My mum is from Cornwall, from the village of Blue Hill to be exact. I was always very close to my grandad, my mum’s father. Ever since I was little, he took me everywhere with him, even to his work. I loved listening to his tales—stories and experiences he’d gathered over the years.
Once, I asked if he’d ever seen pixies. He said no, but he had seen witches and even shapeshifters. I didn’t know what a shapeshifter was, so I asked him to explain. He told me they were sorcerers who could transform into any animal and even fly.
He told me that after retiring from the army, he worked as a night watchman on a cornfield in Blue Hill. His job was to guard the crops from thieves. One night, he arrived at the field around nine, and from the start, something felt off. The air was heavy, bitterly cold, and the full moon cast an eerie glow over everything.
As usual, he walked the perimeter. Past midnight, he settled into his chair, but exhaustion crept in, and a deep drowsiness took hold. At that moment, he knew something bad was about to happen. A shiver ran down his spine, as if something unseen was drawing near.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps rustling through the corn, as though someone was walking between the rows. He grabbed his rifle—former military, he knew how to handle a weapon, and back then, you had to look after yourself. Rifle in hand, he aimed into the field and shouted, “Who’s there?” All he heard was laughter, shifting from one side to the other, getting closer.
Steeling himself, he stepped into the field, weapon ready. Then, a pig burst from the stalks, darting through the crops. Thinking it was just a stray animal, he chased after it. Just as he reached for its tail, the pig rose onto its hind legs and kept running. My grandad froze, unable to believe his eyes.
He raised the rifle to fire, but before he could pull the trigger, wings sprouted from the creature’s back, and with a cackling laugh, it took flight. Fear rooted him to the spot. The rifle slipped from his fingers, striking his feet. The pain snapped him out of his daze. He crossed himself, grabbed the gun, and bolted home, still shaken.
He said he’d only ever heard stories of shapeshifters—never thought he’d meet one. Even now, when he tells me, his skin crawls. And I don’t doubt he saw something… because when he says it, his gaze drifts, like he’s reliving that night all over again.
