The Stone Dweller's Curse: A Story of Curses, Madness, Obsession and Love

by Jacqueline Henry

  This was someone’s life, she thought with a sudden stab of sadness, this is all that’s left. A deluge of pity for the owner of this decrepit old bag suddenly soaked her emotions, already saturated with alcohol, grief and the guilt of her systematic discarding of her father’s life. What would be left of her life when she was gone?

  She pulled the briefcase closer. The leather was hard and stiff, the single buckle rusted but functioning. She bent closer, sniffing. There was a faint smell of leather and mustiness, a smell of old paper and something else. She pressed her nose hard up against the leather, inhaling deeply. Smoke.

  Pushing the flap back into the lamplight she inspected the word etched there and ran her fingers over it. ‘Chimney,’ she said, pulling out the two photographs and studying the old building, counting two chimneys. A small burning tingle ignited in the pit of her belly as she placed the photos on the coffee table. Two metal tins shone dully in the lamplight and she pulled them out next, one a flask, the other a small round bowl with a lid. A small bundle of cloth sat beneath them. A cap and a woollen purse with draw strings. She opened the purse up, emptying out two coins, shillings, into her hand. Delving in deeper she felt around and pulled out two worn down pencils, a small handmade knife and a spoon shaped from a piece of wood. She laid them out on the coffee table and pulled the bag onto her lap. Reaching in again, she extracted a book of hymns with a postcard from Lerwick enclosed. She flipped it over, reading the swirly, almost illegible writing on the back.

  ’27 July 1919. Having a wonderful time. Weather good. Andrew and Aileen.’

  She pulled out the bundle of loose papers, the sheets of various sizes and thickness made up of assorted invoices, letters and notices. The first one, an invoice from Bailey & Son dated November 1935, was for the delivery of five bales of hay; on the back of this, a pencil drawn sketch of high seas crashing against a sheer cliff face. The next sheet, smaller in size, was a fishing permit from WWI from the Naval Authority for Thomas Hart. Drawn on the back of this was a large, monolithic rock in heavy dark shading, Brud Stone written in the top right hand corner. Below this, a notice from Haardale Parish Church introducing Father Glen Dunross as the new parish priest; on the back another hand drawn map, detailed, showing elevations and depressions in the landscape. The next one, a typed letter dated 11 May 1933 from the Inspector of Poor, Mr Bruce Ogilvy to Mr Thomas Hart, Widower aged 44, residing at Hart Croft, Erdin Valley in the parish of Haardale. Acknowledgement of Receipt for Request for Parochial Relief to pay croft rent and feed 1 head of cattle, 2 pigs, 2 sheep and 3 ponies. On the back of this was another pencil sketch of a stone cottage, looking down onto it from above, a valley stretching out beyond. Another page bore the stern letterhead of The District Lunacy Board, the paper thick and yellowing, the lettering in small, faded, old-fashioned type. Dated 20 March 1928 it read: ‘The District Lunacy Board declare under the auspices of the Insane Lunacy Act that George Hart of Hart Croft, Erdin Valley in the Parish of Haardale, Unst, is of unsound mind and in being so is a danger to himself and those around him. Therefore, We of the District Lunacy Board deem that he be removed to an appropriate place of care in the hope of deriving benefit from training and treatment in an institution, this said institution being Inverhall Lunatic Asylum, Aberdeenshire.’

  Inflexible and austere. There would be no compromise.

  ‘My God,’ Deidre muttered, her eyes returning to the letterhead. ‘The District Lunacy Board,’ she read fearfully, images of straight-jackets, padded cells and electric shock therapy sending a chill through her. ‘George Hart is of unsound mind,’ she read, ‘and in being so is a danger to himself and those around him.’ Deidre glanced at the old bag on the table. The small pencil nubs. This was George Hart’s briefcase, she realised. It wasn’t about the invoices and postcards and letters from lunatic asylums, it was about the drawings on the back. She studied the sketch in her lap, the intensity in the shading, the urgency in the strokes, the obsession in the detail.

  Glass smashed. Not close, but close enough. More glass. Voices. Loud voices. Angry voices. More glass sprinkling and shattering. Screaming and yelling. Deidre felt her insides weaken, sweat bubbling to the surface of her skin, shivering suddenly despite the heat. She stood up and rushed to the window to see them swarm down the long narrow street like a wave, half-naked and heat crazy, brandishing metal poles and sticks, throwing missiles, attacking cars and smashing windows.

