J_kling

Posted Sunday, August 24, 2025

3mo

INTJ

Gemini

4

5

Something different but yet still playful

The wind had been yowling against the siding all night, as if the whole house had offended it. Somewhere out there, a branch played percussion against the windowpane—tap, scrape, screech, tap. I’d decided to let it be the soundtrack to my evening and put Madness on in the background. “Night Boat to Cairo” throbbed through the speakers, that horn line rolling like a drunken marching band that got lost in the desert. It suited the mood: loud, ridiculous, oddly comforting. I was just settling into that sweet lull between the storm’s tantrum and the ska beat when it came: a thud. Not the casual sort of thud that an old house coughs up after dark, but a weighted one. Like something—or someone—had stumbled. Then came the hallway noises. First, a scraping drag against the wall, followed by a slap, a shuffle, then another thud. I leaned forward in my chair. The branch at the window and the wind’s howl faded behind the commotion. The thing—whatever it was—was trying to stay out of the light. That much was clear. Shadows caught it wrong. Just a blur, hunched and jerking forward, arms flailing like it hadn’t figured out how elbows worked. When it finally staggered into view, I realized: I was dealing with a goblin. Not the Tolkien kind with military discipline and a bad dental plan. No. This one looked like it had been kicked out of a basement Halloween party for indecent exposure and then decided my hallway was as good a place as any to vomit. Its skin was the color of boiled spinach. Its clothes—or maybe they were rags, or maybe it was just enthusiastic lint—hung off it like a scarecrow put together by someone who hated sewing. Its eyes were wide, yellow, and twitching in opposite directions, as if each had its own unfinished agenda. The goblin didn’t so much walk as stagger-bang. Its head hit the wall once, then its shoulder, then a knee. Each impact was punctuated by a squeaky grunt. Thud. Grunt. Thud. Grunt. Like a pinball machine that had given up on scoring. “Christ,” I muttered. “You’re lost, aren’t you?” The goblin froze, sniffed, then let out a screech that sounded like a bagpipe filled with bees. I half-expected it to launch itself at me. Instead, it slipped on the rug, flailed dramatically, and slammed into the coat rack. Now, most people would panic at a violent goblin in their hallway. But I’d had neighbors with worse manners. The goblin tried to bite the coat rack, failed, then whirled its head back toward me. Its teeth—what few remained—were sharp but yellowed, like old piano keys. Drool trickled down its chin, but with its posture and the wild angle of its jaw, it looked more like a drunk uncle at a wedding than a nightmare from the void. “You want a chair?” I asked it. “Or maybe just a helmet?” It screeched again, picked up my umbrella, and brandished it like a weapon. The umbrella popped open, whacking the goblin in the face, sending it toppling backwards into the shoe pile. For a supposedly “violent” creature, it was mostly violent against itself. The ska horns blared louder in the background. The goblin sat up, umbrella tangled around its head like a broken satellite dish. Its yellow eyes peeked through the fabric, full of rage and idiocy. Then it charged. I’ll give it credit—it was fast when it got going. Problem was, it hadn’t learned the fine art of running in a straight line. The thing came at me, zigzagged into the wall, ricocheted like a billiard ball, and nearly brained itself on the doorframe. I stepped aside. It slammed chest-first into the coffee table, scattering coasters and yesterday’s mail. I could’ve ended it right there. Kicked it out. Beat it with a broom. But no. Something about its sheer incompetence was… entertaining. Horror becomes comedy the moment the monster keeps tripping on its own feet. “You hungry?” I asked it. It froze. A string of drool hung between its teeth. Then it nodded—slow, deliberate, like a dog that wasn’t sure what “hungry” meant but didn’t want to miss the opportunity. I threw it a leftover sandwich from the fridge. Ham and cheese. The goblin lunged, missed, face-planted, then tried again. This time it devoured the sandwich in three chews, wrapper and all. That should’ve satisfied it, but instead, the goblin leapt onto the counter, knocking over a lamp. Sparks hissed. It shrieked in triumph, waving its arms like some pint-sized warlord of chaos. For half a second, I thought maybe this was its moment—its transformation from bumbling idiot to true horror. Then it slipped on the butter dish and collapsed into the sink. Water sprayed. Pots clanged. The goblin let out a muffled wail of frustration. I leaned back, arms crossed, watching the mess unfold. “You know,” I said, “I’ve had cats scarier than you.” It hissed, tried to climb out, and immediately got its rags caught in the garbage disposal. For a tense moment, we both stared at the switch on the wall. I swear, if goblins can sweat, that one was drenched. Finally, I took pity. “Relax,” I said, flipping the breaker off. “You’re more slapstick than sinister.” The goblin gurgled something halfway between gratitude and indigestion. The wind howled louder outside. The branch at the window tapped its jagged beat. “Night Boat to Cairo” rolled into its chorus again, horns blaring triumphantly. I sighed, grabbed a towel, and tossed it at the dripping creature. “You’re staying out of the hallway. One more thud and I’m calling pest control.” The goblin sneezed, blew its nose in the towel, and gave me a crooked grin that suggested this was only the beginning of my problems. The towel hadn’t even dried on the goblin’s dripping shoulders before the door handle started to jiggle. It wasn’t the delicate, polite kind of jiggle either. No. This was the frantic, butter-fingered