The Pinching Game

I was five, spending the summer at my grandmother’s cottage in the highlands of Scotland. The cottage was old, with thick stone walls and a thatched roof, and my grandmother had a lifetime of tales about the ‘little folk’ and other strange happenings. Her stories were always told with a twinkle in her eye, and we children loved them, never truly afraid.

One afternoon, I was playing near the old stone wall that bordered the garden. I had a small cloth doll, which I was brushing with a twig. I sat on a mossy rock, my back against the cool stones, when I felt a sharp pinch on my arm. I spun around, but there was no one there. I shrugged and went back to my doll. Then it happened again, harder this time, and I yelped.

I remembered my grandmother’s tale of the ‘Grey Child’, a spirit that haunted the grounds and was known for pinching unwary children. A chill ran down my spine. I scrambled to my feet and ran back to the cottage, my heart pounding.

I found my grandmother in the kitchen, kneading dough for bannocks. She was humming softly, and the warm smell of flour and yeast was comforting. I sat beside her, trying to calm down. Just then, my cousins, Morag and Ewan, called to me from the stairs. They had found a toad under the sink and were poking it with a stick. I went up to join them.

As we watched the toad, I heard a faint sobbing. It was a child’s cry, soft and desolate, coming from somewhere in the house. I counted my cousins: Morag, Ewan, and me. All three were present. I looked around, but saw no one else. The crying grew louder, and then my grandmother called from the kitchen, ‘Who’s that weeping?’ I called back, ‘I don’t know.’ The sobbing continued, drifting from the hallway.

I felt a cold breath on my neck, and then I heard a whisper: ‘Play with me.’ I turned, but the hallway was empty. My cousins had gone quiet, staring at something behind me. I turned slowly and saw a small, grey figure at the end of the hall. It was a girl, translucent, with dark hollow eyes. She reached out a hand, and I felt a pinch on my leg. I screamed and ran, my cousins following.

We huddled in the pantry, and my grandmother came to find us. ‘So, you’ve met the Grey Child,’ she said, her voice low. ‘She was a girl who got lost in the mists and froze to death. She likes to play, but she doesn’t understand her own strength. She pinches too hard.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my cot, listening to the wind outside. I heard a tapping on my window. I pulled back the curtain and saw the Grey Child outside, her face pressed against the glass. She smiled and pointed to a little doll that was lying on the ground. It was my doll, the one I had left by the wall. She must have brought it.

I felt a pang of pity. She looked so lonely. I opened the window and took the doll. The Grey Child’s smile widened, and she faded away. From that night on, I never felt her cold pinches again. But sometimes, I would see her from the corner of my eye, watching me from the edge of the garden. And I knew she was just waiting for someone else to play with.