  It heralded the most horrific and terrifying night of her life.

  Friday, Six Months Later – Unst

  Catching an early flight from Aberdeen airport Deidre landed in Sumburgh on the southern tip of mainland Shetland just after eleven am. She picked up the car she had hired for a month, a small, green two-door hatch, and confirmed again with the woman behind the counter the time it would take to drive to Unst.

  ‘If yer goin’ straight up, it shouldnae take mare dan tree oors. It’s aw well mapped oot fur ye,’ the woman had advised, the silky blue blouse she wore swishing with every movement as she opened up a map on the counter. Uncapping a thick pink marker, she drew a line straight up the middle of the map that showed the three main islands that she would have to traverse; the Shetland Mainland, Yell and Unst. ‘Der’s da Toft ferry here,’ she drew a circle at the top of the mainland, ‘an dat will take ye oer t’Yell. It’s aboot a twenty minute ferry ride. Der’s nae need t’book, it’s no as busy as last munt. Drive o’er Yell.’ The pink marker continued its trek across the middle isle, stopped at the top and made another circle. ‘You’ll have t’catch anudder ferry here t’get across t’Unst. Dat’s only a wee ride, aboot ten minutes. Da ferries run fairly frequently. Da only ting you’ll have t’worry aboot is da wedder.’ The blue-bloused woman turned and looked out the window behind her to regard the bilious grey clouds above their heads. ‘But it should be fine da day,’ she assured with an efficient and knowing nod of her head, making it clear that she was an islander and she knew the weather.

  Deidre nodded attentively, absorbed in the woman’s strong accent. There was something familiar and resonant about it; about a lot of things here her senses were reacting to, the light in the sky, the feel of the air. It was like finding an empty bottle of perfume she hadn’t used for years, the scent still there, one sniff bringing back a flood of feelings absent of any specific memories.

  Deidre accepted the keys and headed off, excited, well rested after spending two days in London and an overnight stay in Aberdeen before catching the small plane to the Shetlands. There were maybe twenty people on her flight from mainland Scotland and it took just over an hour, but it felt longer than the Singapore to London leg of her journey as she sat staring out the window, bouncing and shuddering, buffeted by the wind, hypnotised by the black sea churning below them. This place was far, far away, a long way away from Sydney and she wondered if she would ever make it back again. Then islands appeared like a grey smudge on the horizon, flat and hunkered down against the sea and she marvelled that this enormous ocean didn’t roll right over them, swallow them whole. Until the small plane drew closer, the giant cliff faces coming into focus, rising up against the ocean like the walls of an iron fortress, a bastion in this watery wilderness.

  The roads were smooth narrow ribbons of tarmac that meandered their way across the isles. Sheep and ponies grazed at the side of the unfenced roads, the mantle of cloud above her head opening and closing, undecided about what to do.

  On the ferry across to Yell there had been talk of a whale sighting, so she’d left the warmth of the car and ran upstairs to the viewing deck with the handful of other excited and expectant tourists, but all they caught was a fine spray of mist ejaculating from the choppy sea. It didn’t matter, she was happy with that, filled with an exuberant joy, buoyant, excited about her life, about this unknown journey she’d set herself on, proud of herself for taking this unusual step, aware also, although unadmitted, that she was running away. Away from grief, away from loneliness. Away from fear.

  That night
, after the violence had burned itself out, after they’d put the fires out and it was safe to walk the streets, she’d hired a truck and moved all her worldly possessions back to her father’s house. She would have left that night but her car had been one of five that had been set alight, the exploding fuel tank shattering the front windows of her flat. Although, at the time of the explosion, Deidre had been curled up in a tight ball, hiding beneath a pile of clothes in a dark corner of her wardrobe. She’d felt the thump, heard the explosion and had pee’d her pants thinking that her world had come to an end. Cowering, waiting for death, she’d spent the rest of the night in a puddle of piss, whimpering and crying for her Dad, her situation stark in the darkness. She was alone. Completely and absolutely alone, and it was then, in that lowest, most terrifying moment in her life that her tethers were cut free.

