The Blue Pellar

My first real job as a restorer was at the Morland Estate, a crumbling pile of Victorian Gothic in the middle of cornfields. The owner, a reclusive widow named Edith Vane, wanted the frescoes in the old nursery returned to their original glory. The walls were covered with layers of grime and peeling paint, but beneath it all, I began to uncover a mural of a fantastical garden. In the center of the ceiling, fading into the oak beams, was a small, blue creature. It resembled a plump, wrinkled child, but with teeth that were unmistakably pointed, and it was reaching down with one hand, as if to touch something below.

Edith, when she saw what I had revealed, went pale. ‘I remember that,’ she whispered, tracing the outline of the creature with a trembling finger. ‘When I was pregnant with my daughter, I used to nap in this very room. One afternoon, I woke to find that little thing crouched on my belly, smiling. It had those same tiny, needle-sharp teeth. It didn’t feel evil, just… curious. I told my husband, but he laughed it off as a dream.’ She looked at me with a wet-eyed stare. ‘My daughter was born with a birthmark on her left hand, in the exact shape of the creature’s touch.’

I had heard of such things in my line of work, stories of household spirits, changelings, and watchers. My colleague, a folklorist named Dr. Alistair Finch, had once told me about ‘the good neighbors’ and their unsettling kindness. But this was the first time I felt a cold knot of fear tighten in my stomach. I decided to stay late that evening to photograph the mural in better light. As I set up my equipment, the air grew thick and still, and a faint, loamy smell filled the room, like wet earth after rain.

I was adjusting my lens when I heard a soft, rhythmic scraping from the ceiling. I looked up, and there, crawling upside down like a gecko, was the creature from the mural. It was no bigger than a cat, but its skin was the color of old bruises, and its eyes were like polished obsidian. It descended the wall, its pointed teeth flashing in a grotesque grin. I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. It stopped at eye level, hovering in the air with a faint buzzing sound, and then reached out its tiny hand and grazed my cheek with a finger that felt like ice.

Its mouth opened, and a voice, thin and reedy like wind through reeds, whispered, ‘You see me. You belong to her now.’ It gestured with its other hand toward the corner, where, in the gloom, I saw the outline of a cradle I knew had not been there a moment before. Inside was a swaddled bundle, and from it came a soft, gurgling laugh that did not sound human. The creature touched my forehead, and a jolt of cold fire shot through my skull. I stumbled back, knocking over my tripod, and when I looked again, the cradle was gone, and the creature had vanished into the shadowed beams.

I didn’t sleep that night. I drove back to my rented cottage, but the ghostly chill remained, and I could feel its touch on my skin like a brand. The next morning, I called Edith to tell her I was quitting. She was silent for a long moment, then said, ‘It’s too late. You saw the Pellar. It marked you. We had to move away when my daughter was five because it started taking her things. She’d cry at night, saying “Blue man came.” Then we found her one morning, her left hand wrapped in a cloth. When we unwrapped it, her birthmark had turned a deep, angry red.’

I hung up, but the damage was done. That night, I felt a tickle on my left hand as I tried to sleep. I turned on the lamp, and there was a fresh, red mark, shaped like a tiny handprint. I scrubbed it, but nothing would remove it. Over the following weeks, the mark grew darker, and I started to hear whispers just at the edge of hearing. My friends, who had always been interested in the paranormal, grew concerned when I stopped answering their calls. They came to the cottage one evening and found me in the garden, digging frantically with my bare hands. When they asked what I was doing, I said, ‘She’s buried here. I have to find her.’

Then I broke down, sobbing, and told them everything. My friend, a sensible nurse, tried to rationalize it as a stress-induced psychosis, but my other friend, the one who knew about such things, turned pale. ‘The Pellar,’ she whispered. ‘It means the one who pulls. An old name for a fetch or a changeling. If it’s attached to you, it means it wants a child. You’re not pregnant, are you?’ I laughed bitterly, but a chill ran down my spine. We were all three together, but they couldn’t see the small, blue shape that had been following me wherever I went, just out of the corner of my eye.

That night, as they stayed with me, I felt a violent tugging sensation in my abdomen. I doubled over in pain, and when I looked at the mirror, my belly was distended, as if I was months pregnant. My friends rushed me to the hospital, but the ultrasound showed nothing out of the ordinary, just a strange shadow on the scan that the doctor dismissed as a false echo. They kept me for observation, but by morning, the swelling had gone down, leaving only a faint blue glow under my skin.

When I was released, I drove back to the Morland Estate. I was determined to destroy the mural, to break whatever link it had formed to me. I found Edith there, kneeling before the wall, her face streaked with tears. ‘It took her,’ she sobbed. ‘It took my daughter. She was walking in the garden, and she vanished. We searched for days, but there was no trace.’ I looked at the mural, and the creature’s hand now pointed directly at me, its smile wider, more triumphant. Then, from the depths of the house, I heard a child’s laughter, and I saw a small, blue hand reach out from behind the heavy velvet curtains.

I ran. I ran out of the estate, across the fields, and didn’t stop until I reached my car. But when I looked back, I saw a figure standing in the window of the nursery, holding a bundle. It was the creature, and in its arms was a swaddled infant with a familiar blue glow. I sped away, but in my rearview mirror, I saw the creature smile and wave with its needle-teeth. My hand throbbed, and the mark darkened to a wrinkled blue scar.

Now, I am writing this from a small motel room, hundreds of miles from the estate. I have tried everything to remove the mark: holy water, sage, iron, even a priest. Nothing works. And every night, I feel a cold, small hand testing the lock on my door. I know that, soon, it will find a way in. And when it does, I will be its new home, its vessel. My only hope is that someone reads this and understands: if you ever uncover a small, blue creature in an old mural, do not paint it over. Do not look away. Just run, and pray it has not already claimed you.