The Goblin on My Shoulder
Content Warning (click to expand)
depictions of mental illness, gaslighting, vomit
by Catherine Tavares
The goblin appeared on my shoulder mere minutes into the concert’s reception.
It had, at least, the good grace to wait, allowing me to enjoy Onna’s performance unhindered. A small miracle, as the concert had lasted for two hours, much longer than the goblin could usually stand being still. But as its spindly nails dug into my neck, searching out ways to make me scream, such mercies seemed all too small.
I tried to surreptitiously crane my neck to the side, away from the goblin, without breaking eye contact with the man I was making small talk with. The goblin only gripped harder.
“All right?” the man asked.
Say something, I thought desperately. Let him know you are in pain. Maybe he’ll understand.
As if it could hear me, the goblin’s grip shifted, sliding down the neckline of my dress to scratch the soft flesh of my breasts, knowing I could not dislodge it from there in public.
I swallowed a mouthful of champagne and set my face into my best neutral smile. I couldn’t tell this man of the goblin. He was a special guest, a potential donor. Telling him would just cause a scene, something I promised Onna wouldn’t happen tonight.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Good, good. Did you enjoy the second set? I thought it rather inspired, myself…”
The truth was, I couldn’t tell anyone of the goblin. I tried before, years ago when the goblin first appeared. I remembered running to my family, my friends, shocked and scared, screaming for help only to be met by stunned disbelief.
Don’t be ridiculous. Goblins aren’t real.
You need to calm down, be rational about this.
It’s just stress.
Maybe it’ll go away on its own.
But it didn’t. The goblin was always there. Pushing its thumbs into my shoulder joints at the market. Clinging heavy to my back when I exercised. Always at night, pinching me awake. The worst was when the goblin was inside me, constricting my lungs, pushing acid up my throat, or even lower, twisting and biting and slashing until it burst out in a rush of clotted blood.
There was no escape. Doctors couldn’t treat what they wouldn’t believe, and I didn’t have the resources for private remedies. Onna did her best to comfort me, coming over with tea, fluffy blankets, and deep tissue massages. But every time she put her hands on me, the goblin put its hands on her: spindly fingers caressing her arms, tangling in her hair, wrapping around her neck. I didn’t know if it would hurt her too, if it even could, but I wouldn’t risk my friend becoming trapped like me. I lied, told Onna I didn’t need her help. The words hurt her, I could tell, but she, at least, was safe.
This is Onna’s night, I reminded myself sternly as the goblin moved from my breasts to toy with my ear. I will not ruin it with this.
But my conviction wavered when I felt the goblin shrink, poking deeper into my ear canal.
“Ms. Donnelly?”
“Hm?” I looked up. The man before me had his eyebrows raised expectantly. I ran back through the conversation, but realized quickly I had missed almost all of it.
“I’m so sorry,” I said politely. “I’m distracted. This heatwave. Summer’s come early!” I downed the rest of my champagne, more than I should be gulping, but I needed to cover the horrified choke as the goblin climbed down my ear canal.
“It is quite hot,” the man said, just as the goblin reached my stomach. “Refills?”
“I’ll go!” I blurted, spinning around and marching toward the bar before he could protest. The goblin was churning the contents of my stomach. I wanted to throw up, throw the goblin out, but the thought of Onna’s disappointment kept my mouth clamped shut.
I was almost to the bar, my gut on fire, when I saw it.
I blinked, expecting this to be another mirage of a sleep-deprived, pain-addled mind. But it remained, perched on a woman’s hip like a child.
A goblin.
Another goblin.
I barely noticed my own goblin re-materialize on my shoulder. I had never seen another goblin before. It didn’t quite look like mine. The coloring was different, and it was slightly bigger, but one look at the woman told me everything: the tight, forced smile, the stiff posture, the way she subtly pressed one hand into her hip every few seconds, trying to dislodge the creature.
Astounded, I took a step forward, and my goblin shrieked.
It scratched my face, bit my shoulder, dug its heels into my back. I choked back a cry, champagne glass threatening to crack in my tight grip, but forced myself to take another step, then another.
Incensed, my goblin shrunk once more, zipping inside me, and owwww, I had never felt pain like this. It was clear my goblin didn’t want me anywhere near the other, and I reveled in this knowledge, used it to fuel my steps. Whatever my goblin didn’t want, I wanted all the more.
And I wanted this woman.
Stumbling, grace and composure abandoned, I finally reached her. She turned in surprise, the goblin at her hip swinging around with bared teeth to meet my own, erupting from my mouth in a spew of sour vomit that rained down my dress.
There were cries of shock, disgust, outrage. Somewhere, Onna was probably cursing my name. But I heeded none of it. I could not even feel my goblin anymore. All I knew was the woman. The sight of her wide eyes. The feel of her hands that had instinctively grabbed mine. The soft oh as her gaze locked onto my goblin.
Someone called for a doctor, the police. My goblin gripped my throat in a vice, preventing me from speaking. But the woman’s hands tightened over mine, she pulled me forward, wrapping me in her arms, and I heard her whisper echo my own heart’s cry,
“They’re real.”
About the author and the piece (click to expand)
Catherine Tavares tells us this story was rejected 29 times before finding its way to us. But we know the goblins all to well here.
Catherine Tavares is a speculative fiction author and member of both SFWA and Codex. Her work has appeared on the Nebula Recommended Reading List and been featured in magazines such as Apex, Nature Futures, Flash Point SF, Haven Spec, and more. An avid reader, she spends most of her time haunting the shelves of her local library, but she can on occasion be persuaded to try a new recipe or work on a knitting project. Read her work and learn more about her at catherinetavares.com.
©2026 by Catherine Tavares. All rights reserved. May not be used for A.I. training.