Duwende

I was around six when my yaya and I watched a TV Patrol special on people who have crossed paths with duwendes and suffered their wrath. It was not a pretty sight: one guy's tongue had swollen to the size of his fist, and the other was speaking in tongues at an octave level akin to that of a dolphin's. Or Mariah Carey.

Because that show scared the daylights out of me, my yaya, ever so vigilant, gave me two rules to live by if I did not want to end up like ... them.

First, I am not to say the word duwende or any of its derivatives aloud. Ever.
And second, the ground, the dirt, the soil, and what-have-you are always risky territory. Take extra care not to step on any duwendes while walking around.

Unfortunately for me, they did nothing to quell my already overwhelming fear . Not only did I have to watch my mouth, I'd have to watch my step -- for invisible little people! How was I supposed to do that?

That night, before bed, my mom read me a poem about leprechauns. Leprechauns! I was distraught! We're not allowed to say that word!

The following night, in bed, I complained of a "weird stomach" to my parents. That "weird stomach" of mine continued throughout the night, convincing my parents to bring me to the emergency room, just to be sure.

It turned out, I had a burning fever of 41 degrees.

... Hm.