Animals – Anthology of the Unknown

They say the first sign isn’t blood, but silence. Animals go quiet, as if every throat in the night holds its breath. Then comes the rustle — a low, scraping shuffle along fence lines, followed by the sharp crack of wood splitting. When farmers investigate, they find livestock drained, not torn. The bodies are left intact, but hollow, their eyes filmed with gray. The name whispered across the Americas is the same: Chupacabra. Some call it a myth born from goats found bled dry. But those who’ve heard its hissing breath know better. A myth doesn’t leave tracks.

Miguel had heard the stories since childhood. His grandmother would spit three times when the name was spoken, as if to ward it away. Now grown, tending his family’s goats in a small Puerto Rican village, he laughed off such fears. Until the night he counted thirteen goats before bed and twelve in the morning. The missing one was found by the stream. No bite marks, no claw tears, no blood on the ground. Just two small punctures along its neck, perfect and clean, as if marked by a surgeon’s scalpel. Miguel’s laughter dried up. He began locking the pen.

That night, the goats screamed. Not bleated — screamed, a sound like tearing metal. Miguel ran barefoot into the yard, lantern swinging. The air was sharp with copper. He shone the light across the pen and saw eyes. Not the bright reflection of animals, but a low red gleam, pulsing like embers. The figure crouched, hunched and leathery, skin stretched thin over bone. Spines ran down its back, and its limbs bent at angles too sharp. The goats pressed against the far fence, panicked. The creature hissed, a sound wet and hungry. Then it leapt, vanishing into the scrub. One goat collapsed.

The villagers gathered the next day, whispering over the drained carcass. Miguel swore he’d seen the beast, but the elders only shook their heads. Some muttered about wolves, others about coyotes, though none could explain the surgical punctures. His grandmother pulled him aside. “It hunts when people laugh at it,” she warned. “It likes pride. You mocked it, so now it knows your scent.” She pressed a rosary into his palm. Miguel wanted to dismiss her words, but the way her eyes darted toward the tree line made him pocket the beads anyway. By nightfall, he barred every door.

For three nights, silence. Miguel began to hope it had moved on. Then the dogs began vanishing. First one, then another. Always chained outside, always discovered in the morning lying stiff, twin holes staining the fur at the throat. Villagers locked their animals inside, but that only meant waking to scratches along the doors, deep gouges as though claws tested for weakness. One man claimed to see it perched on his roof, long fingers drumming the tiles. Another swore he heard it whispering in the dark, a wet clicking language no human could mimic. Fear settled like dust.

Miguel stopped sleeping. He sat by the window, lantern burning low, shotgun across his lap. The goats stirred uneasily. Around midnight, the lantern flame bent sideways, as if the air itself leaned away from the house. The dogs began barking, then yelped, then went silent. Miguel gripped the gun tighter. A scraping echoed across the roof. He craned upward, pulse racing. Dust sifted from the rafters. Something crawled across the shingles, slow and deliberate, each claw dragging like a hooked nail on slate. Miguel aimed blindly upward, finger trembling on the trigger. Then, silence. He waited until dawn to move.

At sunrise, he climbed to the roof. Tiles were cracked, clawed in lines that curved inward, not across. As if something circled above him, patiently waiting. That afternoon, he met with other men of the village. They gathered silver knives, old charms, and crucifixes, preparing to drive it out. “It drinks goats,” one man said. “We’ll use them as bait.” Miguel hated the thought but agreed. That night they tethered two goats near the edge of the clearing, building a circle of salt and embers around them. The men hid in the shadows, weapons ready, every ear straining for breath.

Hours passed. Then, a rustle. The goats stiffened, eyes rolling white. A low hiss slid between the trees. Miguel’s lantern shook in his hand. Something shifted beyond the circle’s edge, a darker shadow among shadows. The goats cried out, thrashing against their ropes. The creature stepped into the light. Its skin was gray, veined black, with spines jutting like broken glass. Its eyes glowed a dull red, locked on the animals. One man raised his rifle. Before he could fire, the thing moved — a blur, faster than any predator should. The salt circle scattered. The men screamed. The goats went silent.

