The Weight of the Offering

October 9, 2019

by Tevin

3 min read

Story Premise 3 min read (547 words)

"In the summer of 1972, in a dusty village on the outskirts of Nagpur, a young farmer named Raghunath was preparing for his daughter’s wedding. His family was poor, and the wedding feast required a goat, but they had no money to buy one. So Raghunath, his brother-in-law, and a neighbor named Suresh decided to […]"

In the summer of 1972, in a dusty village on the outskirts of Nagpur, a young farmer named Raghunath was preparing for his daughter’s wedding. His family was poor, and the wedding feast required a goat, but they had no money to buy one. So Raghunath, his brother-in-law, and a neighbor named Suresh decided to hunt in the nearby forest, hoping to find a wild goat.

They walked for hours, the sun beating down, the forest thick with thorny bushes and old teak trees. Just as they were about to give up, they spotted a lone goat grazing near a dried-up stream. It was a scrawny thing, but it would do. They quickly cornered it, tied its legs, and hoisted it onto Raghunath’s shoulders. The goat was light, barely a burden, and they were eager to return.

As they walked back, Raghunath felt a strange sensation. The goat seemed to grow heavier with each step. At first, he dismissed it as fatigue, but soon the weight became unbearable. He struggled, his legs buckling under the load. Suresh noticed and said, ‘Raghunath, are you alright? You look like you’re carrying a buffalo.’ Raghunath grunted, ‘This thing is getting heavier by the minute.’ They switched carriers, but the same thing happened: the goat’s weight increased until whoever carried it could barely stand.

They decided to rest under a large banyan tree. The goat lay on the ground, its eyes glazed, its body trembling. As they sat, they noticed a strange silence. Even the cicadas had stopped. The air grew cold, and a faint odor of rotting leaves filled their nostrils. Raghunath, a strong and fearless man, felt an inexplicable dread. He said, ‘We should have never picked that goat.’

Then the goat began to change. Its fur darkened, becoming coarse and matted. Its hooves looked like claws. A low growl rumbled from its throat, not like any goat sound. The three men stared in horror as the creature’s body swelled, its muscles bulging, its horns twisting into gnarled branches. It slowly stood, its joints cracking, its eyes burning with a malevolent light.

Raghunath backed away, his heart pounding. ‘Run!’ he shouted, but his legs were heavy, as if the weight had transferred to them. The creature spoke, its voice deep and ancient, ‘You sought to sacrifice me for your feast. But you have summoned something far hungrier.’

The creature lunged at Suresh, who screamed as it tore into him. Raghunath and his brother-in-law fled, crashing through the undergrowth. They didn’t stop until they reached the village, breathless and covered in scratches. But when they turned back, there was nothing but darkness and silence.

They never told anyone the full truth. They said a wild animal attacked them. But that night, as Raghunath lay in bed, he felt a weight on his chest, as if the goat was still sitting on him. He heard a whisper, ‘You cannot outrun what you carry.’

Raghunath died a week later, his body found in the forest, near the same banyan tree, his face frozen in a silent scream. The goat was never found. But in the village, they say if you walk through that forest at dusk, you might see a shadowy goat, waiting for a new burden.

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