My mother is from Cornwall, the village of Blue Hill to be exact. I’ve always been close to my grandad, my mum’s father. As a boy, he took me everywhere with him, even to work. I loved listening to his stories—tales of his life’s adventures.
Once, I asked if he’d ever seen fairies. He said no, but he had seen witches and even shape-shifters. I didn’t know what a shape-shifter was, so I asked him to explain. He told me they were sorcerers who could take the form of any animal, even fly if they wished.
After leaving the army, he worked as a night watchman in a cornfield near Blue Hill. His job was to guard the crops from thieves. One night, he arrived at the field around nine. Right away, he felt something was off. The air was thick, icy, and the full moon cast an eerie glow.
As usual, he walked the perimeter. Past midnight, he sat in his chair, but exhaustion weighed on him. Just as sleep crept in, a chill shot through him—like something unseen was closing in.
Then he heard footsteps rustling through the corn. Grabbing his rifle (he’d been a soldier, so he knew how to handle one), he aimed into the field and shouted, “Who’s there?” All he heard was laughter, shifting from side to side, growing louder.
Steeling himself, he stepped into the field, rifle ready. A pig burst from the stalks. Thinking it was just a stray, he chased it. But as he reached for its tail, the pig stood on two legs and kept running. My grandad froze, stunned.
He raised his rifle to shoot, but before he could pull the trigger, wings sprouted from the creature’s back. With a cackle, it soared into the sky. Terror locked him in place. The rifle slipped from his hands, clattering onto his feet. The pain snapped him out of it. Crossing himself, he grabbed the gun and bolted home, still shaking.
He’d only ever heard tales of shape-shifters—never thought he’d meet one. Even now, when he tells the story, his voice trembles. And I believe him—because when he speaks of it, his gaze drifts far away, as if he’s back in that moonlit field.
Some things, no matter how hard we try, can’t be explained. That night taught me fear has a way of making legends real.
