I am of Yarthkin, Hearth Sprite, House Wight. I live in your home, behind the fireplace, in the doorways, under the floorboards. I am as bright and as simply pleased as the Ancestors, who also live unseen among you. Gifts, offerings, lustrations, and libations on holy days are my due. But harm home or kin and I am wild untamable, tantrums of telekinesis, nocturnal disturbances, flinging things, hot blood in your water pipes, sightless eyes stare back out from mirrors, Carrie in your dining room, Nightmare on Elm Street in your own backyard. I become poltergeist, geist, ghost.
I will drive you out.
I am of Yarthkin, protector of home, the soul of the bricks, the spirit of place. We who have lived here long before the humans came. May be we have pointed ears, gossamer wings even, and perhaps we play by the peachblossom in the wriggly heat of summer. But more likely we’re the unblinking bright eyes under the potting shed, vivid lights dancing in the dark of the woodpile, growing panic in the impending twilight, impenetrable bramble thickets by the back gate, the cat that shits on your fuschia.
I am of Yarthkin, little people, pixeen and fright. People of another realm, one of those others tucked inside the folds of human reality. We are neither fae nor sprite, not fair nor foul, black nor white.
We care only about home, do well by home and you do well by us.
We are Yarthkin, Hearth Sprites, House wights and we live in your house.