  The briefcase, its contents, the mysteries it held opened up another world to her, set her on an investigative journey of the Shetland Islands, occupying her time and her mind. She emailed an archive website for information on Hart Croft. After a series of emails backwards and forwards to J. Brown she garnered some information, most she already knew, that croft had been derelict since the late thirties, the last occupier being George Hart, buried in Haardale Kirk alongside his father Thomas and his mother Moira Hart. There wasn’t much more to tell her other than a footnote beside George’s name stating that he’d been a patient of the Inverhall Lunatic Asylum between the years of 1928 to 1934, J. Brown suggesting she should try the Inverhall Asylum archives for more information.

  Deidre had thanked J. Brown for his or her time asking if they could suggest anywhere to stay while on Unst as she was considering a visit there in the near future. She hadn’t known what had prompted her to state this piece of information as it was news to herself. J. Brown suggested Stayne House in Haardale, as Haardale used to service Erdin Valley when people still lived there. J. Brown also supplied her with a number and the name of Mavis.

  It was a couple of weeks later, late on a Friday night, after two glasses of red wine and feeling the first notions of morbidity setting in, that she finally rang Stayne House. She’d been going through her father’s record collection as she boxed up his LP’s of Elvis and Fleetwood Mac. ELO. Music that had been the soundtrack to her life as she grew up. It could be so easy to cocoon herself here in this house, alone, slowly turning into a crazy old spinster. Crazy like George Hart.

  A decline that was already happening. She was supposed to have gone out for drinks with some people from work that night and had feigned a headache instead, going home, retreating, descending into self-pity, coiling up into herself, filled with a desperate fear that she’d missed out, that she’d been left behind. Shut out. And then she wondered if she’d been shut out, or if it was she who refused to walk in. While everyone else around her got on with their lives, she seemed to be treading water, stagnating into spinsterhood, retreating, particularly since the rampage.

  In a pure reflex reaction to this thought, she had picked up the phone and dialled the number to Stayne House, spoke to a woman called Vee and booked a room for one month. The woman clarified that she wanted to stay for one month and Deidre replied, yes, she was quite sure. Although she wasn’t quite sure why. It was something to do, an adventure, something to break the monotony, something that would give her an interest in life again. She would investigate the chimney, have a look at the croft. Take a picture. If nothing else, she would sit around, read a book and do nothing for a month. It wasn’t like she could go to Bali or Tahiti or some exotic resort by herself.

  And so the dates were set. She booked the flights, hired a car and enjoyed the looks people gave her when she told them what she was doing, where she was going.

  ‘I’m going to Unst. The Shetland Islands.’ She smirked at the expressions on their faces as their minds digested her words before she continued on, embellishing the facts for effect. ‘I’ve inherited a farm there and I think there’s something hidden in a chimney I need to investigate.’

  She knew what they were thinking; her father’s death had loosened her screws but that traumatic experience with the Annandale rampage had finally unhinged her; until she explained further and told them about the croft and the briefcase, about the contents and the word written into the flap. The expressions on their faces changed then. She liked to think she could see a flicker of envy. She could do what she wanted, go where she wanted, and she didn’t have to answer to anyone. She was able to just pack up and leave on a whim, follow a mystery that called to her. They laughed, clinked their glasses and called her Nancy Drew as they toasted her Bon Voyage.

  The clouds broke apart, exposing large patches of milky blue sky as she rolled off the ferry onto Unst. Instructions at the bottom of her accommodation confirmation had told her to stay on this road until she saw the sign for Haardale, and turn right. Keep going until she saw Walters Store. Keep going past the kirk, turn left, and follow the road around the bay. Stayne House sits on top of the hill.

  Following the directions, she turned right at the Haardale turn off and followed the road until she saw the large red and gold banner of Walters Store, Merchants, stating they’d been in business since 1882. Deidre could believe that, the sign old and faded, the stone walls of the long single storey building solid and heavy, settled in. An old wooden, weatherworn bench sat at the side of a red phone box outside the main doorway.

  A wide expansive bay opened up at the end of the road and she slowed as she approached the Haardale kirk, a small severe looking grey edifice, its surrounds dotted with aging headstones. George lay there, her great grandparents, her roots, were buried in that graveyard somewhere.

  The smooth tarmac ended as the road veered left into a narrow, gravel filled track skirting the bay, a small sign pointing to a large double storey building sitting atop a low rise in the land, its grey stone walls soaking up a brief burst of sunlight, chimneys and small dorma windows like half-closed eyes peeking from the black slated roof. Stayne House.

