never returned; and when former neighbors of the Walser family journeyed in through the backwoods toward the point some months or years later, they found it uncannily deserted with only remnants remaining of the former domicile. Later, due to unpaid taxes, absence of a will, and the inability to locate a next of kin, the county government claimed the property. Subsequently flooded, it has remained in public hands though never patrolled or guarded by more than a sign that forbids swimming after sundown.

There is a Native American family living down the insular road leading back through the woods toward the former Walser land and I have spoken with them. Their English is fairly good, which is great because I only know a select few words of Catawba. They were genial enough but became nervous and apprehensive when I began to ply them with questions about the Walsers, and I noticed that their eyes furtively scanned the forest as they talked, though I assured them the archaic family now only existed in books. It seems the Natives were descended from a tribe that had moved into this area around the middle of the 1600s and oral legends handed down by the elders held that the Walser family were well settled even then… in fact, it is said that when a party of the Indians journeyed through the weird and birdless woods to unsuccessfully attempt to trade with them, they witnessed wooden buildings that already seemed old and that the family had an odd aspect, peculiar even among the coming whites, having longer streamlined noses and shockingly curly black hair. Most of the native tribe relocated but the ancestors of this one family had remained, never daring to cross paths, try to talk to, or enter into the white family's territory again because "evil spirits, and many strange noises come from back there in certain seasons" when otherwise it was always preternaturally silent.

The present-day drunken revelries, which have sporadic occurrence upon Goat Island in the throes of summer, might remind the scholar of Saturnalian or Bacchanalian festivals; although it is most assured that the white-trash participants have never heard of these related Gods. A good old-timey Christian, however, would be so taken aback by some of the lascivious deeds taking place there, they would probably label the overly indulgent atmosphere as Satanic (an altogether more familiar deity).
I have investigated the flattened top of the largest and central island boulder, taking singular notice that it is deeply and permanently stained a russet colour. Upon inspection of the ingrained surface, I noticed it seemed to be carven out more than flattened, and made noticeably concave, presumably by weather, or hammer and chisel, or sustained rubbings and filings over some long period of time. A large fissure or crevasse runs deeply within, if not completely through the stone. Strangely, this penetrating crack does not appear along the outer sides of the cyclopean boulder. If I'd had a flashlight with me I would have loathed shining it into the cavernous rift because my skin began to creep and I felt on the verge of some terrible precipice of knowledge. For a long moment I paused interminably and imagined feeling the air around my face pulled down into the cracked titanic stone. I sat mystified and perplexed for several minutes when my nose began to wrinkle with repugnance and my face distort with unbelieving revulsion as a foul and putrescently charnel breeze issued forth.

I knew then that some grotto must lie below it and be fed by another opening where a wind, due to temperature and barometric pressure changes, might push or pull its way through the otherwise vacuous space. Did fish and other marine creatures die and somehow lodge beneath the roots of the cay? Perhaps it was directly connected to the suspiciously deep russet stain atop the boulder leading into the crevice or the wildly orgiastic gatherings outside the norm that happened here nearly half a dozen times throughout the year.

Returning to my canoe, I rowed home and in the relative silence of the fourty minute journey, and thereafter, contemplated many possibilities, disjointed hypotheses, and made jumps to several almost unrelated conclusions. I returned a few times during these winter months with hesitancy and trepidation, not even sure what I was expecting or searching for. Usually, circumventing the island first and scanning its few beaches, I also admired the soil erosion on the landward edges and how far back beneath it wore the isle in places. I have read a bit of the medieval metaphysicists and they claim that water is heavier than earth. Silly notions of floating land came unbidden to my exploring and inquisitive mind as my eyes scanned deeply back just under the looming mass of soil, rock, and root, far back into the unseeable undercuts.

Winter canoeing is cold despite the warming exercise, and one must remain aware of balance and center of gravity and protecting the tiny boat from jagged dangers. It is paramount that a boater wears his life jacket when negotiating cold water because muscles stiffen quickly at low temperature and with a capsized canoe, even a great swimmer may drown without flotation.

