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

by Jacqueline Henry

  Cringing, she remembered asking him if he was married. He said that he wasn’t, and that last year he’d broken off a five-year relationship with a woman called Valerie. Dylan asked her why she’d come to Unst and she’d told him about her father dying and about the Annandale rampage. She didn’t tell him anything about Hart Croft or that her purpose for being here was to look in a chimney.

  Afterwards he’d walked her back to Vee’s car, holding the door open for her. It was lovely to meet her, he’d said before bending forward and stealing a kiss on the lips right from under her nose. It was sudden and unexpected and it caught her off guard and it was all it took for him to steal her heart. It was that easy.

  Deidre lay gazing wide eyed at the blue sky replaying the moment over and over in her mind. ‘Just a kiss goodnight,’ she whispered to the empty room. It was nothing more than that. Reading more into it would be a foolish and dangerous venture, her heart so easily tricked.

  But that kiss, she could still feel the sensation of his soft lips on hers and the very thought of it made them tingle like a chilli burn.

  She rolled over and curled into a foetal position, groaning into her pillow.

  ‘This isn’t fair,’ she said quietly, closing her eyes, returning to the kiss in her mind as she lay there ticking all the boxes for the broken heart she had on order, skipping ebulliently down the path of self-induced misery.

  But it was worth it. It was always worth it just to feel the way she did right now, even for only a little while.

  The sound of a vacuum cleaner outside her door forced her out of bed. She felt quite unwell, hung over and hungry and dismayed by the time of day. It was almost twelve o’clock. Dressing in whatever came to hand first, Deidre opened her door to see a woman pushing the vacuum cleaner to and fro at the end of the landing. The woman didn’t look up or appear to notice Deidre as she made her way across to the bathroom and she had made her way to the upper landing by the time Deidre came back out. Her head thumping, she moved carefully down the creaking stairs away from the raucous, industrial sounding machine, the gallon of water she’d just drank from the bathroom tap sloshing around in her empty stomach.

  The twins’ voices could be heard coming from somewhere, and Dedire moved quietly down the hallway to the kitchen in the hope of avoiding their attention, incapable right now of dealing with their scrutiny.

  A basket of bread rolls sat on the kitchen bench and she grabbed one, spreading on a thick layer of butter, waiting for the kettle to boil. She spied Vee through the window hanging out sheets, the white sails whipping in the wind.

  Dylan. The very thought of him made her lips curve and her stomach roll.

  The kettle boiled and after making a cup of tea, she took it upstairs, her body craving its horizontal position again.

  A while later she woke up feeling better, refreshed, the day still clear and cloudless, the sun appearing to have barely moved position. A thought of driving to Haroldswick crossed her mind. It wouldn’t be hard to find Dylan in such a small community, just drop by and say hello. She thought about it but knew she would never do it, hunt him down. It reeked of desperation. Stalking. Besides, there were other things to be done today.

  Dressed in jeans, a warm lightweight jacket and joggers, her damp boots still in the mudroom downstairs, Deidre filled her backpack with essentials and headed for her car. The clock on the dashboard stated it was almost two o’clock in the afternoon. It was late in the day to be taking on the long walk to the croft, and anywhere else in the world, Sydney for instance, she wouldn’t even consider it. But this was summer time in Shetland, the land of the simmer dim, where there was maybe half an hour of semi-darkness each night. There was plenty of time. She turned the keys in the ignition and rolled out of the carpark, pushing thoughts of Dylan to the back of her mind, the effort as futile as trying to stop floodwaters seeping through a crack.

  Walters Store was one of only three shops on the isle and boasted an ATM machine. It also served as a bakery, a post office, and a petrol station as well as a liquor store that sold cheap wine at high prices. She’d stopped off yesterday afternoon with Stuart after their trek to the valley and she’d bought two bottles of red wine at extortionate prices. Stuart had introduced her to Mr Jenkins, explaining Mr Jenkins had been the owner of Walters Store for the past thirty seven years but had never bothered to change the name. Stuart had introduced her as Da Hart Lassie from Australia and Jenkins had extolled an enthusiastic ‘G’day mate,’ on her.

  Jenkins would have been in his late fifties, early sixties, it was hard to tell, his face heavy with jowls, his lips thick and liver coloured, balding, the remnants of his lank hair combed over his bald pate in thin sad strips. Deidre hadn’t seen a comb over in many years.

