The Key to Her Past

by Dabney, Blanche

  “Of course. Shall we say three o’clock.”

  “Perfect.”

  “See you tomorrow then.”

  She made a note in her diary of the time before putting her cellphone on charge. It didn’t seem possible. MacCallister Castle. The place where the MacGregors had died out if the rumors were to be believed. She hardly dared to hope she might live there. The place was closed to the public, so she’d only been able to see it from her bedroom window.

  As far as she knew it had been empty for years, centuries maybe. Some of the books said the place was cursed, that a mysterious silver key had damned the MacGregors and then the MacCallisters in turn.

  She didn’t know about that, but she did sometimes wonder if any MacGregor skeletons were there, buried in some hidden dungeon by their bitter rivals.

  That was what her book was about really. The mystery behind the end of the MacGregor clan. Gone from ruling half the highlands and favored by the king to nothing in a generation. A single war had scattered them all. How was that possible?

  Her research had given her some answers but also led to more questions. Maybe she’d be able to find out the truth at MacCallister Castle itself. Could she explore it? Find the dungeon? Find the truth? Maybe lay a few ghosts of her own to rest and finish her book at the same time.

  There was more to it than that. She shared a surname with the clan who’d wiped out the MacGregors. She didn’t know if she was descended from them directly but ever since she’d found out about what happened she wanted to know more.

  The MacGregors had attempted to destroy the MacCallisters and it was only through dumb luck that they’d failed.

  Sometimes she dreamed of meeting the laird of the MacGregors. She could picture him. A brute of a man with a sneer on his face, greasy hair, filthy nails. He’d not have a kind bone in his body. She’d ask him why he’d tried so hard to destroy the MacCallisters, attacking them out of the blue when they’d been nothing but kind to him.

  It was academic of course. She would never meet him. She would also never be given the okay to rent the castle. Drayton hadn’t asked her on the phone about her job but when he found out, he’d presumably send her on her way.

  Still, even if he did, she might get a chance to look around the place she’d dreamed about for as long as she could remember. Perhaps take a few photos to include in the book.

  She refused to get her hopes up, but she couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to actually live there. A cursed castle haunted by the ghosts of the past. Would she be welcome there? Only time would tell.

  3

  Wallace had no idea how long he’d been held in the dungeon. At first, he tried to count the days by the amount of meals that were brought to him but he soon lost count.

  All he did know was that he’d lost his childhood in the depths of MacCallister Castle, the oath he’d sworn churning in his mind every single day.

  He would get revenge on the MacCallisters, find the end of their line and ensure no heir was left to take over the lairdship. He would avenge and honor the death of his father that way. It was all that was left to him.

  The years went by. At times Wallace thought he’d gone mad. Visions came to him of a world very different to his own, a world filled with noise and light and people in the oddest clothes. For a while he tried to ignore the images but after a while, he gave up fighting them, letting them enter his mind like dreams.

  She was out there. He didn’t know where, but he knew it was a she. The last of the MacCallisters. Waiting. Not knowing that he was coming for her so that she would know the pain her clan had caused him.

  He’d been forced to watch his father’s body slowly turn into the skeleton that remained his only company. She should know such pain.

  The body lay just where it had fallen all those years ago. He tried many times to reach it, but the chains were cruelly short, holding him in place with a strength far beyond that of iron.

  The curse kept him strong throughout his confinement, as if to mock him. As he grew so did his muscles. Despite the darkness his skin never turned pale, nor did his teeth rot. His hair grew but his nails remained short.

  Whoever had cursed the chains had a cruel sense of humor, he reasoned. It was the only possible explanation for how healthy he remained, despite the years of darkness and mistreatment.

  He grew up in the darkness, the chains expanding as his arms became those of a man, the metal forever chafing, digging into his skin, his constant companion. They had become a part of him, and he eventually found he could no longer remember a life outside the dungeon.

  He didn’t know it but the day everything changed for him was his birthday. He turned thirty that day. His clothes were little more than rags, his skin coated in filth, his eyes looking out through long lank hair that hung down over his face. He lived in almost total darkness.

  His food was brought in by guards who never looked at him. They came in through a door that had been replaced days after his initial incarceration. He spoke to no one and no one spoke to him. He got the feeling they were trying to forget him.

  Many times, he begged them to kill him, to end the eternal torture that his life had become. He might as well have been talking to ghosts. They ignored him, dumping stale bread at his feet with the cup of water that served as his daily sustenance.

  The first sign that something was different on his birthday was a noise far above him. He thought he was imagining it at first but the more he listened, the more distinct the sound became. It was the sound of a bell ringing. What could that mean?

  His stomach growled with hunger. How long had it been since his last meal? No one had come to him for some time.

  Were they finally going to let him starve? It would be a painful death but at least it would be over. Then his soul would be free.

  Would God accept him into heaven? He hoped so but also part of him hoped he would be given time to carry out his vow, gain revenge on the MacCallisters before he ascended to paradise.

  The bell rang for a long time. It was still ringing when he heard voices outside the cell. That in itself was unusual. He could count on the fingers of one filthy hand how often he had heard talking out there.