spin of someone who never figured out how doors worked under pressure. The goblin froze, yellow eyes bugging wide. Then the door cracked open, and in came Jenn—half in, half out, phone clamped to her ear, nodding furiously like she was solving world hunger while, in reality, she was soothing one of her girlfriends through a breakup. “—he’s trash, Carly, you know he’s trash,” Jenn said, waving at me with her free hand as if she were strolling into a brunch spot, not my storm-battered, goblin-infested living room. The goblin panicked. Not the stoic, fanged menace of a true monster. No. He shrieked like a kettle, slipped on the puddle he’d made, and flopped backwards into the laundry room. “Hold on,” Jenn told Carly, pulling the phone slightly from her mouth. “What the hell was that?” “That,” I said, “is our guest. Try not to startle him.” The phone slipped from Jenn’s hand before I’d finished the sentence. It clattered across the floor, Carly’s tinny voice squeaking, “Hello? Jenn? Are you okay?!” Jenn backed up two steps, hand over her mouth. “What the hell is that thing? Is that—God, is that a giant rat?!” The goblin was busy having a nervous breakdown in the laundry basket, tangled up in mismatched socks and a fitted sheet he was losing a full-fledged war against. He hissed and flailed, looking less like a predator and more like laundry day gone to hell. “It’s not a rat,” I said calmly. “It’s a goblin. Violent, allegedly, though mostly against himself. Try to be civil.” “Civil?!” Jenn’s voice pitched higher than the storm outside. “You’ve got that—that gremlin thing—in your house and you’re acting like it’s a dinner guest?!” “Gremlin is offensive,” I muttered. Jenn whirled on me. “Are you serious right now?” The goblin, perhaps sensing it had become the subject of our debate, suddenly went feral. It lurched upright, rags and socks dangling from its frame like some tragic scarecrow, and fixed Jenn with a look of pure goblin indignation. Then, with no warning, it charged. It wasn’t graceful. His knees buckled inward, his arms flailed outward, and his scream was the kind of sound you’d expect from a trombone player being tased mid-solo. But he came at her, teeth bared, all 80 pounds of violent spinach-colored fury. Jenn reacted on instinct. A shriek, a leg swinging out. She kicked the goblin square in the chest. And it flew. Not stumbled, not toppled. Flew. Like a beanbag chair launched from a catapult. It shot across the dining room, rag-limbs trailing, eyes crossed with cartoon velocity, and slammed into the drywall with a wet, meaty splat. For a moment, nobody breathed. There it was, plaster dust floating, the goblin sliding down slowly, leaving behind an imprint that looked like a grotesque shadow puppet frozen mid-tantrum. Jenn clutched the back of a chair, chest heaving. “What—what was that?!” “I told you,” I said, crossing my arms. “Goblin. You really didn’t have to kick him like that, though. That was excessive.” “Excessive?!” Jenn’s eyes blazed. “It was coming at me like it wanted to rip my face off!” The goblin groaned from the floor. Not dead. Not even unconscious. Just winded and possibly reconsidering his life choices. He tried to stand, failed, and instead waved a fist at Jenn in half-hearted defiance. His arm shook like a noodle in a thunderstorm. “You see?” I said, gesturing. “Not dangerous. Pathetic, really.” “Pathetic? It charged me like a psycho raccoon!” Jenn snapped. We glared at each other, the storm hammering against the windows, ska horns still honking in the background like some demented soundtrack. “You’re impossible,” Jenn said. “Absolutely impossible. Who keeps a goblin in their house?” “Who boots one into the drywall like a World Cup goal?” I shot back. Meanwhile, the goblin, ever the survivor, had managed to crawl into the overturned laundry basket, using it as a shield. His yellow eyes blinked between the slats, equal parts fury and embarrassment. He hissed once, a pitiful sound, then sneezed into the sock still stuck to his ear. Jenn shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is insane. I thought I was coming over for tea. Instead, I’m in some kind of deranged cartoon nightmare.” “Well,” I said, “it’s not tea time yet. But if you’re offering, I’m not against putting the kettle on.” Jenn shot me a look sharp enough to cut glass. “This isn’t funny.” “It’s a little funny.” The goblin must have agreed, because he chose that moment to stumble out from under the basket, wobble three heroic steps, and promptly collapse face-first into the rug. His rags puffed dust on impact. He twitched once, groaned, and went limp, like a bad actor trying too hard to sell a death scene. Jenn gasped. “Is it dead?” “Doubtful,” I said. “He’s dramatic. Probably wants sympathy.” The goblin cracked one yellow eye, glared at me, then snapped it shut again like a sulky child caught faking sleep. Jenn grabbed her phone off the floor, ignoring Carly still wailing on the other end. “No, I’m not okay, Carly! There’s a—ugh, forget it. I’ll call you back.” She hung up, shoving the phone in her pocket. “I swear,” she said, “if that thing so much as breathes near me again, I’m leaving.” The goblin wheezed from the floor. Not exactly breathing near her, but close enough to be insulting. I shrugged. “Fine. But you’ll miss the show. Goblins are like clowns—you don’t really want them around, but when you’ve got one, it’s hard to look away.” Jenn threw her hands up. “You’re deranged.” The wind rattled the siding. The branch scratched the window. “Night Boat to Cairo” reached its manic conclusion, horns blaring in absurd triumph. And the goblin, stubborn to the end, lifted his head just high enough to spit at the baseboard before collapsing again. The imprint on the drywall remained, grotesque and permanent, like a mural painted by madness itself. (edited)