The Card of the Goat

My grandmother passed when I was six, and grief wrapped around me like a cold, wet shroud. I remember that afternoon, the light in my room a dull amber through drawn curtains. I reached for the radio on my nightstand, but before my fingers touched the dial, a sound from the bathroom made me freeze. It was a soft, rhythmic rustling, like cards being shuffled on tile.

I pushed the door open slowly. There she was, my grandmother, sitting cross-legged on the bathroom floor, her pale fingers dancing over a spread of tarot cards. She looked up, and her eyes, though empty of life, held a glimmer of recognition. She lifted a single card and held it toward me. It was the Devil, his horned face leering, chains dangling from his wrists. A scream caught in my throat, and I ran to my mother. We called a psychic, a woman who smelled of lavender and old paper. She moved through the house, burning bundles of sage in every corner, muttering words I couldn’t understand. Finally, she shook her head. ‘There is nothing more I can do,’ she said, her voice heavy. ‘You are atheists. The door is open, but I cannot close it.’

Two years later, at eight, my wanderlust was sparked by the haunting memory of that card. We had moved to a rambling Victorian in Waynesville, Ohio, a town steeped in the lore of the Underground Railroad. The owner, a stooped old man with rheumy eyes, told us our house had once been a station. My heart raced. I knew those houses often had secret passages. I spent hours tapping walls, lifting loose floorboards, and running my fingers along baseboards. One evening, in my room, I pulled back the edge of my threadbare rug and found a trapdoor. My pulse thrummed as I pried it open, revealing a narrow ladder descending into darkness.

I climbed down, the wooden rungs groaning under my weight. The basement was cold and smelled of earth and decay. A single bare bulb cast a sickly yellow glow. Against one wall, I spotted an old trunk. I knelt and lifted the lid. Inside, I found a collection of items: a tarnished silver locket, a tattered diary, and a deck of tarot cards, wrapped in a black silk cloth. I unwrapped them. The cards were worn, their edges soft. I fanned them out on the dirt floor. The same Devil card from my vision stared up at me, but now it was different. In the candlelight, the goat’s eyes seemed to glitter, and I felt a pull, a whisper of a presence. That night, I had dreams of a corridor lined with doors, and a voice calling my name from the last one.

As I grew older, the dreams persisted. I learned to navigate the dream corridor, each door leading to a different room in the house, but the last door always remained locked. When I turned sixteen, my mother grew gravely ill. I spent days at her bedside, holding her hand, watching her fade. One night, as she slept, I felt a cold draft. I followed it to my room. The trapdoor was open, blackness yawning beneath. I climbed down without hesitation. The basement was unchanged, but the devil card was lying on the floor, face up. I picked it up, and the image seemed to pulse. A voice, deep and resonant, filled my mind: ‘You have sought me all your life. Are you ready to embrace me?’

I should have run, but I was consumed by curiosity and desperation. My mother was dying, and I would do anything to save her. I placed the card on the floor and, using my own blood, drew the sigil I had seen in my dreams. The ground trembled, and the card burst into blue flames. The smoke coalesced into a figure—tall, horned, with eyes like burning coals. He smiled, revealing needle-like teeth. ‘A bargain,’ he said. ‘Your soul for hers.’ I hesitated, but the image of my mother’s pale face pushed me over the edge. ‘Yes,’ I whispered.

The next morning, my mother was healthy, her cheeks rosy, her laughter filling the house. But I felt a hollow in my chest. Over the following weeks, I noticed changes. Shadows clung to me longer. My reflection would lag, as if thinking. I would wake with scratches on my arms. And the devil card, now in my possession, would sometimes whisper to me at night.

I tried to destroy it, to throw it into the river, but it always returned, appearing under my pillow or on my desk. I began to unravel. My mother, now well, didn’t notice my deterioration. She was too busy living. One night, I found myself standing at the trapdoor again. I climbed down, and the corridor from my dreams materialized. I walked to the last door. It was slightly ajar. I pushed it open. Inside, I saw him—my grandmother, but transformed. Her skin was leathery, her eyes glowing. She was shuffling the tarot deck. ‘You’ve come,’ she said, her voice a rasp. ‘I’ve been waiting. The bargain is complete. Now you take my place.’ She held up the Devil card. I looked into its eyes, and I saw my own reflection. I screamed, but no sound came out.

I woke up in my bed, drenched in sweat. The house was quiet. I rushed to the bathroom. In the mirror, I saw my face, but my eyes were wrong—the irises were a sickly yellow, like candle flames. I tried to smile, but my lips twisted into a sinister grin. I heard my mother’s voice calling from the kitchen. ‘Breakfast is ready!’ I walked down the stairs, and as I passed the basement door, I felt a pull. I opened it, descending into the darkness. At the bottom, a pile of cards lay scattered. I picked one up. It was the Fool. I laughed, a sound that was not my own. The bargain was sealed, and I was now the keeper of the cards. The house had claimed another soul, and I was doomed to wait for the next curious child to find its secret.