The Cigarette Packet

In the autumn of 1978, I was twelve and living in a cramped flat above a fishmonger’s in the seaside town of Grimsby. My family was poor but content; my father worked double shifts at the docks, and my mother took in sewing. I had little knowledge of the supernatural, save for the vague warnings from my grandmother about the ‘good folk’ and the sea mists that could steal a soul.

My best friend, Danny, came to stay for a week while his parents dealt with a family emergency. We were inseparable, sharing my narrow bedroom with its peeling wallpaper and the single window that looked out onto the gray North Sea. One evening, after we’d been scolded for smoking in the bathroom, my mother allowed us to smoke in my room ‘as long as you open the window and don’t burn the place down.’ So there we were, sprawled on my bed, a pack of Embassy cigarettes and a clunky glass ashtray between us. The room smelled of stale smoke and salt, and the rain drummed against the glass.

I reached for another cigarette but my fingers met the worn quilt. I looked down, and the packet was gone. Danny was on his back, staring at the ceiling, but I knew he had a mischievous streak. ‘Alright, where is it?’ I asked. He frowned and sat up. ‘I didn’t take it. I thought you had it.’ We searched the bed, the floor, the pockets of our jeans. Nothing. Then, as if by instinct, we both looked toward the low dresser on the far side of the room. There, on the dusty wooden surface, lay the red and white packet, neatly placed next to a chipped cup. We gaped at each other.

‘You’re messing with me,’ I said, but my voice lacked conviction. Danny shook his head, his face pale. We retrieved the cigarettes, returned to the bed, and placed the packet in the exact center between us. We stared at it. Ten seconds passed. The packet shimmered and vanished, only to reappear on the dresser, sitting upright as if someone had set it there with care. A chill crept up my spine. We didn’t sleep that night; we huddled under the covers, whispering about poltergeists, but we knew it wasn’t a ghost—it felt more like a prank, but not from Danny.

The next evening, determined to prove it was a trick, we propped the door open and even set up a mirror to catch any reflection. But when the packet vanished and reappeared on the windowsill, we saw nothing. Danny started to cry, and I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. My mother, hearing the commotion, came in and found us shaken. She saw the cigarette packet on the sill and smiled knowingly. ‘Ah, that’s just the moorland sprite. We used to have them in my village. They like cigarettes and trinkets. Leave it a packet now and then, and it’ll leave you alone.’

We didn’t believe her, but we followed her advice. For the rest of Danny’s stay, whenever we left a cigarette packet out, it would move—sometimes to the dresser, sometimes to the mattress, once to the top of the wardrobe. But it never caused harm. On the last morning, as Danny packed his bag, the packet we’d left on the chair slid off and landed at his feet. He picked it up, and inside was a perfectly rolled joint, only a third of its length smoked. We looked at each other, and for the first time, we laughed. ‘Maybe it’s not so bad,’ Danny said.

Years later, I returned to that flat after my mother died. The room was barren, the wallpaper more faded, the view of the sea still gray. I sat on the bed, and out of habit, I placed a packet of cigarettes on the floor. I waited. Nothing moved. The salt air drifted through the open window, and I felt a sudden pang of loneliness. Just as I was about to leave, a single cigarette floated up from the packet, hovered in the air, and then dropped onto the floor. I picked it up, notched it between my fingers, and lit it. As I exhaled, I whispered, ‘Thanks for the company.’ And I swear I heard a soft, crackling laugh from the direction of the dresser—where, for just a moment, I saw the faint imprint of a small, damp hand on the mirror.

I closed the door behind me, and I never smoked again. But I always left a packet by the door when I visited, just in case. And sometimes, when I’m alone, I can still smell that mix of tobacco and cold sea spray, and I know that somewhere, a tiny impish thing is lighting up a cigarette and grinning at my memory.