The Plumber’s Lad

Before my uncle settled down and married my aunt, he worked as a maintenance man for a chain of old hotels. One autumn evening, he was called to the Briarwood Inn, a crumbling Victorian manor that had been converted into a budget accommodation. The manager had complained of a persistent leak in the basement, so my uncle took his tools and descended the narrow, creaking stairs into the damp, cobweb-filled underbelly of the building.

The basement was a labyrinth of rusted pipes and dusty storage racks, lit by a single swinging bulb. As he knelt to inspect a corroded joint, he heard the patter of small feet and a faint rustling, like a child rummaging through old boxes. He called out, ‘Hello? Anyone down here?’ But only the drip of water answered. He shrugged it off as rats and returned to his work.

Minutes later, a high, tinkling laugh echoed through the dim space. It was the laugh of a young child, playful and unnervingly close. He straightened up, shouting, ‘Hey, you should be upstairs! It’s not safe down here!’ The laughter stopped. He moved along the narrow aisle between the racks, peering into shadows, expecting to find a guest’s kid who had wandered off.

At the end of the aisle, he spotted a small figure standing perfectly still between two tall stacks of old mattresses. It was a boy, no older than seven, wearing a tattered pair of mustard-yellow pajamas. His hair was matted and dark, and his bare feet were caked with grime. My uncle approached, saying gently, ‘Come on, buddy, let’s get you back to your parents.’ The boy didn’t move or speak. He just stared.

As my uncle got within arm’s reach, the bulb above flickered, and in the shifting light, he saw the boy’s neck was encircled by a deep, raw rope burn, glistening as if fresh. The boy’s head tilted at an unnatural angle, and a soft creaking sound, like an old rope straining, filled the air. My uncle stumbled backward, his heart pounding. He turned to flee, but the aisle seemed longer than before, and the exit sign was impossibly distant.

He heard the giggle again, close behind him. He spun around; the boy was gone. The giggle came from his left, then right, as if the child was darting between the racks. Panic seized my uncle. He dropped his wrench and ran toward the stairs, ignoring the crash of his toolbox as he knocked it over. He burst into the lobby, soaked in sweat, and told the manager about the strange boy. The manager’s face went pale.

‘That would be Master David,’ the manager whispered. ‘He hanged himself from a beam down there in the late 1800s. They say he’s still waiting for someone to play with.’ My uncle never did another job for that hotel chain. And to this day, whenever he hears a child’s laughter, he gets a cold shiver down his spine, and he always checks for rope marks on their necks.