Last year’s Yule Goat Extravaganza turned out to be a sorry little event. Only three of us went along and at the time it hardly seemed newsworthy. Putting bells on a goat barely counts as festive, and as the goat escaped within a few minutes of my arrival there wasn’t much spectacle at all. I only mention it now because rumour has it that a new Yule Goat Extravaganza will happen this year. Even bigger and better than last year! Which in fairness is a really low set bar.
The rumours are at present short on details. Will we set fire to the Yule Goat? Will the Yule Goat set fire to us? Or instead, will the head of the Yule Goat explode in a sudden burst of utter darkness from which the tentacles of a ravening elder god will inevitably emerge?
Those of you who were only driven temporarily mad by the whole business with the Yule Rabbit a few years ago have every reason to feel cautious. There’s often a fine line between well meant community activities and accidently starting a cult and summoning something unspeakable. And potentially unreasonably amorous. I still have nightmares.
Perhaps we could ditch the festive chanting this year? Could those attending find it in their hearts to leave all cursed family heirlooms at home, refrain from bringing occult texts and keep the morris dancing to an absolute minimum. Thank you.
“I am so sorry to see me go,” announced Jeffrey Fleisher at a meeting he called last night. “I have had a premonition that I will shortly be eaten by an Elder God, and thought it only fair to warn everyone. In the meantime, I thought you might all like the opportunity to say something nice about me while I’m here to appreciate it.”
On the whole it was a pleasant evening and a cheerful sort of party. Curiously Doc Willoughby felt the need to publicly declare that he did thought people preparing for sacrifice should take the whole situation a lot more seriously and not make jokes about it. “You never know when you’re going to be sacrificed,” he said. “That’s part of the point.” When questioned, he refused to comment further on this.
At the end of the evening, Jeffrey called out a cheerful “See you in another life,” to the crowd and opened the door into the street. There was a puff of something sulphurous and suggestive of old decay. The three people nearest the door were reduced to trembling wrecks and could not find any decent adjectives to describe what they had seen. Or they were already exceptionally drunk – it was hard to tell. Rather than risk whatever was outside, the rest of us stayed in the hall overnight and kept drinking.
Of course by morning, there wasn’t much to see. Perhaps it is for the best.
News for the residents of Hopeless, Maine
