‘Chupacabra’ By Rhianna Holmes

Endless fields roll over the hills, growing cabbages and other crops. Acres of farmland for the animals. The nearest town is half an hour away. Apple trees in lines as train tracks, followed by orange trees.

Before we came to the farm, we used to live in the village. Everything was dull and gray. The only entertainment we ever got was old ladies’ tales. We all sat around the fire with our hands out, warming up and filling up our lungs with smoke. The light would flicker on their faces as they told us about the beasts lurking around these parts. Nights like that happened monthly; different monsters each night.

One tale sent a shiver down my spine. The day we moved was the night of our monthly campfires. Instead of Bigfoot or the Loch Ness monster, this story stuck to me like glue. They told us about a creature who roamed around farms; sucking the blood out of goats, leaving everything inside the same. They talked about it being some sort of wild dog or a reptile, with a long piercing tongue and bulging red eyes.

Some month after we arrive on the farm, our herding dog, Blue, runs away. We cannot find him. My dad thinks there’s a wolf around so he tells me to move all the animals to other hills, but without Blue, it’s nearly impossible. I move sheep, cows, pigs and the goats. There’s a small pen left near the oak forest. I herd them all in and tie up the gate.

At night, the trees tap on the window of my bedroom, making creepy shadows against the walls. Rain is crashing down on the roof. I hide under my blanket when I hear it: an anguished howl so loud I get goosebumps on my arms and legs. I get my courage back and run to the window ledge. I see a black, wolf-like figure run through the trees. My heart pounds twice as fast. I grab my dressing gown and run down the stairs.

“Dad!!” I shout. He runs out and grabs his gun. “There!” I point towards the edge the wood. He raises his gun and shoots. I cover my ears as the loud bag sounds. The wolf limps into the forest.

Days later. The cold October air hits me in a big gush of wind. Leaves are falling off the trees, making a brown and orange blanket on the floor. I turn because of an abrupt, wolf-like howl coming from the woods. I see glowing red eyes and a snarling snout. It’s face emerges from the woodlands. It’s bigger than a wolf or a wild dog; coal black fur with large paws. It licks its lips with a long, piercing tongue.


I stand there frozen to the spot not able to move anything part of my body. I look into its dark, emotionless eyes staring into my soul. I know that no part of this creature is friendly. It’s worse than what the old ladies used to say. Much worse. It sprints towards me. My instinct is to run but my feet stay still. It pounces up to me, claws out and all.

My instincts finally kick in and I duck. The monster carries on running towards the goats. I feel something drip on my cheek. I put my hand where I felt it. I see blood on my hand. I go towards the pens. I see the Chupacabra ripping its sharp fangs into one of the goats. I signal my dad and he comes out with his gun again. He aims it at the Chupacabra and shoots; he reloads and shoots again. He does this repeatedly until his load runs out.

The creature, finally dead, lays in the pen. The goats are all on one side of the pen, cowering away in the corner.  The next day we arrange to move away. Away from the farm and away from the village. Away from any woods or forests. Away from the Chupacabra.

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