Gallop of the Goblin

Sometimes, giving in to vices can feel so pleasurable that by the time we realize our lives revolve around indulgence and satisfaction, we’ve already lost so much that our hearts are filled with regret. And yet, maybe—just maybe—a life of pleasure isn’t all that bad. After all, if no one’s getting hurt… why should it matter?

Across the land, eerie tales are told of people who, one way or another, were punished for their excesses. And this story is no exception...

It happened in a small village hidden among the mountains of Caldas, Colombia. Little is ever heard about that place. Its access, like its fame, is virtually nonexistent. Yet, within its few streets and homes, stories and tragedies linger, known only to the handful of locals who still live there.

Whispers float among the weary farmers resting in the village square, claiming that those who drink too much will inevitably meet their hour. As good country folk, they’d laugh at one another’s misfortunes, lightening the burdens of the day. But behind each joke was a trace of fear… and respect.

One night, one of those men staggered out of a local cantina, completely drunk. He swayed from side to side, his steps clumsy, directionless. He didn’t live in the village but in a far-off hamlet, making his journey home even more uncertain.

He walked for hours, stumbling through coffee fields, tripping over rocks and roots, cursing the darkness. Just as the clock struck midnight, a majestic horse appeared before him—tall, elegant, with a steady gait and gentle eyes. Without a second thought, the man mounted it and dug in his heels, urging the creature to gallop faster and faster.

And gallop it did.

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.