Gallop of the Goblin

Sometimes giving in to vice feels so pleasurable that, by the time we realize our lives revolve around indulgence and satisfaction, we’ve already lost so much that our hearts fill with regret. Although, perhaps—just perhaps—a life of pleasures isn’t that bad. After all, if no one gets hurt… why should it matter?

Across the region, people tell chilling stories about those who, one way or another, were punished for their excesses. And this story will be no exception…

It happened in a small village called San Bartolomé, hidden among the mountains of the Caldas region. Little is heard about that place. Its access is as difficult as its fame: nonexistent. Yet, among its few streets and houses, stories and tragedies are kept—known only to its scarce inhabitants.

Whispers of the peasants—those who rest their weariness in the town square—say that anyone who drinks too much will, sooner or later, meet their fate. Like good peasants, they laughed among themselves at others’ misfortunes to lighten the burden of the day. But behind every joke, there was a hint of fear… and respect.

One night, Isidro, one of those men, stumbled out of a village tavern. He was completely drunk. He walked from side to side, his steps clumsy and aimless. He didn’t live there but in a distant hamlet, which made his way home all the more uncertain.

He walked for hours, making his way through coffee fields, accompanied by a thick mist that grew denser with every step. He tripped over stones and roots, cursing the darkness… which, at times, answered him with laughter. Just as the clock struck midnight, a beautiful horse appeared before him. It was tall, elegant, with a firm gait, a sleek black coat, and gentle eyes. Without thinking, he mounted the animal—but immediately felt his body grow cold. He looked back, and the fog that had followed him was gone.

After hesitating, he urged the horse forward, making it gallop faster and faster.

And it galloped.

And it galloped.

And laughter he heard.

Hours went by, and the horse never stopped. It didn’t seem to tire. The cold within him grew stronger and stronger, to the point where he began to hallucinate. He heard laughter and whispers among the bushes. Isidro couldn’t understand what was happening. His house wasn’t that far—certainly not a distance that would take until midnight to reach on horseback. He kept riding, going nowhere, seeing, between the coffee plants, small eyes hiding and watching him all along the way.

But between his drunkenness, his longing for bed, and the cold, he didn’t question anything. He just kept going, unaware of what awaited him.

It wasn’t until the first rays of sunlight broke through the mountains that, in a fleeting moment of clarity, he understood the truth: he wasn’t on a horse. He wasn’t riding home. He had spent the entire night sitting at the edge of a cliff, kicking at the void. One wrong move, one stronger kick, and he would have plunged into the abyss.

In that instant, he couldn’t think straight. He didn’t know if it was the alcohol, the wind… or something else, but he swore—swore over and over—that something was laughing behind his back.

He stood up pale and exhausted, leaving behind tiny footprints pressed into the grass.

Isidro, whether by pure luck or divine will, survived. But not everyone was so fortunate. Weeks later, a friend of his was found dead at the bottom of a well, clutching an almost empty bottle of aguardiente…

From then on, more and more drunkards began to live similar stories. Men who always turned work into an excuse to drink—and drink into a way of life.

The village women whisper, praying softly, that all of this is the work of the duendes—little goblin-like creatures who enchant drunkards, making them believe they’re riding a horse when, in reality, their lives hang by a thread. Enchantments that punish those who cross the threshold of excess.

Because sometimes, drunkenness not only clouds reason…

it can also lead you straight to the edge of the world.

And gallop it did.

Hours passed, and still the horse did not slow. The man couldn’t understand how, if his home wasn’t that far, he was still riding with no end in sight. But between the drunken haze and the thrill of the ride, he questioned nothing. He just pressed on, unaware of what lay ahead.

It wasn’t until the first rays of sunlight peeked over the mountains that, in a moment of clarity, he saw the truth: he wasn’t riding a horse. He wasn’t heading home. He had been sitting all night on the edge of a cliff, spurring nothing but thin air. One wrong move, one firmer kick, and he would’ve plunged straight into the abyss.

That man, whether by sheer luck or divine mercy, survived. But not everyone would be so fortunate.

From that night on, more and more drunks began experiencing similar events. Always the same: men who worked just enough to drink, and drank as if it were their only calling.

The old women of the village whisper while crossing themselves, saying these visions are the work of goblins. Tiny beings that cast spells on drunkards, making them believe they’re riding a noble steed when in truth, their lives hang by a thread. Enchantments meant to punish those who cross the threshold of excess.

Because sometimes, drunkenness doesn’t just cloud your mind…
It can lead you straight to the edge of the world.