17/96 Day 8: Agent 6523

Location: San Ysidro

Weather: Heavy heat lingered after sunset, still air, no wind. Clouds rolled in after midnight.

The eighth night feels heavier, as though the desert itself is holding its breath. The locals whisper that when the chupacabra grows bold, it announces itself not with violence, but with silence. Tonight, that silence is suffocating.

I reinforced the traps this afternoon and placed them nearer the goat pen. Fresh bait—raw liver—rests inside. Motion sensors are calibrated, cameras aligned. When night fell, I took my position on the edge of the barn, tranquilizer blow dart across my lap, notebook open.

For hours, nothing moved. No crickets, no bats, not even the distant yips of coyotes. Just stillness. Around midnight, the goats began to stir, their movements uneasy. They didn’t bleat this time—only shifted restlessly, as if trying not to draw attention. Animals know when predators are near.

At 1:14 a.m., one of the motion sensors blinked. I froze, eyes locked on the pen. The goats pressed together against the far fence, staring toward the shadows. I swept my inferred binoculars across the area but saw nothing—just brush and black earth. Yet I could feel it. Something was there. Something watching.

The smell came next. A faint, metallic tang on the air, like rust or old blood carried on no breeze at all. It made the back of my throat burn.

Then, a sound. Not the growl I heard yEsterday—this was softer. A wet, sucking noise, faint but deliberate, like something feeding just out of sight. I crept closer, careful, each step loud in the unnatural quiet. The noise stopped before I reached the pen. When I turned the flashlight on, nothing stood there. The goats shivered in silence. The bait was untouched.

I lingered until dawn, the clouds above splitting just enough to let a thin gray light touch the desert floor. I found no tracks, no blood, no sign of what stalked the night. And yet, I know it was there. Closer now. Closer than before.