  The voices grew louder, but he could not discern the words, muffled as they were behind the thick wood of the door. They stopped abruptly, replaced by the sound he knew so well, that of a key scraping in the lock.

  The door swung inward, a draft blowing in with it. Wallace’s eyes automatically closed; the light of the candle too bright for him to take. “This isn’t the stores,” the voice said. “We must have taken a wrong turn.”

  He looked up. Two men were standing there, both wearing armor. One was stouter than the other, his chainmail straining with the effort of containing his gut. “Should we take him with us?” the thin one said. He was fiddling with his gauntlet as he spoke. Both of them looked nervous. “He said bring everyone.”

  “Don’t you ken who this is?” the fat one said.

  “A prisoner like the rest. He said we need all the help we can get. You were there when he said it, weren’t you?”

  “Aye, I was there.”

  “So, he’s a prisoner, so we take him with us.”

  “This is Wallace MacGregor. You think he would fight to save the MacCallisters? The man is scum as was his clan. Come on, we are wasting time.”

  “What’s going on?” Wallace asked, surprised by how strong his voice sounded. It had been a long time since he’d talked out loud and although his throat was dry, his voice was loud enough to make both men stop. “Are you under attack?”

  “It’s nothing you need concern yourself with,” the thin man replied. “When we’ve defeated him maybe we’ll come and tell you all about it.”

  “Defeated who? Maybe I can help. If you would just undo these chains-”

  The fat man laughed. “What? You would climb into a suit of armor and defeat the barefoot man single-handed, is that it? You who have lived in a dungeon all these
years. Jings, I bet if I gave you a sword it would slip from your fingers and stab you in the foot.”

  Wallace sat upright, not sure he’d heard them right. “Did you say you were fighting the barefoot man?”

  “Aye, what of it.”

  “You need all the help you can get. Do you not ken the stories of that demon?”

  “Mere tales to frighten children into behaving. He is a man, flesh and blood. We are MacCallisters. We will defeat him like we defeated your father, swiftly and simply.”

  “Is that why you’ve been sent to the dungeon to recruit prisoners to your cause? You need me and my sword. I have the strength of Jock MacGregor flowing through my veins. If you are to stand any chance-”

  “We will not let our mortal enemy loose among us. I ken what you wish. You wish to distract us long enough to let that villain into our midst.”

  “You must free me. You need all the men you can get if you are to stand a chance. My father fought him once and-”

  “And your father is dead.”

  “Listen to me. You must allow me to help.”

  “The last thing we need is you. He is just a man and we are ready for him. We will go down in history as the clan that defeated the barefoot man once and for all.”

  “He will kill you.”

  “Come on,” the thin man said, tugging at his colleague’s arm. “Leave him to his fate.”

  “We will come and see you after the battle,” the fat man said, taking a step toward him. “See if you’ve recovered from this.”

  “From what?”

  A clenched fist came down on Wallace’s head.

  The next thing he knew, he was coming to and the intruders were long gone. How many hours had he been knocked out? There was no noise of a bell ringing anymore but there was something in its place.

  The sound of battle. He could hear the faint noise of swords clashing, men screaming and shouting. He ached to be alongside them, to make use of his arms at last, his muscles straining to be put to the test.

  He hated the MacCallisters and all they stood for but against the barefoot man he would have fought by their side as bravely as any of his ancestors.

  Some things were bigger than clan rivalries. It spoke of their arrogance that they would rather he remain prisoner than have one more man fighting with them against the demon that was coming.

  The barefoot man.

  They might think the tales were nursery stories, but he remembered the words of the village, tales of the man who had once swept the highlands, killing without mercy, taking one castle after another.

  There were rumors that he was older than any man had a right to be. Some said he was immortal. Wallace didn’t believe that though he did think the barefoot man was hundreds of years old.

  For some reason the villain had a particular hatred of the MacGregors. Many times he had tried to overthrow them though he had never succeeded.

  The MacCallisters had eventually done his work for him, though it seemed by the sound of the struggle out there, he was not that grateful.

  The sounds died slowly away. The battle was ending. Who had won? It was impossible to tell. Sometime later he heard a key scraping in the lock once more. Had they come to feed him at last? Was the battle done? Was it even possible the MacCallisters might have won?

  The door opened and a bald man swept in, his body wrapped in a plain black woolen cloak. His feet were uncovered. He carried no candle, leaving that to his minions who crowded into the doorway behind him as he advanced into the cell, smiling down at Wallace.

  “There it is,” he said to the crowd behind him. “What we came here for.” Reaching down, he pushed his hand through the rib bones of Jock’s body, picking up the letter and staring reverently at it.

  “If you’re here to kill me,” Wallace said, getting to his feet. “Get it over with.”

  The barefoot man ignored him . “We slaughtered them all to get this. In good shape despite so long in this filth.”

  Wallace said nothing. As he looked the letter crumbled to dust in the barefoot man’s hand.

  “What? This cannot be. I had no time to read it.” He pointed at Wallace. “What did the incantation say?”