Around the very middle of February, I cautiously approached the island but did not beach because two larger craft were already there. Just at the limit of my hearing was a recorder, flute, or pipes that seemed to play the soft and sweet melody of a lullaby. I want to say I believe I heard in subtle duet with the winded reed, a noble singer. However, I cannot be sure there was a singer because I could not really hear her with my ears but rather inside my mind clearly crooning "All is well upon the isle, winter is still here a while, sleepy cozy gentle down, while a few more moons go round". That in the normal manner I heard the bleating of a pair of goats was unmistakable. That their bleating, in turn, became suddenly frantic and just as suddenly silent was also undeniable. What I did not allow myself to believe at the time, though certain senses beheld it, was that during a short interval sometime after the silence of the goats, the whole island and surrounding water minutely quaked as if with mildly seismic activity while the singer and instrument gently droned their sonically caressing aria.

Three days later I returned to inspect any remnants of the happenings and disturbed a great and raucous murder of crows upon setting foot there. I worried for a moment about their clatter and small dark cloud of flight as if they might alert some wary watcher or guardian that may hold vigil over the island's keeping; but I resolved to be here only a matter of minutes and set hurriedly to my task of investigation. Quietly, but with a quick pace, I approached and scampered cautiously up the mighty boulder. There atop, the great russet stain seemed refreshed. Considering the exact date when I had heard the distressed goats, I felt sure this was a ritualistic altar for sacrifice and that the participants must be observing certain old pagan sabbaticals. This being all I had come to see, I clambered down and scurried back to my moored vessel.

I consulted my calendar and certain books outlining ancient and contemporary occult practices and observance times. In my estimation, the next most likely ritual sacrifice would take place on the vernal equinox, when the tug-o-war between Night and Day is equal. Nine nights later would come Walpurgis, considered in several European cultures to be a most evil time… so if I were to strike some fell, albeit clumsy and erratic blow for Christendom or mankind, I had better perform my move early than late.

At my place of employment, my position as custodian afforded me access to seldom seen closets, backrooms, and equipment storages. During one busy weekend afternoon I hurried out on lunch break to my car, drove it around the maintenance road to the backside of the warehouse, and discreetly loaded a moderately heavy metal carboy into my car. It would be at least two days before this canister was missed if at all. It had taken me until March 18th to feel confident in the timing of stealing the container of sulphuric acid… and then rained most all that evening and night.

Shortly past midnight, six or so hours before the dawn of the 20th, I loaded the carboy gently into my canoe along with a small but sturdy iron frame I'd found around my homestead, and a thrifty small rifle. The canoe sank a little lower in the water and made rowing a bit less productive as I ever so quietly pushed and paddled away from the shore. A thick fog lay over the water and well up onto the land as my paddle made soft sounds entering and exiting the water upon each side and no matter what angles and calculated pressures I applied to my rowing, each careful stroke seemed, to me, a raucous clamour. I knew the heavy fog deadened sound and confused the direction of its source; but any moment I half expected the eerie silence of the surrounding woodlands to erupt in pandemonium at my passing and I nearly started when a tiny fish or frog would splash against the water's surface.

I don't quite know why I was so afraid, for though I fully intended to despoil a sacred place of pagan worship, the act in itself surely posed no danger except for the acid. With the extra fifty pounds and my careful rowing, the journey was taking much longer than usual and I paddled almost as normal when I reached the open water approaching the steel bridge, which marked the halfway point. Still, I maintained some degree of care and trepidation, for a growing dread was upon me and I had never canoed in darkness or heavy fog. The vapours swirled strangely at times and between the wake of my canoe and my vexed nerves, I half believed I saw strange forms like undulating serpents or long dark eel-like fish that lolled and rolled upon their backs and sides. It was all most disturbing; and so were the bats which swooped and twirled and twisted and darted and dived over and under and around the massive steel bridge where I had only ever seen martins and swallows in the daytime. But what I found most unnerving were the few large flapping things overhead, big as heron or cranes or buzzards. Presumably, they were some specie of seldom seen, imposing nightjars, silhouetted as winged darknesses against the dimly winking stars.

