The Paisley Handle

The Paisley Handle

In early June, I misplaced my favorite pen—the one with a deep burgundy barrel and a brass clip, a gift from my late grandmother. I rarely used it, saving it for signing important documents, but I always knew where it was: in the ceramic cup on my desk, next to the stack of unpaid bills. The day I reached for it, it wasn’t there. I emptied the cup, scoured the drawers, checked under the blotter, even in the sofa cushions. Nothing. I chided myself for being careless, but a nagging unease settled in my chest.

I live in a converted warehouse loft in the old industrial district of Stonebridge. The space is open and airy, but it has quirks—exposed brick, a labyrinth of steel beams, and a narrow service elevator that groans like a dying animal. I keep my belongings in a strict order because the clutter amplifies the feeling of being watched from the dark corners between the high ceilings. The pen, however, was gone without a trace.

A week later, as I was putting away a stack of new shirts into the wardrobe, I found the pen nestled in the breast pocket of a tweed jacket I hadn’t worn since winter. I shook my head, trying to reconstruct how it could have gotten there. Maybe a stray thought, a habit from colder days. I placed the pen back in the cup and thought nothing more of it.

Summer arrived with oppressive humidity. On a sweltering afternoon, I decided to take a walk to the riverside, which had a shaded path I enjoyed. I brought along my grandmother’s pen because I planned to sketch the old bridge. As I sat on a bench, I pulled the pen from my pocket just as a jogger passed by. The jogger swerved, and I dropped the pen into the tall grass. I searched for an hour, but it was nowhere to be found. I left defeated, certain it was lost forever.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the pen. It was a foolish thing to dwell on, but the loss felt like severing a final tie to my grandmother. I had no psychic gift, nothing extraordinary—I read horror stories for entertainment, not as prophecy. But the pattern was there: thing lost, thing found, but in a wrong place. It was as if the object had a wandering will of its own.

A few days later, I went to my storage unit in the basement—a caged area where I kept boxes of winter clothes and old books. I was looking for a hat, and as I moved a box of sweaters, there was the pen, lying on the concrete floor as if it had been waiting. I picked it up, feeling a chill despite the heat. The barrel was slightly warm. I pocketed it, vowing to keep it in my bathroom, close to me, where I could see it.

The next morning, I placed the pen on the bathroom counter. I showered, and when I reached for it to jot a note, it was gone. I frantically searched the small bathroom—behind the toilet, in the laundry basket, even inside the shower caddy. Nothing. I stood there, dripping wet, a sense of dread creeping up my spine. This wasn’t forgetfulness; it was something else.

Two weeks later, I was cleaning out my car, a dusty sedan I rarely used. I pulled out the spare tire from the trunk to check its pressure, and there, tucked beneath the jack, was the pen. I stared at it, my heart thudding. The pen looked pristine, as if it had never been touched. But the car had been locked and untouched for months. I couldn’t explain it.

I took the pen inside and locked it in a drawer of my desk. I slid a piece of paper under the drawer so I would know if it opened. That night, I heard a faint scratching sound from the study, like a rodent. But when I checked, the drawer was still locked, the paper intact. The pen was there, as expected.

The next morning, I had an appointment with a client across town. As I was leaving, I noticed the paper on the floor just outside the study. The drawer was slightly ajar. The pen was gone. I felt a cold knot of fear. I immediately searched the apartment, but it was not there. I left for my appointment, distracted, my mind churning.

When I returned, exhausted, I found the pen on my pillow, as if someone had placed it there while I was out. The apartment was unchanged, the door locked. I picked up the pen, noticing a single drop of dried ink on the tip, something that had never happened before. I put it in a glass jar with a lid and hid it inside a ceramic vase. I told no one, because who would believe me?

That weekend, I had a friend over for dinner. We were in the kitchen, and he accidentally moved the vase, revealing the jar. He laughed, asking if I was hoarding pens. I lied, saying it was a sentimental item. He opened the jar, took out the pen, and began fiddling with it. As he twirled it, the pen slipped from his fingers and fell into a glass of water. He fished it out, but the ink had already bled into the water, swirling in unnatural patterns. He apologized, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the pen had chosen that moment to escape.

After he left, I fished the pen out of the sink and dried it. It seemed unharmed. I placed it on a high shelf in the living room, out of sight. But late that night, I heard a click in the hallway. I got up to investigate and found the pen on the floor, near the threshold, pointing toward the front door. I felt as if it were trying to leave.

I grew paranoid. I began taping the pen to the floor of a closet. Each time, it would appear elsewhere. It was as if the pen had a malevolent intelligence, moving through the apartment at will. I even considered throwing it away, but it would always reappear. I tried to burn it, holding it over the stove, but the heat made no mark, and I recoiled when the flame seemed to bend away from it.

By the end of the month, I was losing sleep. I started to see the pen in my peripheral vision, always in a new spot. I would blink, and it would be gone. My reflection in the mirror sometimes showed it perched behind my ear, though I knew it wasn’t there. I questioned my sanity, but I would not let it win. I decided to confront it.

I locked myself in the study with the pen on the desk. I addressed it aloud, my voice trembling. ‘What do you want?’ The pen did nothing. I picked it up, and I felt a sudden urge to write. I grabbed a notepad and began to scribble, my hand moving without my will. The pen dragged across the paper, forming words that were not mine.

I looked down and read: ‘You left me in the dark.’ A chill ran down my spine. I didn’t recognize the handwriting—it was loopy and old-fashioned, like my grandmother’s. I dropped the pen, backing away. The words remained, stark on the page.

I fled the apartment, spending the night at a hotel. When I returned the next day, the pen was waiting for me on the kitchen table, with a fresh sheet of paper beside it. On the paper was written: ‘I am not lost. I am where I belong.’

I understood then that the pen had never been lost. It had been carrying out its own purpose. My belongings were not mine; they had their own stories. I sat down, picked up the pen, and started to write my own account of what had happened. The pen felt cool and steady in my hand, as if it were finally content.

Now, I keep the pen in a display case in my study. I have not moved it in weeks, and it has not moved on its own. But sometimes, at night, I hear a faint scratching from the case, as if it is writing on its own. And in the morning, I find small notes in that loopy handwriting, telling me about the lives of other lost things—forgotten keys, misplaced glasses, and umbrellas that vanish only to return. I don’t know why I was chosen, but I have accepted my role as the chronicler of lost objects. I am no longer frightened, for the pen is not malevolent; it merely wishes to be remembered. And as long as I write, it will never be lost again.