It happened on a quiet afternoon in the city. A taxi driver pulled up to the curb, expecting another hurried passenger with shopping bags or a suitcase. Instead, a goat trotted out of nowhere, climbed onto the backseat, and sat down as calmly as any customer.
At first, the driver laughed, thinking it was a prank. He opened the door, tried to shoo the animal out, but the goat wouldn’t budge. It stared straight ahead, eyes fixed, as though it had somewhere important to be.
Finally, with a shrug, the driver started the meter and began driving. He took random turns, slowed near parks, even passed a market, hoping the animal would jump out. But every time he slowed, the goat only stamped its hoof against the seat, as if urging him to keep moving.
When the driver passed the city limits, unease crept in. The goat had not looked at him once. It only kept its gaze locked forward, breathing calmly, waiting.
Hours later, without any instructions, the taxi rolled up to the gates of the old cemetery on the edge of town. To the driver’s shock, the goat suddenly stirred. It leapt out of the car, trotted through the open gates, and disappeared among the gravestones without a sound.
The driver sat frozen, engine running, staring at the empty road ahead. He swore later that when he checked his rearview mirror, the meter displayed a fare of exactly 13.13 — though he hadn’t touched it.
No one ever saw the goat again. But some nights, drivers say if you pass that same cemetery after dark, you can spot a lone goat standing by the gates, waiting for its ride.
