My mum hails from Cornwall, from the little village of Blue Hill to be precise. I’ve always been close to my grandad—her dad. Ever since I was knee-high, he’d drag me along everywhere, even to work. I loved listening to his tales, the sort of stories you’d half-believe, spun from a lifetime of odd encounters.
Once, I asked if he’d ever seen fairies. He said no, but witches? Oh, he’d met those. And shape-shifters, too. I’d never heard of such things, so I begged him to explain. He told me they were sorcerers who could turn into any creature they pleased, even take flight if they fancied.
After his army days, he worked as a night watchman guarding cornfields in Blue Hill. His job was simple: keep thieves off the land. One evening, he arrived at the field around nine, and right away, something felt off. The air was thick, biting cold, and the full moon cast eerie shadows over everything.
As usual, he patrolled the rows. Past midnight, he slumped into his chair, but exhaustion crept in, heavy as a sack of potatoes. Just as sleep tugged at him, a shiver ran down his spine—the sort that warns you trouble’s coming.
Then, footsteps. Not the usual rustle of wind through corn, but proper steps, like someone tromping about. He grabbed his rifle—old habits die hard—and barked, “Who’s there?” All he got back was laughter, hopping from one spot to another, closer each time.
Steeling himself, he marched into the field, rifle at the ready. Suddenly, a pig darted out between the stalks. Just a pig, he thought, giving chase. But as he lunged for its tail, the bloomin’ thing stood up on two legs and kept running. Grandad froze, gobsmacked.
He raised his rifle, finger on the trigger—then wings burst from the creature’s back. With a cackle, it shot into the sky. Fear nailed him to the spot. The rifle clattered to the ground, smacking his toes. The pain snapped him out of it. Crossing himself, he snatched the gun and bolted home, still shaking.
He’d heard tales of shape-shifters, sure, but never thought he’d meet one. Even now, telling the story, he gets goosebumps. And I believe him—because when he speaks, his eyes glaze over, like he’s back in that field, staring up at the thing that shouldn’t have been.
