In the embrace of my dream home, surrounded by lush gardens and the echoes of a 16th-century mill, a mischievous hobgoblin once danced into my life, leaving an indelible mark on my soul.
It was the magical hour of 2 am when an outbuilding alarm shattered the stillness, jolting me, my partner, and our faithful dog from our slumber. While they ventured into the night to investigate, I, admittedly a bit of a wuss, observed the scene from the safety of our bathroom window. Peeping out over the ivy-laden trellis, I saw the log cabin, bathed in the glow of scattered lights.
Inside, my partner diligently checked every nook and cranny, oblivious to the unseen mischief unfolding on the veranda. There, with ivy as his accomplice, a little hobgoblin revealed in the chaos he'd created. Jumping, dancing, and thoroughly amused, he seemed to be orchestrating the night's pandemonium.
In silent disbelief, I watched this sprite's impromptu performance until he abruptly stopped, lifting his head to meet my gaze. For an eternity, our eyes locked in shared astonishment. His expression mirrored mine – sheer disbelief. The dance paused, a moment frozen in time, before the sound of my partner's return broke the enchantment. I turned momentarily, only to find the hobgoblin vanished.
In my youth, I hadn't fully embraced or understood my gifts, but that night's encounter with the hobgoblin was etched in my memory. Living on the cusp of England and Wales, where folklore of 'little people' abounded, I delved into research, leaving offerings of tobacco and food to maintain goodwill with my newfound friend.
Though I never saw him again, that moonlit moment, where veils between realms were thin, remains a cherished memory. As I revisit this enchanting chapter often, I pay homage to the mischievous hobgoblin who, like me, was startled to be seen in the magical dance of our worlds intertwined.