  A small gravelled area in front of the house served as a car park, accompanied by a wide, flag stoned pathway leading up to a modest, black painted front door. The crisp air hit her face as she stepped out from the car, the coolness of the air still surprising her. A hard wind blew, arctic; its icy vapour flowing down her throat so filled with the smell of the sea she could taste it. Small pools glistened in the gravel as if just drenched by a heavy downpour, although now it seemed the clouds were fast dispersing, whipped away by the wind. The panorama below snared her attention, turning her head and rotating her body in a slow circle. Everything was in sharp focus, highly defined, the colours of the hills, the turquoise spectrum of the white-crested sea beyond the bay intense, as if a haze had been wiped from her eyes. She could hear the waves pounding against the headlands in the distance, reverberating through the core of the isle, thumping like a heartbeat under her feet. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the moment, the wind, the sound and smell of the sea, the light, the sense of peace. Solitude. No traffic, no barking dogs, no people pressing in against her. No fear.

  ‘Hullo der, lassie.’

  Deidre turned around, startled out of her reverie as a short, stockily built man came from around the side of the house heading down the pathway towards her. He wore a pair of baggy corduroy pants, the legs stuffed into long black wellingtons, the thick woolly jumper he wore a perfect complement to his wild woolly white hair blowing around in the wind. A sheep, Deidre thought. He looks like a sheep.

  ‘You must be Deeedree?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, smiling as he approached her.

  ‘Da Hart lassie, from Australia,’ he confirmed, extending his hand towards her. ‘Ye’ve broat da sun wi ye.’

  What? Deidre nodded, accepting the man’s hand. It felt dry and calloused but her cold fingers appreciated the warmth of his firm grip. ‘I’m Stuart Docherty. I’m Dot’s son. I’m o’er on Scarvar Croft, just o’er da hill der.’ He arced his thumb over his shoulder. ‘C’mon we
’ll get ye inside an’ get ye a cuppa tea,’ he said, slapping his hands together, his chubby cheeks pink and shiny.

  ‘Sounds great,’ Deidre said, nodding appreciatively. ‘I’ll just grab my bags,’ she added, heading to the boot of the car and pulling out her suitcase, a sudden icy blast of wind almost knocking her off her feet.

  ‘Da wind’s got its teeth in da day,’ Stuart said, stepping up to help. ‘Ma an’ Aunty Mavis are away t’da toon fir der check up,’ he explained, relieving Deidre of her suitcase, ‘so dey asked if I could be here t’meet ye. Vee, dat’s my daughter, she’s usually here but Gregory broke his erm dis morning, so she couldnae make it da day.’

  ‘Oh, dear, that doesn’t sound too good,’ Deidre replied, deciphering the conversation as best she could, retrieving her small backpack and George’s briefcase from the front passenger seat. ‘The house looks very old,’ she commented, following Stuart to the front door.

  ‘Aye, it wis an auld haa,’ Stuart explained, bumping and rolling the suitcase over the uneven pathway.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘It used to be a laird’s hoose. It wis built back in 1798. Da date’s chiselled intae da stone above da door.’ He glanced over his shoulder to Deidre, eyeing the briefcase curiously. ‘Whit’s dat ye’ve got der lassie?’ he asked, opening the door.

  Deidre smiled tiredly. Even now, in these last steps of this long, long trip, she was still being questioned about the old bag. She’d carried the briefcase all the way from Mascot Airport as on board luggage. Putting it in with cargo had been unthinkable, its contents, even the bag itself had become precious to her. Its discovery had changed the course of her life. She’d gone through the contents many times in the months leading to her departure, the names becoming familiar to her, Muddow’s Field, Tumshie Burn, Ayres Kame. Brud Stone. Throughout her journey, people had stared at the battered old valise in curiosity, looking up to regard its owner, a quizzical look on their faces. Couldn’t she afford new luggage? The way they’d man-handled it when she’d gone through customs. They’d pulled her aside in London, took the briefcase from her and pawed through it, pulling out the papers, the old cap, their latex covered fingers flicking through the pages of the hymn book, inspecting the spines. The photographs. She’d felt outraged and wondered why she felt that way. They weren’t really her things, and yet she’d felt defiled afterwards, angry, as if they’d been touching her in places they shouldn’t have been, and without permission.