  ‘Ye’d better be watching oot fur da curse den,’ Jenkins had added after their introduction, leaning on the glass counter, its contents within barely discernible beneath its scratched and worn surface.

  Deidre pulled into the empty space serving as a car park at the front of Walters Store. The loud jangling bell went off as she stepped inside and Jenkins looked up from his newspaper, a smile stretching his liver lips.

  ‘G’day, mate,’ he said, standing.

  ‘Hello,’ Deidre replied, ‘how’re you? I’ve just come to grab a bottle of water,’ she said, stepping up to the fridge and pulling out a bottle, grabbing a couple of chocolate bars on her way back to the counter.

  ‘Nae red wine?’ Jenkins asked.

  Deidre smiled, shook her head and paid for her goods, the bell jangling behind her again as she stepped outside. Stopping on the step, she stood for a moment looking out across the bay. It had looked quite different yesterday afternoon when she’d walked out this door, the scene grey and sombre, miserable, steeped in wet, cloud covered light. It had matched her mood, saturated in gloom. Dylan, clear skies and bright sunlight changed everything, the landscape, her mood, the view, all now aglow.

  Her muscles tight with excitement, she headed for the car to repeat the journey travelled yesterday.

  Two cars passed her on the road before she pulled over, regarding Ayres Kame’s rolling hills on the other side of the vast field. They’d passed by a derelict croft yesterday she recalled, but the ruin had been so dilapidated, so low to the ground, she was having trouble spotting it in this rugged, undulating terrain.

  It didn’t take long to realise she’d picked the wrong comb of Ayres Kame’s hills to climb, her chosen course considerably steeper than the route taken yesterday, but it was too late to turn back. Persevering, her achievement on reaching the crest was rewarded with sweeping views across to the headlands and promontories and out to the ocean beyond. The sea crashed against cliff faces, light pulsating through the spray and shimmering in an effervescent blue haze.

  Deidre closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her face tilted up to the boundless sky. This was how she’d imagined it. Anything was possible. Dylan. A cheesy grin spread across her face. Today she felt like Julie Andrews and her heart was alive with the sound of fiddles. Her fingertips glided across the resting stone as she passed by. Quickening her pace, her stomach clenched into a tight ball of anticipation at the sight of Hart Croft.

  Wondering what Dylan would think of her real estate, she descended the slope to the croft, regarding it critically as she approached. Would this be something he would consider taking on in the hope of rescuing the past she wondered. Rescuing her?

  The gable loomed above her, sunlight highlighting the colours and contours of the stonework hidden in yesterday’s leaden light. She reached out touching the cold rough cut stone as she headed towards the vacant doorway, a residue of yesterday’s sadness still lingering in her like a dirty puddle of water after a downpour. Pity infused her mood as if she’d found the remains of an old dog left to die alone at the side of a deserted road. Sorrow. Turning, she looked around, hearing the wind blow through the long grasses and swathes of purple heather that blanketed the valley floor, the sea colliding with t
he cliff face of Erdiness, pushing waves into the bay that came rushing up the shingled beach. This was hers, this was where she came from, this was where her roots began.

  Stepping over the threshold, she glanced from one fireplace to the other. Turning right, she made her way between the weeds. Remnants of an old wooden mantelpiece remained rooted into the stonework, the black throat of the fireplace stretching upwards. Slipping the small backpack off her shoulder to the floor, she stood staring at the vacant hearth, hushing the thought that she’d come all this way for nothing

  ‘There’s probably nothing in here,’ she said, preparing herself for disappointment, reasoning that if anything had been hidden in the chimney it had been placed there nearly eighty years ago. The building was an empty shell now, picked clean and worn away, what were the chances that anything would still be there?

  Pulling the small torch from her pocket, she clicked it on, her curiosity at its peak. She was shaking, she realised, grinning, thinking of Mavis, if the old woman knew she was here right now, if she knew she was here looking for the cross. She stepped into hearth, crouching down under the rotting mantelpiece and carefully stood upright into the chimney, her torchlight highlighting the thick crusts of soot stuck to the chimney walls. Light squeezed through the small square opening above and her eyes travelled down the narrow column of black stone uncertain of what she was looking for. She shuffled around, her shoulders knocking against the narrow walls dislodging centuries old soot. She looked up, waving black dust away, spying an anomaly in the stonework and pointed the torch at it, staring. There was a hole there. Lifting her hand, she reached into it, her fingers brushing against something.

