The Red Plectrum

I never believed in ghosts, not until I moved into the old cottage in the Welsh hills. The estate agent called it ‘quaint,’ but the locals called it ‘the Parson’s Place’ and avoided it after dark. The previous owner, a reclusive musician, had vanished without a trace, leaving behind his instruments and a peculiar collection of children’s toys. I was a writer seeking solitude, and the isolation seemed perfect.

My first night, I heard it: a soft patter of small feet in the hallway, the faint drone of a toy propeller. I dismissed it as the wind or old pipes. But then I saw him—a boy, no older than six, with dusty blond hair and a round, cherubic face, dressed in an old-fashioned white sailor suit and black shoes. He was standing behind my reflection in the mirror, playing with a wooden airplane. When I turned, he was gone.

He became a familiar presence. He’d move my books, hide my spectacles, and once, I found my fountain pen spinning in a circle on the kitchen table. He never seemed malevolent, just mischievous, like a child seeking attention. I started to talk to him, calling him ‘laddie,’ asking him to leave my things alone. He’d giggle—a high, tinkling sound that echoed through the empty rooms—and then silence.

The real incident happened after I returned from a writing retreat. I had bought a red guitar pick at a vintage shop, a small token to remind me of my own misspent youth. I placed it on the floor of my study, planning to use it as a bookmark. As I crossed the room to my desk, I felt a sudden draft, and then the pick shot across the room, striking my open journal with a sharp *tink*. It landed in the center of the page, and I heard the boy’s laughter and the scamper of feet outside the door.

I found myself smiling, despite the chill running down my spine. ‘Is that your way of saying hello, laddie?’ I asked, but the room was still. The giggles faded, and I was left with a sense of loss, as if I had scared him away.

Determined to understand, I began to research the history of the cottage. The previous owner, a man named Alistair, had a son named Owen, who died of scarlet fever in 1953. Owen was known for his love of toy airplanes and his habit of playing with his father’s guitar picks. I found an old photograph of a boy in a sailor suit, holding a wooden plane, his round face split in a grin that matched the ghost’s.

One evening, I decided to test a theory. I took the guitar pick and placed it on the floor, then stood by the door. ‘Owen,’ I said gently, ‘I know you’re here. I know you liked to play with these. I’ll leave it for you.’ The moment I stepped back, the pick slid across the floor and stopped at my feet. I felt a cold kiss on my cheek, and then the giggle—so close—and the pattering of feet racing up the stairs.

Now, I no longer feel alone. I’ve left out other small items: a tin whistle, a polished stone, a pair of child’s gloves. They always move, always find their way to peculiar spots, and every time, I hear that same playful laugh. I’ve begun to think he believes I’m his mother, returned to keep him company. And perhaps, in a way, I am—a companion in this lonely house, sharing a common love for music and the simple joy of play.

But there are nights when the laughter turns to crying, and I find the boy’s reflection in the mirror, not smiling, but with tears streaming down his pale cheeks. He points at the window, and I see a shadowy figure in the garden—a man in a long coat, watching. The boy’s toys rattle, and the cold air bites. I don’t know if he’s protecting me from that man, or if he’s trying to warn me. But I know one thing: I will never leave him alone again.