My mother hails from Cornwall, from the village of Bluehill to be precise. I was always very close to my grandfather, my mother’s father. From a young age, 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 fairies. He said no, but he had seen witches and even shapeshifters. I didn’t know what a shapeshifter was, so I begged him to explain. He told me they were sorcerers who could change their form into any animal, and some could even take flight.
After his time as a soldier, he worked as a night watchman in the cornfields near Bluehill. His duty was to guard the crops from thieves. One evening, he arrived at the fields around nine. From the start, he felt something was amiss. The air was thick and cold, and the full moon cast an eerie glow over everything.
As usual, he began his rounds. Past midnight, he settled into his chair, but exhaustion weighed heavy, and sleep crept upon him. In that moment, he sensed danger—a chill ran down his spine, as though something unseen drew near.
Suddenly, footsteps rustled through the corn, as if someone walked among the stalks. He grabbed his rifle. Having served in the army, he knew how to handle weapons, and in those days, a man had to look after himself. Rifle in hand, he aimed into the field and demanded to know who was there. All he heard in response was laughter—shifting from one side to the other, growing closer.
Steeling himself, he stepped into the field, rifle at the ready. Then, a pig darted out from between the rows. Thinking it a mere stray, he gave chase. Just as he reached to grab its tail, the creature stood upright on two legs and kept running. My grandfather froze, unable to believe his eyes.
He raised his rifle to fire, but before he could pull the trigger, wings burst from the beast’s back, and with a cackle, it took to the sky. Fear rooted him to the spot. The rifle slipped from his grasp, striking his feet. The sharp pain snapped him from his daze. Crossing himself, he snatched up the weapon and fled home, still shaking.
He said he’d only ever heard whispers of shapeshifters before that night—never thought he’d meet one face to face. Even now, when he tells the tale, his skin prickles. And I’ve no doubt he saw something… for when he speaks of it, his gaze drifts far away, as though he’s back in that moonlit field.