In a while the island came creepingly into view and as I softly rowed across the open water, I heard a nightingale boldly tweetling and warbling a marvelous melody from the peninsula of wood well off upon the headland to my right, in the direction of the old home where I grew up. It reminded me of the earlier flautist and singer in a way but seemed much purer and bolder. It worked to soothe my overwrought emotions to a point I remember smiling as if hearing the voice of a long lost friend. I half tried to join him but my practiced whistle was not nearly so beautiful and strong and as I faltered, it consciously felt to me as if every ear of the night were listening and making mark of my location with a scowl. Thenceforth, I tried only to make the supple sounds of rowing.

Then I came upon the island and did not skirt it but hurriedly beached. Well off to the left, where the closest land lay, I had heard the rumble of a motorboat and I knew I must make haste to do my deed. Luckily I had worn my weightlifting belt and lugged the heavy canister, with the small iron frame dangling from two or three fingers, up through the old wood of the island to the central circle of boulders to the monstrous middle monolith. I scrambled up with the frame and place it over the yawning crevasse, then back down, where I immediately struggled and fought and wrangled the heavy carboy up the great stone altar, breathlessly, while the motor… no two motorboats came puttering and rumbling around the steep side toward the beach.

I hefted the metal canister upside-down into the frame and twisted the release valve wide open, splashing a little of the horribly painful liquid on my hand as it came gushing out over and mostly into the gaping fissure of the terrific boulder. I leapt and skidded away and tore through the woods toward my beached vessel, hoping somehow to skirt the landing parties and get away before they realized my terrific desecration. I had thought the equinox was tomorrow or the coming night but I had miscalculated; it was now! I could hear the voices of some five or six people and the stamping hooves and bleatings of the sacrifices they had brought. The goats might offer enough distraction; my canoe along the wooded edge of the beach may go unnoticed. I doubted this and was fully ready to be discovered and accosted, and have to …then suddenly I realized none of this mattered!!

As I broke through the wood stumbling low toward my canoe and the loaded old .22 rifle that lay inside it, the whole island shook ferociously; and as I shoved away from the sand and the open-mouthed, wide-eyed, shouting cultists and goats… a Bleating, Roaring Scream drowned out all other sounds!!! Panic stricken, I rowed furiously and churned the water like a great mill wheel until my paddle snapped and then, looking back but for one brief moment, I gasped and dove frantically beneath the still frigid foggy waters. Not daring to come up and preferring to drown, I swam toward home beneath the water, swimming ‘til I could not feel my arms or legs… until I knew I'd run out of air and no longer knew if I was still under or on top of the water.

It was told to me that a fisherman found me at dawn, clinging blue and half-frozen to a low water marking buoy near the bridge. I would have kept my account to myself at the hospital but the FBI insisted on dragging the whole story from me. They assured me that I was going to hang for being some kind of maniacal terrorist that lured those people to the island and set off an explosive bomb that uprooted the titanic boulder and split it in half, blasted trees, and left all the people and goats mangled and missing large portions of their bodies.

Though they looked at me with sneers and incredulous stares of disbelief, I in turn explained in haltingly frightened whispers what had really happened. For in that brief moment before I willingly dove into the bone chilling March waters of High Rock Lake I had looked back and seen It; seen It come bursting and exploding forth in agony and rage from its long slumber of uncounted years, lashing out and maiming all things with claws and fangs and hooves and blazing fire! It was a nightmarish creature that could not be dreamed, for its disparity with comprehension was beyond the things we know. It was a tremendous fire-breathing lion in the front, a great goat in the middle, and a mighty serpent to the end, with several legs and maybe fins or wings; something so fanciful and unbelievable that it could not have been real, except it was.

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