What You Wish For

[WP] Desperate for a child a couple take to the dark arts to seek the dark blessings of the Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young, but instead of curing their infertility the eldritch god, not quite understanding the subtleties of human speech, gives them an adorable eldritch horror to raise

*****

Caroline had not told anyone she and Paul were trying for a child because she didn't want her friends and family to picture the two of them, accurately, raw dogging it. They deserved to be spared—both their friends and family and Caroline and Paul themselves.

For years they had postponed their visit to the fertility clinic because Caroline didn't want Paul to feel bad for firing blanks and Paul didn't want Caroline to feel bad for being barren. When they finally went, it turned out their fears were warranted: they were infertile. Both of them. All this time, Paul had been firing blanks across her barren landscape. The dog wasn't raw. The dog was dead.

"Do you want me to fix you a piña colada?"

"Do you have any of those fancy cocktail umbrellas?"

Paul, holding a bottle of white rum, stared at his slippers. "No."

"Then I want one."

"Oh. Sure. One world-class piña colada coming right up!"

Paul was taking a mixology class online. Become a world-class bartender in 7 days. It was only $17.99. Caroline had asked him what materials he got for that, and Paul said he got a 45-minute video and a dozen recipes. He also got a certificate. Caroline said she would put it on the fridge.

The woman they met with at the Henderson Fertility Center recommended hypnotherapy and acupuncture. "Have you considered adoption?"

"We looked into it. Turns out we're too poor."

"Oh. Right."

"Yeah."

It was when they left the clinic that a man rushed over to them. "Hey," he said, "I know that look. Bad news, huh?"

"I guess," Paul said.

The stranger gave them a kind smile. "There's always hope." He handed Paul a pamphlet.

"Oh. We're not really religious."

The man laughed. "It's not a religion. It's not a cult either. No, no. The Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young is legit."

"Right," said Paul. "That's really interesting. Thank you. We really appreciate it."

The stranger smiled and he left. Caroline had been impressed with how swiftly Paul had been able to deflect this crazy person.

When Paul handed her a green drink in a wine glass, the pamphlet lay before on the coffee table. "It's green," she said.

"Yes."

"I thought it would be white."

"That's a cliché. John France Dumaine says a good cocktail makes you think."

"Isn't it enough that it makes you drink?"

Paul snorted. "I'm challenging your conception."

"Conception is already a challenge to us, isn't it?" She tapped the pamphlet.

"Don't do that."

What?"

"Don't use that like some emotional dagger."

"An emotional dagger? What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "Here I am, making you a cocktail. An innovative one. And you bring that stuff up, to make me feel bad. Why?"

"I didn't say it to make you feel bad."

"Then why did you say it?"

"It was a joke."

"A joke."

"Yeah. Gallows humor. Like in that movie you like."

To his credit, he shifted gears and nodded his head thoughtfully. "In Bruges." He pointed his finger at her. "YOU are an inanimate fucking object!"

"Yes."

He guffawed, actually. "Hey," he said, "let's call the goat guy."

"Who?"

Paul picked up the pamphlet. "The Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young. There's a number. Let's call it."

Caroline froze for a second. She hadn't realized Paul was the sort of person who might call a random person out of the blue. "No. Come on. We can't do that. Let's make cocktails instead. You can make me an apple mojito in a glass mug."

Paul stopped and stared at her. He raised an eyebrow. "That's really innovative."

Taking a sip of her green piña colada Caroline slowly nodded her head. Hopefully, he wouldn't call the goat guy."

"I'm calling the goat guy."

"No!"

She was forced to sit as a silent witness as Paul dialed the number. Calling a number like that felt like clicking on a sketchy link in an email about Viagra or millions of dollars coming your way. Caroline didn't do stuff like that, and she didn't think Paul did either. Was he secretly opening spam emails and clicking their links just for the hell of it? Was he some sort of renegade?

"Oh. Okay."

He didn't look like he was talking to a goat guy. He just looked like he was talking to some guy. Certainly not the Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young.

"Right. Uhuh. Sure. Two. Exactly. Yes."

What was the saying? Two what? Two people? Two children?

"Tonight?" he said all of a sudden. He stared at Caroline. She desperately shook her head. "Yeah, I guess tonight is fine."

She wanted to scream. Instead, she downed her piña colada, in preparation. In preparation for what? Of anything. Everything.

"Alright. Bye. Take care."

"What did he say? Did you just agree to something?"

Paul looked up at her from his phone. "Huh? Oh. Yeah. He's coming over."

"Who's coming over?"

"The goat guy."

This time, Caroline did scream.

***

"This is green."

"Y-Yes."

"I thought you said it was a piña colada?"

The Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young carefully held the wine glass in one of his claws. He turned his eye towards Caroline.

"My name is Patrick, by the way."

"Patrick?"

"Yeah. You can call me Pat."

"Pat."

"Yeah, like that."

Paul cleared his throat. "It makes you think."

Pat blinked his lone eye. "What, my name?"

"N-No. The cocktail. It's not exactly ... what you'd expect it to be."

The goat-lobster creature on their sofa said, "Oh. I guess that's true."

It was like they were all sitting in molasses. Nobody dared move more than necessary, not even Pat. Perhaps they were all worried the tension in the room would spontaneously combust. It felt like it might.

"This is nice," said Pat. "And it's a nice apartment. You'll make great parents."

"Oh, I don't know ..." said Paul. "We're thinking about trying hypnotherapy. Or acupuncture."

Pat scoffed. "If you ask me, that stuff is just a scam. It's supposed to relieve stress, right? But stress isn't always the issue. Sometimes you're just unlucky. Or cursed."

"Cursed?"

Pat took a sip of his drink. "Yeah. It happens. People walk around and they don't know. They don't even know they're cursed. But I can tell. That's one of my abilities."

"What about us?" said Caroline. "Are we cursed? Is that why we're infertile?"

"Come on," said Paul. "We're not cursed. They said so at the clinic. I have a low sperm count and the few I've got aren't great swimmers. That's only natural. I'm not much of a swimmer myself. And you have POS syndrome."

"PCO syndrome," Caroline corrected him.

"Right. It's not a curse. It's genetics. Or epigenetics. Or both. What's the difference?" Paul leaned back and folded his arms. "Well, it's just science, isn't it?"

"He's right," said Pat. "It's not a curse. I did pass by your landlord earlier, however, and he's cursed. Good old Groth-Golka is coming for him." He looked at them, clearly excited. "The Demon Bird-God of Balsagoð."

Their landlord, Henry, was in his fifties and he often wore sweater vests. How did he get himself cursed by a demonic bird?

"Anyhow," said Pat, "here's the egg."

"The egg?"

Pat unhinged his jaws and an egg-shaped object moved up his throat in apparent peristalsis. It sounded like he was in immense pain. Tears fell from his singular eye. He pushed through his agony and spat the egg at Paul who managed to catch it even with all the slippery slobber.

"W-What's this?"

Pat wiped his face with a napkin. "That's your child. Take good care of it."

With that, the Goat of the Woods with a Thousand (999?) Young left them behind.

*****

TO BE CONCLUDED