The Grubby Elves and the Dollhouse in the Pit

I could just make out my left foot—twisted unnaturally to the right. It looked like it no longer belonged to me. Worse still, I couldn’t feel it at all.

How I ended up at the bottom of a pit is still unclear. The last thing I remembered was walking off the high street, carrying April’s birthday gift—the dollhouse she’d wanted for months. Then, nothing.

A bitter, metallic taste crept up my throat as I coughed. Blood. I tried to scream, but the air around me swallowed the sound. The sky above turned grey, muffling even my own pain. I couldn’t move without hurting, so I didn’t.

I checked my arms—still intact—and reached out, my fingers brushing against a broken corner of the dollhouse. Its fragile walls were splintered, windows smashed, and tiny furniture scattered like debris. Just like me, it was in ruins. That small wooden house was meant to show my little sister that I could still be her protector. Now it lay in pieces beside me, like a cruel joke.

Then came the sounds—quiet at first, like someone rustling leaves. I turned my head slightly to the right and saw shadows moving. I looked left and heard another scuffle, but nothing was there. Then I saw them—small figures flitting about inside the still-intact second floor of the dollhouse.

Voices. Not quite human, more like high-pitched chattering. I called out, my voice raspy: “Who’s there?” The chattering halted. Maybe I was hallucinating. I’d lost a lot of blood and hadn’t had water in hours.

But then, from behind a chipped wall, two tiny beings emerged. No taller than my hand, they were the dirtiest things I’d ever seen—skin smudged, hair like dust-bunnies. One of them threw a toy pillow at me. When I blinked in reaction, they seemed convinced I was real.

I smiled, unsure why. Maybe because they didn’t run. I decided to call them elves. They moved around me with curiosity, prodding my torn jeans and inspecting the cuts on my hands. I didn’t resist. They weren’t hurting me; they were exploring, maybe even trying to help.

When I sneezed, they scattered. I whispered their name, “Elves,” careful not to hurt their tiny ears. They didn’t return—at least not that night.

The next day, I dozed between sharp pains and thirst. I remembered their feet—red, raw, scratched. No shoes. The thought bothered me more than it should’ve. I reached for the scattered remains of the dollhouse. Among the debris, I found a tiny hat stand, a miniature rug, and, remarkably, a plastic shoe rack. On it sat two pairs of white trainers, just the right size.

That night, they returned.

The same elf who’d thrown the pillow approached me first, sniffed the tiny shoes, then slipped them on. He looked up at me, eyes bright, then darted off. His companion followed suit. They ran about like children on Christmas morning, their grubby feet now shielded.

I must have passed out again, because the next thing I knew, they were tying cloth around my wrist. It was one of those scraps I’d seen in the dirt. Despite their size, they worked with surprising care. Makeshift bandages covered my wounds, and for the first time since falling, I felt warm.

I whispered, “Thank you,” even though I wasn’t sure they understood. They disappeared again, into cracks in the earth, their tiny footprints etched into the dust beside me.

I let myself sleep. I thought of April, her big blue eyes. Mum was gone now. I was all she had left. That dollhouse was supposed to be my promise to her—a symbol that I would build something stable for us both.

When I awoke, I felt strangely… secure. Something wrapped around my entire body—soft, but damp and earthy, like moss turned to silk. I opened my eyes.

There they were—my two little friends—smiling down at me. Just as I had smiled at them. Then they vanished again, leaping off my chest and into the earth.

That’s when I noticed the strands—long, taut cords attached to the cloth beneath me. As they tightened, I began to rise. The pit walls slid past slowly, and I realized I was being lifted—by their system of threads and cloth and who-knew-what-else.

The material was fragile, frayed in places, but it held. And the chattering from below—gentle and rhythmic—calmed me. These little elves were working together to save me.

When I reached the surface, I half-expected to see them wave goodbye. But the sunlight was too strong for them, I suppose. I whispered my gratitude and rolled onto the grass. I screamed again—this time, help came.

At the hospital, April visited me. I cried when I realized her dollhouse was still at the bottom of that pit. She thought I was just upset about the accident. But it wasn’t just sadness—it was awe, relief, disbelief. I touched her face and wiped her tears.

Some people ask how I survived. I don’t always tell the truth. But when I close my eyes, I remember those two little creatures—and their pristine white shoes.