Page 1 of Souls We Rip

The Goat Man

Someone awakened me from my slumber.

My eyes squinted from the candlelight. It was too bright. My hooves clacked on the stone floor as I rose from the bed, draping the robe over my short dark fur.

Feeling the skull on my head, I readjusted it.

I went to see what lay behind the glass of my mirror.

The Souls’ Mirror.

Intricate craftsmanship decorated the golden frame. Centuries old, it was my only truth in this world.

My Mirror never failed me in showing my foes or the next soul to take. The more, the merrier. The darker, the better.

I have had hundreds of souls taken, each adding to my age. They were all a part of me. I felt all their sorrow and all their happiness, binding them to my eternity.

Each time a mortal thought of me, I walked the earth. And when my story was told, I returned twice more.

The real one.

I tapped with my left hoof on the thin glass once. A powerful light burst within, names written in blood circled in it, belonging to the souls I took.

Names that I didn’t remember. Why would I? They were long forgotten anyway.

Each year at the Girls’ Fair, I took one soul to serve me, and one to add to my age or better said, to satisfy my master. Last year, it was a peasant boy who called me, and he was still my servant.

The other one, I could not name.

That year, I decided to keep my servant, as he was doing a good job at keeping my lair in good condition. Sometimes, I would hear him chirping, seeing him happier in death than in life.

I never engaged with humans. I couldn’t care less, as long as they were healthy and most importantly, evil.

The mirror showed me an image of three women, standing in their kitchen, arranging different dishes. One looked flustered, older, a few strands of hair wet from sweat, falling from her green batik.

The other two, I assumed, were her daughters. One blonde, one dark-haired, milling away in the kitchen, bringing dishes to an iron cart. Their hair was braided, their clothes were dirty from food stains, and each had a smile on their lips. The blonde one asked about my story.

The older woman panicked.

And the dark-haired one wondered.

She awoke me.

Due to her not remembering my story, I could not fulfil my slumber that day.

I pressed my snout on the glass to take a closer look.

Her full lips were wet, her blue eyes glistening. Their colour reminded me of the sky in the spring, fresh air and crystalline rivers. Her nose wrinkled as she tried to recall my history.

She didn’t.

And then their father appeared.

I tilted my head, surprised at his reaction. I was a superstition, according to him.

He looked evil. With his dark eyebrows knitted and his large nostrils flaring, he was a better selection for my soul-ripping than the other one.

Somehow, the vile people live the longest.