  “I cannot recall.”

  The barefoot man smiled at him. The smile did not reach his eyes which were as icy cold as a frozen loch in midwinter.

  “I would like to make you an offer, Wallace MacGregor.”

  “How do you ken my name?”

  “That does not matter. What matters is you have a chance to leave those chains. Would you like that?”

  Wallace said nothing, sensing a trap.

  “The incantation you so foolishly used on your father has a far greater purpose and you had no idea, did you? Lucky for you, there is something you can do. Take a trip and fetch me back a silver key. It will be in the hands of the woman you seek. What you do with her is up to you but I must have the key. What say you?”

  “I will parley no deals with the devil.”

  “Who told you I was the devil?” His eyes narrowed as he leaned closer to Wallace. “I am far worse. I am a necromancer.”

  Wallace shuddered, trying to conceal his disgust. “So make a deal with the MacCallister corpses.”

  “You are awfully brave for a man in chains. All right, how about this? You undertake the journey to retrieve the key for me. It’s such a little thing, won’t take you any time at all. Do that and not only will you have the woman, I will bring your father back to life. You would not get a better offer from the Lord himself.”

  Wallace managed a smile. “You think you can convince me of nonsense because you have a silver tongue? Such a thing is impossible as you know.”

  “Oh, is it?” The barefoot man turned and stooped over the skeleton, muttering words to himself. At once the air was thick, swirling mists curling past the ankles of the watching crowd, sweeping in, turning the cell into nothing but fog.

  The words grew darker, more guttural. Wallace felt things clawing at his mind, fat fingers that came from nowhere, tugging at his flesh, creeping over him, rushing past, more following. The sensation was like no other. Still the incantation continued.

  The barefoot man loomed out of the fog, grabbing his face, making him look down at the cell floor. From the mist a head emerged, one that caused him to gasp with shock. “Father?”

  The eyes focused on him, the mouth opening to speak. The head vanished and with it went the fog. There was only a skeleton on the floor, nothing else. The barefoot man let go of Wallace’s face, tapping the top of his head.

  “There, there. It’s hard to lose a father isn’t it. I feel your pain, Wallace, I really do. You should be grateful to me. It was the MacCallisters who took him from you and I have just slaughtered them all. Did I mention the woman who holds the key is the last of the MacCallister line? Think what you could do with her? Bind her in these chains? Maybe have a little fun with her first. Or after. She won’t be able to escape, will she? Perhaps you could deflower her?”

  “Do not speak of such indecent things.”

  “All right, no need to get touchy. Listen, do this little thing for me and you shall have your revenge and I shall bring your father back for good. You’ve already seen I can do it. What say you to such an offer?”

  “You would truly bring my father back to life?”

  “You have my word.” He stuck out a hand. “What say you?”

  “We have a deal,” Wallace replied, shaking his hand, not surprised by how icy cold it felt. He began regretting it almost at once.

  The barefoot man smiled. “Excellent. All you have to do is persuade her to unlock this dungeon door with her silver key at exactly midnight. Simple enough, yes?”

  Wallace nodded. “Unlock the door with the silver key.”

  “Exactly. Hurry back.”

  Wallace did not hear him. He was already laid on the floor, his eyes seeing nothing. The barefoot man looked down at his corpse.

  “Enjoy the journey,” he said, smiling
to himself. He turned to face the men in the doorway. “Now we wait to see if he manages it. Lock this door until their return.”

  He passed through them, heading up the stairs and out into the blood-splattered courtyard.

  Wallace’s body lay where it fell. It was many hundreds of years before it was again seen by human eyes.

  4

  Natalie picked up her cellphone, confirming yet again that Greg hadn’t messaged or rung. Nothing. Not even robocalls. Even the telemarketers didn’t want to talk to her.

  She sighed, dragging over her chair and sinking into it, looking out the window once more. Something strange was going on, she just couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

  If her housemates were in, she might have been able to ask them for some advice. They’d been gone all morning, disappearing together in their yoga gear while she sat at her desk, trying and failing to get moving with the book.

  She was worried. She had a lot to worry about. All she had in the world was a couple of thousand. It was enough to keep her going for three months, maybe six if she was careful. She needed another job. She needed another house. She needed another life. This one wasn’t exactly working out brilliantly.

  Not for the first time she wished her parents were still alive. She felt envious of those who could turn and confide in mom and dad. She had no one. She looked at her cellphone again, jumping as it suddenly started ringing.

  “Hello?”

  She didn’t recognize the man’s voice on the other end. “Natalie MacCallister?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Hi, I’m Alan Hansard at Time to Move. I believe my colleague rang you about MacCallister Castle.”

  “That’s right. Three o’clock today. I’ll be there.”

  “About that, I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel.”

  “What? Why? Has it been let?”

  “Well, no but-”

  “Then I can still look around, can’t I?”

  “No, it’s not the right kind of place for you.”

  She frowned. “How would you know what kind of place is right for me? If you’re worried I can’t afford it, I could always pay for a couple of months up front.”