Horror Nights
He came back with a heavy iron chain trailing behind his pickup truck, and at the end of that chain was a black goat.
It was the blackest thing I had ever seen. Its coat didn't reflect light; it seemed to swallow it, like a hole carved out of the world. Its horns were long, ridged, and swept back like obsidian scimitars. But it was the eyes that froze the marrow in my seven-year-old bones. They weren't the horizontal slits of a normal caprine. They were rectangular, yes, but they pulsed with a wet, intelligent amber light.
"Found him wandering near the ravine," Grandpa lied, his voice gruff. "Circus folk must have lost him. Finders keepers."
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