The Caves Where Goats Die

In the late 1800s, northern Mexico was a land of ridges, dust, and wary men. Ranchers rode the hills with rifles and dogs, guarding their herds against coyotes and mountain cats. But one winter, something stranger came. Goats began turning up dead, their bodies untouched except for two neat punctures at the neck—blood drained, no sign of struggle. The old hands whispered of caves in the limestone, places the animals avoided and the locals marked with offerings at a scarred mesquite tree.

I was twenty when the killings started. My brother Raul woke me before dawn, and we rode out with Don Enzo, the ranch owner, and two other hands, Matteo and Luis. Even the dogs refused to cross the fence line that morning. The first carcass lay stiff beneath prickly pear, hide unbroken, ground clean. No coyote prints, no drag marks—just silence and a cold wind.

Matteo crossed himself and muttered the old name for a thing that steals without leaving tracks. He pointed to the caves on the south face, where his father’s vaqueros once left offerings at the scarred tree. We found it: ribbons of cloth fluttering, a bowl of dried corn split by weather, a strip of goat hide pinned to a thorn. The horses grew restless as we tied them in the shade, their nerves jangling at something only they sensed.

We explored the caves one by one, marking our path with chalk and cord. The smallest was barely wider than a man’s shoulders. Inside, the walls bore fine, straight scratches clustered in pairs and trios, always at the same height. We found tiny bones—birds, rodents, a goat kid’s skull—punctured and clean, not chewed. The larger caves held more chilling signs: woven grass nests, strips of hide pierced for fastening, and stone rings polished to a dull sheen.

In the largest chamber, we found it. At the edge of the lantern light, a low, narrow shape watched us. Its eyes reflected gold, its head wedge-shaped, limbs jointed wrong. It stayed outside a ring of polished stone, lifting a strip of hide in its claws as if to show us something. We backed away, never turning our backs, and it followed with a measured tapping—two clicks, a pause, echoing in the dark.

We tried to seal the caves with stone and brush, feeding smoky fires at the entrances. But each time, something inside pushed back. Cord we tied across the mouths was cut clean, not chewed. Fresh strips of hide appeared, laid neatly where our barriers collapsed. Don Enzo gave the order: we would drive the herd south, away from this cursed ground.

That night, the goats pressed tight in the corral, eyes wide, bleating in panic. The clicking returned, carrying across the open land, followed by a thin, whistling note. We kept watch until dawn, rifles ready, nerves raw. When the herd reached safer pastures, the air cleared, but the memory clung.

But the curse followed. At Arturo’s ranch, far to the south, goats began dying again—punctures at the neck, blood gone, no tracks. The clicking circled our camp at night, counting us, marking us. Don Enzo understood: these things were no ordinary beasts. They were patient, intelligent, and organized. We could not fight them, only warn others and keep moving.

Weeks passed. The herd fattened in new pasture, but none of us believed it was over. The caves still waited in the ridge, breathing. The things within had measured us and let us go—for now.

And so the warning remains: there are places in this land where the stone watches, where goats die without blood, and where men are only spared until the darkness decides otherwise. One day, someone braver or more foolish will return to those caves. When they do not come back, their names will join ours in the stories whispered by ranch fires—another warning to keep men from the caves where the clicking never ends.