Gunfire cracked the night. Bullets tore bark from trees but hit nothing solid. The creature darted between trunks, a streak of sinew and spines. Men scattered, some fleeing, others reloading. Miguel stood frozen, watching it climb vertically up a tree, head twisting too far around, eyes fixed on him. He fired blindly. The flash illuminated its mouth — a lipless maw lined with thin, needlelike fangs. It hissed and dropped, vanishing into the grass. When silence returned, two men were missing. Their rifles lay on the ground, barrels bent as though by tremendous force. The goats were gone, ropes snapped clean.

In the days that followed, fear hollowed the village. Children were kept inside. Doors were bolted at dusk. The forest grew eerily quiet, as if every bird had flown elsewhere. Miguel found himself dreaming of it: the red eyes, the hiss, the teeth like needles. He woke to find scratches on his window frame, fresh each morning, closer each time. His grandmother whispered prayers over him, but her voice shook. “It marks you,” she said. “Once it drinks from your herd, it returns until it tastes you.” Miguel gripped the rosary until his knuckles went white. He knew she was right.

On the fifth night, Miguel heard a noise inside the house. Not outside — inside. The goats bleated frantically in their pen, but the sound was muffled, distant. Miguel crept through the dark, shotgun ready. The scratching came from the kitchen. He raised the lantern and froze. A crack had split the plaster wall. From inside, two red eyes glowed, staring out. The plaster bulged, crumbling outward as claws pressed through. Miguel fired, blasting the wall. Dust choked the air. When it cleared, the crack was empty. But the goats were silent outside. He ran, heart hammering. They were all gone.

The villagers spoke of leaving. Some packed bags, abandoning fields and animals. Others argued it would only follow. “It isn’t a beast,” an elder said. “It’s a curse. A shadow that drinks what we raise, until we starve.” Miguel volunteered to hunt it. He could not bear watching the village unravel. Armed with silver blades, crucifixes, and every tale he remembered, he entered the forest alone. Hours passed in silence. Then he found a clearing. The grass was black, pressed flat in a wide circle. In the center lay bones, polished white, piled into a shape like a nest. Miguel knew it was waiting.

He crouched in the nest’s shadow, lantern flickering. The bones weren’t just animals. Human skulls grinned back at him, hollow-eyed. Miguel’s stomach lurched, but he held steady. A hiss slithered behind him. He spun, blade raised. The Chupacabra crouched low, spines quivering, its eyes burning with hunger. Miguel lunged, driving the silver knife forward. The blade struck its chest — and bounced, as though hitting stone. The creature shrieked, a sound like metal tearing. It swiped, claws ripping through his sleeve, leaving three burning lines on his arm. Miguel stumbled back, blood dripping. The lantern fell, flames licking the dry grass.

Fire spread across the clearing, crackling as the nest ignited. The Chupacabra screeched, rearing back, spines clattering like glass. Miguel raised his shotgun and fired point blank. Smoke swallowed the blast. When it cleared, the creature was gone. Only claw marks on the dirt remained. The fire raged too quickly to pursue. Miguel staggered home, bleeding, half-believing he’d killed it. But that night, he heard the goats again — screaming in the distance, though his pen was empty. He realized the truth with horror. He hadn’t killed it. He had only scattered it. Now it hunted wherever the smoke had carried.

Reports spread beyond the village. Farmers in nearby towns found drained animals. Stray dogs disappeared overnight. Travelers along the highway whispered of something crouched on rooftops, eyes burning in the dark. Miguel grew gaunt, haunted, guilt pressing like stone. He had burned the nest, but unleashed the hunger farther. Some nights, he swore he heard his goats crying from the hills. Other nights, he dreamt of the red eyes glowing from cracks in his walls. He carried the silver knife always, though he knew it would not pierce. His grandmother’s rosary broke in his pocket, beads scattering like seeds.

