You didn’t book Site 14.
Nobody does.
The ranger says it’s “available” with a little smile that’s more warning than welcome.
But when you arrive, there’s nothing strange—just a big cedar, a view of the surf, and a battered picnic table with freshly carved initials: G.W.
That night, the waves sound… different. Not crashing—talking.
And in the morning, the coffee kettle is already warm, though you swear you didn’t light the stove.
Your bag of marshmallows is missing exactly three.
In their place:
- One perfect, unbroken sand dollar
- A pebble shaped like a heart
- A miniature jar of peanut butter with a spoon sticking out
When you finally see the goblin, they’re perched on a rock halfway to the tide line, paintbrush in hand, sketching your tent like it’s the Sistine Chapel. They nod once. Sip from a green drink. Then go back to painting.
Later, you’ll notice your tent flap now has a perfect little embroidered wave on it.
Nobody will believe you.
But the embroidery smells faintly of peanut butter and salt.
You return the following summer, swearing you’ll book somewhere else this time.
But the ranger gives you that same little smile.
And somehow, without meaning to, you say, “Sure, we’ll take it.”
Site 14 hasn’t changed.
The cedar’s still there, the picnic table’s still battered, and the initials G.W. have been carved a little deeper.
You set up your tent, half-expecting nothing.
That night, you wake to the sound of something moving just beyond the firepit.
It’s not a bear.
It’s… humming.
Off-key.
And when you peek outside, there’s the goblin—sitting cross-legged, stirring something in a dented camp pot.
They notice you watching.
“Good,” they say, without turning. “You’re awake. The stew needs tasting.”
It’s green.
Suspiciously so.
But you take a sip anyway, because goblins have a way of making no feel impossible.
It’s perfect.
Not delicious, exactly—more like it tastes of every warm night you’ve ever had, and every one you never did.
“You still owe me,” the goblin says, tapping the pot.
“For last year. Peanut butter and marshmallows aren’t free, you know.”
Before you can protest, they press a small parcel into your hand.
It’s soft. Fabric.
Later, you’ll unwrap it to find a hand-sewn map of the coast, embroidered with tiny waves, moons, and trees.
In one corner, stitched so small you almost miss it: “For the one who comes back.”
And you do.
Every summer.
Because the goblin of Site 14 keeps a fire lit for you in a place you didn’t know was home.
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