Mischievous gnomes Mystery Cache

Following story is based on true events

There are places in the world where things just... happen. Not because they should, mind you, but because the world—bless it—is occasionally prone to leaks. Magic, trouble, ancient chaos, leftover divine blueprints—whatever it is, it seeps through the cracks. Like jam through a poorly sealed sandwich.

Vela Luka, on the green and piney end of Korcula island, was one such place. Though if you’d asked the locals, they’d say the strangest thing in the area was old Mrs. Marija who baked her bread on the roof and insisted the moon owed her rent.

But in truth, Vela Luka sat on what might be termed a sub-magical fault line, the kind of place where realities nudge each other like drunk uncles at a wedding. Which is why—when we showed up—it didn’t stay sleepy for long.

Now, let’s be clear. We weren’t looking for gnomes. We were looking for peace, quiet, and a Wi-Fi-free zone where we could forget about email, bills, and whether socks should match.

We found it. At first.

We'd made the acquaintance of a delightfully eccentric local family (we say "eccentric" because they thought letting two complete strangers stay in their remote cottage was a good idea) and so we found ourselves on the Green Side of Vela Luka, which is like the Dark Side but with better views and less Sith.

The cottage was situated about two and a half existential crises from the nearest convenience store. The kind of place where if you scream at night, you’ll only disturb the wildlife. And the wildlife is already disturbed. There were no sounds but the sighing of wind and the distant muttering of olives plotting something vaguely Mediterranean.

At first, it was idyllic. The kind of peace that poets write about, and then promptly ruin by trying to rhyme "tranquil" with "ankle." We came back every season—spring with its floral allergies, summer with its solar aggression, autumn in a brownish sort of shrug, and winter, which mostly involved wondering if the roof was supposed to make that noise.

But then... things started to get odd. And around Vela Luka, "odd" is rarely just odd. It’s usually ominously peculiar with a strong hint of trousers-dampening dread.

Little things began to happen.

Untrustworthy Things.

Socks went missing. (Not that odd. Socks are known dimensional travelers.) But they were replaced by other socks. Ones we didn’t own. Ones with smug patterns.

Keys were found in the fridge. The fridge was in the shed. The shed was locked from the inside. That sort of thing.

And the sounds. Oh, the sounds.

Tapping. Knocking. Tapping again. On the roof. In the walls. Once, from under the bed, but we don’t talk about that one. You’d turn on the light and be greeted with the most echoing silence you've ever heard, the kind of silence that stands awkwardly in corners and looks guilty. They weren’t the usual "it’s an old house" sounds. No. These were deliberate. Rhythms with intent.

Then came the whispers. Whispering under the window. Not the spooky moaning kind you get in haunted castles. No, these were the polite-but-slightly-sinister kind you get when a group is plotting whether or not to poke you with a stick. The sort of whisper that says "Don’t look now, but he’s listening..."

And the final straw? The nightstand lamp.

One night, it turned itself on. Not a flicker. Not a surge. A calm, assertive click.

Click. Just like that. Illuminating nothing in particular except, presumably, our terror.

So naturally, being rational beings of science and breakfast ham and eggs, we decided to stake out the room.

Next night, we waited.

Hours passed.

And then—at exactly 3:15 AM—because of course it had to be a horrifyingly specific time—we heard it.

Tap-tap-TAP. Tap. TAP!

Then the whispers.

Then more tapping.

We followed the sound, because curiosity, much like cats, does not always have a solid survival strategy.

From the cottage, down the winding road, past the gravel track, and up into the part of the forest maps only label as “HERE BE THINGS,” we pursued the noises under a moonless sky that was practicing to be a black hole.

And then—silence. The kind of silence that waits politely for you to make a mistake.

So we turned on our torches.

And there they were.

Gnomes.

Actual gnomes. Real, honest-to-Unseen-University, four-inches-high gnomes with boots made of string, hats like ill-tempered turnips, and the expressions of creatures who’ve just been caught doing something particularly suspicious with someone else's spoons.

They froze like deer in headlights. Except smaller. And with more beards.

Then—scramble! In a blur of wool and muttered expletives in a language that sounded like Welsh doing a cartwheel, they scattered into the undergrowth.

But not before we saw what they were doing.

Five of them, standing on each other’s shoulders (like a circus act designed by someone with balance issues), trying to hang what appeared to be either a small box or an alarmingly undecorative bottle from a tree branch about one meter off the ground.

Was it a trap? A gift? A gnome-sized wi-fi repeater?

We didn't wait to find out. Because if there's one thing we’ve learned, it’s that where there’s five gnomes, there's probably fifty more watching you from the underbrush and sharpening tiny spoons.

Still, I noted their tapping code. Here it is, in case you're foolish — sorry, brave — enough to try to decipher it:

We don’t know what it means. Possibly a pizza order. Possibly a declaration of war. Possibly a recipe for acorn whiskey. We don't want to know.

But if you ever find yourself staying in these parts of Vela Luka and you hear the tap-tap-TAP during the night… you might want to turn off the light, close the window, and whisper very clearly:

“We are not home right now. Please leave a message after the scream.”

2025-05-17 - cache placed
2025-05-28 - listing v1.00
2025-05-28 - publish
2025-07-02 - FTF (culto and Šifo)