To this day, stories of the Chupacabra persist — across Puerto Rico, Mexico, Texas, and beyond. Always the same: animals drained, punctures clean, silence before the scream. Some say it’s one creature, eternal and restless. Others claim it spreads like fire, many born from one hunger. Farmers still whisper prayers as they lock their gates, and children are told never to wander at night. Miguel disappeared one evening, his house found empty, claw marks etched across the walls. The goats have never returned to that valley. But on moonless nights, when silence falls too deep, people swear they hear hissing.

In the older neighborhoods, there’s a story everyone knows but few repeat aloud. They say cats linger at thresholds for a reason. Landlords tell newcomers that pets act strangely in certain houses — meowing at closed doors, pacing the entryway, scratching to be let in or out without ever settling. At first, it feels like annoyance, a quirk of the animal. But the longer you live there, the more unsettling it becomes. The cats aren’t restless. They’re guarding. And if you ignore their vigilance long enough, you’ll notice something else: shadows moving when the doors are opened. Marta, a retired teacher, recalled her first encounter with the legend. Her cat, Dorian, would sit stubbornly in front of her bedroom door every night, tail twitching, ears angled toward the hall. Whenever she tried to coax him away, he hissed — something he had never done to her before. One evening, annoyed, Marta pushed him aside and closed the door. At three a.m., she awoke to scratching sounds on the inside of the door, though Dorian was curled on the bed beside her. She never spoke of what she saw when she opened it. Neighbors only remember she moved out.

Folklore scholars have long considered doorways liminal — places where boundaries blur. The old people in town believed each entry was a crack between worlds, too thin to hold back what pressed against it. Animals, especially cats, were said to sense the strain. They would guard the gaps instinctively, as though their very presence sealed the divide. It’s why, the elders say, homes without cats feel colder, emptier. There’s no one watching. Modern families laugh, insisting their pets just want outside. But sometimes laughter dies when the air chills suddenly at a half-open door and the cat refuses to cross. Years ago, a child vanished on Ashgrove Street. Witnesses recall she had been playing in the yard, her orange tabby darting around her feet. The child ran toward the porch door, cat at her heels. She stopped midway through, one foot in, one out. Neighbors swear the cat arched and yowled as if fighting something unseen. The girl laughed, tugging the animal forward. A moment later, both were gone. The door swung slowly shut, leaving the family screaming on the porch. Search parties found no trace. Some say the tabby still wanders, scratching at doorways but never crossing inside.

On Maple Avenue, there’s a crumbling boarding house that renters never stay in for long. Tenants describe cats from the neighborhood loitering there — sitting on stoops, blocking doorframes, staring inward with unblinking eyes. Visitors report the smell of mildew and the sound of dripping water, but it’s the cats that disturb them most. They gather silently, like sentries. People who lived there swear doors rattle at night, though windows remain still. One man claimed he saw a pale hand press through the crack beneath the kitchen door, only to vanish when the cats bolted upright and hissed in unison. Some families adopted traditions to ward off what might slip through. A dish of milk set by each doorway. Salt sprinkled in the hinges. Always keep at least one cat in the house, they said, and never scold it for scratching at the threshold. It was considered an insult to the guardian, a dangerous dismissal. In old diaries, there are records of people who refused to keep cats at all. Their homes were said to fall victim more quickly — filled with drafts, doors slamming without wind, and shapes glimpsed in mirrors. Those households rarely stayed occupied for long.

A traveling salesman once lodged in the town’s inn, scoffing at the stories. He had no pets, no patience for superstition. That night, the innkeeper’s cat stationed itself at his door. The man shoved it aside with his shoe, laughing as he closed the door behind him. Hours later, other guests awoke to his screams. They found him in the hallway, claw marks across his chest — not from an animal, but something sharper, thinner, as if carved with needles. He babbled about faces pressing through the wood, whispering his name. He left before dawn, never to return. It isn’t only front doors that matter. Bedrooms, closets, basements — all have thresholds. Cats know this. In one house, a family complained their kitten refused to cross the doorway into the basement. When they carried him down, he panicked, scratching to escape. Weeks later, their son reported seeing figures in the corner of the basement doorway, shapes darker than the dark itself. They thought it imagination, until one evening the father felt breath on his neck as he climbed the basement stairs. He turned, but nothing was there — except the kitten, crouched on the step, eyes wide.

