The Domovoi in My House

In Slavic folklore, a home is sometimes said to play host to a Domovoi.

A little household spirit who, depending on which story you hear, protects the family and the home it has claimed as its own.

In my own interpretation, I like to imagine that a Domovoi is somehow created from the spirit and energy of the people who live there. Traditionally, the Domovoi is often described as a tiny old man, no taller than your knee. He has a long beard, wears an old hat, and in some depictions even has slightly animal-like features.

He also seems to enjoy playing with the Veil.

Unlike the Boggart, the Domovoi isn't necessarily an evil spirit, although he can certainly get grumpy.

He is the little protector of the household.

In folklore, a Domovoi could warn his family of danger, become hostile toward unwelcome guests, or make his displeasure very clear when something in the household wasn't right.

And then there are the pets.

Have you ever watched a cat stare into an empty corner for an uncomfortable amount of time, its head slowly moving as though it's following something you can't see?

Or watched your dog suddenly jump up and chase absolutely nothing? I have.

Regardless of their old, weathered appearance, I like to think they are children at heart, always looking for someone willing to play, like your kids. Of course, when you're a child, having a tiny creature appear in your bedroom probably isn't quite as charming as the folklore makes it sound.

Mine, in particular, seems to enjoy stealing my children's toys.

Once, my daughter received a little penguin plushie. I distinctly remember putting it on the counter before leaving the house with both kids. When we came home, the penguin was gone. Completely gone. I looked everywhere for the damn thing. Nothing.

It was as though the thing had simply disappeared. Then, luckily, I remembered what my mother had always told me. When the Domovoi takes something, leave him a little offering. So I grabbed a pastry, poured a cup of milk, added a little honey, and left the small feast in the part of the house where I feel him most. In my case, that's my daughter's room.

For whatever reason, I often hear little noises there. I like to think he likes her aura, so that's the corner of our home he's decided belongs to him.

A day or two later, the penguin appeared.

In the basement... A place I had never even brought it.

Now, I'm sure there are plenty of perfectly reasonable explanations for how a stuffed penguin traveled from my kitchen counter to my basement.

Call it crazy.

Call it memory loss.

Call it superstition.

I simply call it my Domovoi.