My mum’s from a little village called Blue Hill in the countryside near Cornwall, bless her. I was always really close to my grandad—her dad—ever since I was tiny. He used to take me everywhere with him, even to work sometimes. I loved listening to his stories, all the wild tales and things he’d lived through over the years.
One time, I asked him if he’d ever seen any fairies. He laughed and said no, but he *had* seen witches—and even shape-shifters. I had no clue what a shape-shifter was, so I begged him to explain. He told me they were sorcerers who could turn themselves into any animal they wanted, even fly if they fancied it.
After he left the army, he worked as a night watchman for some cornfields out near Blue Hill. His job was to keep an eye on the crops so no one nicked ‘em. One night, he headed out to the fields around nine, and straight away, he felt something was off. The air was thick and freezing, and the full moon cast this eerie glow over everything.
Like usual, he started patrolling the field. Past midnight, he sat down in his chair, but he was knackered, and this heavy sleepiness started weighing on him. He told me he *knew* right then something bad was coming. A shiver shot down his spine, like something invisible was creeping closer.
Then—footsteps. Right there in the corn, like someone was walking through it. He grabbed his rifle—he’d been in the military, so he knew how to handle a gun, and back then, you had to look after yourself. He aimed into the field and shouted, *”Who’s there?”* All he heard was laughter—moving around, getting closer.
He took a deep breath and stepped into the field, rifle ready. That’s when he saw it—a pig, darting through the corn. He figured it was just some stray animal, so he chased after it. Just as he went to grab its tail, the thing stood up on its hind legs and kept running. My grandad froze. Couldn’t believe his eyes.
He raised the rifle, but before he could pull the trigger, two wings *burst* from the pig’s back, and *whoosh*—it shot into the sky, cackling. That’s when the fear really *hit* him. The rifle slipped from his hands, landed right on his foot, and the pain snapped him out of it. He crossed himself, grabbed the gun, and legged it home, still shaking.
He’d only ever *heard* stories about shape-shifters before that night. Never thought he’d meet one. Even now, when he tells me about it, he gets proper chills. And I believe him—because when he talks about it, his eyes go all distant, like he’s *right back there* in that field.