There are rare nights when cats behave even more strangely. They’ll plant both front paws on the threshold and stand motionless, staring into the space beyond. Old folklore says this is when the barrier is thinnest, when something stronger presses against the door. A farmer once described his barn cats doing it together — six of them, shoulder to shoulder at the barn door, unmoving for hours. He thought they were staring at mice until he noticed the wood bowing inward, as though pressed by unseen weight. The next morning, the door bore long cracks, though no storm had passed. Records tell of a woman who lived alone near the edge of town. She had three cats and no visitors. When neighbors grew concerned after weeks of silence, they forced the door and entered. The house was empty. No furniture, no belongings, no woman. Only the cats remained, pacing door to door, tails puffed, as if still guarding. Some say the woman was taken through one of the thresholds she failed to respect. Others whisper she might have joined whatever lingers there. The cats eventually scattered, each claimed by other families — but every one still stalks their new doorways.

During a heavy winter storm, power went out across the district. Families huddled in the dark, fires burning low. One family noticed their tomcat pacing wildly at the front door, yowling. Annoyed, they tried to quiet him, even locking him in the pantry. Hours later, the front door creaked open by itself. Cold wind howled in — and something else followed. Footsteps in the hall, slow and dragging, though no one was there. The family fled into the night, barefoot in the snow. When neighbors entered days later, the house was deserted. Only the cat remained, guarding the door. Local legend speaks of an artist obsessed with capturing cats in his work. Every painting showed a feline crouched at a doorway, eyes luminous, bodies taut. When questioned, he explained he could see things others could not — figures pressing from the other side, faces crowding the frames of his doors. The cats, he said, were the only reason he still lived. One day, his home was found abandoned. The canvases were gone, torn from their frames. Only claw marks remained along the inside of the doors, as though something had finally gotten in, dragging him silently away.

Parents in the district still caution their children. “Don’t chase the cat if it lingers in the doorway,” they say. “Don’t drag it inside if it won’t come.” Some dismiss it as silly superstition. Yet accidents cluster around the children who ignore the advice. One girl vanished while playing hide and seek, last seen near her grandmother’s porch door. Another boy swore something pulled his sister’s hair as she crossed a kitchen threshold. She was found trembling, eyes staring blankly, unable to speak again. The warnings remain simple, almost playful, but the weight behind them has never faded. A priest once spent the night in one of the afflicted houses, determined to disprove the folklore. He prayed at the doorway, sprinkling holy water, dismissing the cats that prowled nearby. At midnight, he described hearing whispers on the other side of the wood, voices imitating his own prayers but twisting the words. He reported shadows moving in the hall even as he stood alone. When dawn broke, he left the house pale and shaking. His sermons never mentioned thresholds again, but he adopted six cats at once, each one patrolling his rectory doors until the day he died.

It is said once each decade, the cats in the neighborhood gather on Ashgrove Street. Dozens appear, sitting in silence at every doorway, from corner store to abandoned house. People who have seen it describe a low vibration in the air, like countless wings brushing past. The cats remain still until dawn, then disperse without a sound. No one knows what presses against the thresholds on those nights, nor what the cats keep from entering. But residents lock their doors tightly, shutter windows, and pray. They know the guardians are working. And they dare not interfere with the vigil. Cats may seem capricious, impossible to please, but in this place their behavior carries weight. When they linger at a doorway, people wait with them. When they pace, households light candles and stay silent. Some scoff, but the older families nod knowingly, living long lives under feline watch. In this town, you don’t push a cat aside when it guards the door. You let it stand there as long as it wishes. For the unspoken belief is clear: without the watchers, something far worse would walk through.

Tag: Animals

The Chupacabra

Guardians of the Veil