  ‘Deidre!’ The voice, loud and urgent, angry, startled her, causing her heart to thump and a rush of adrenalin whoosh through her, guilt and secrecy propelling her out from the chimney, stuffing the torch in her pocket.

  The croft was empty which surprised her because the owner of the voice sounded as though they’d been standing right beside the fireplace. She glanced through the threshold to the vacant byre, her heart hammering as she headed outside, perplexed. Annoyed. It was probably Stuart, she surmised, scanning the immediate surrounds of the croft wondering why he would hide from her. She walked around the entire building, the voice still echoing in her head. She scanned the valley again, the slope leading up to the Coffin Road. No one.

  The wind blew, whispering across the grasses, the smell of the sea all around her.

  Deidre!

  She could still hear it. The voice had been quite clear and still resonated through her head. She could still feel the urgency in it.

  It had been her Dad’s voice, she knew it the moment she’d heard it.

  The sea washed against the cliff face and she looked up at Brud Stone standing on the edge of the headland, looked back at the croft. It hadn’t been her imagination. The volume and reprimanding tone of the voice had been her father’s. He’d yelled her name just like that when she’d spilled paint on the carpet of her bedroom. Douglas had told her to put a sheet down before she started. She hadn’t, the lilac stain remaining on her bedroom floor for years as a constant reminder that Douglas Hart was always right. Always right and that she should listen to him. When he told her not to use the mechanic around the corner from her flat, to go to Thompson’s as she always did because he was reliable and honest. Again, she hadn’t listened to him, using the mechanic around the corner. She bought her petrol there sometimes. Simon, a new, young mechanic had started working there. He’d flirted with her one day when she was pumping up her tires. She’d started going there more frequently for her petrol, only putting small amounts in at a time in order to go there more often, to see Simon more often, and so had booked her car in for a simple service. It cost her fifteen hundred dollars, money she didn’t have and money she had to borrow from Douglas.

  ‘Deidre!’ he’d cried in anger, slamming his hand against the kitchen counter. ‘Did I not tell you not go there? Did I not tell you to go to Thompson’s? When will you listen to me?!’

  Deidre stood in the doorway of the croft feeling numb. Confused. Doubtful. There was no one here, not a soul around for miles that she could see so someone calling her name must have been her imagination, the way she was sure she heard her phone ring sometimes when it hadn’t. Auditory hallucinations.

  She stood in the threshold looking into the empty building. She’d felt something in the chimney. There was something there.

  She’d just heard her father call out to her in no uncertain terms. It wasn’t her imagination.

  Terror seized her. Douglas Hart had died over nine months ago and she’d just heard his voice as clear as day. She hadn’t imagined it.

  Her muscles constricted, squeezing out every molecule of adrenalin into her blood stream ready for flight. Her backpack sat on the floor next to the fireplace and she ran in not taking the time to veer around the monstrous thistles, scratching her hands as she crashed through them, over them, the nettles stinging as she pushed them out of the way in a desperate, terror-fuelled charge for her backpack. Snatching it from the floor she turned and bolted out the vacant doorframe, running, tripping and falling up the hill to the Coffin Road, past the resting stone until the stitch in her side forced her to stop and she stood doubled over, clutching her side, gasping for breath.

  Deidre!

  From her elevated spot, she surveyed the land all around her, realising then that there were no sheep or ponies on this side of Ayres Kame. There wasn’t a single form of life for miles around. She was completely alone.

  Later That Evening - By the Bay

  Deidre!

  It must’ve been her imagination, the wind blowing or the crash of a wave, probably caused by jetlag she reasoned.

  But there was definitely something in the chimney, that hadn’t been her imagination, she’d touched it, felt something there, the fruition of her purpose generating an excitement that was equally matched by terror.

  Deidre!

  She could still hear her father’s voice imprinted onto her eardrums as she walked around to the back of Stayne House, glancing in through the kitchen window, registering that a number of people were gathered there. Entering the cloakroom, she sat down on the pew to take off her shoes, muted voices from the kitchen pressing through the closed door, the smell of meat roasting causing her to salivate.

  The door swung open and Vee stood there, dressed in a pair of tight black leggings and a billowing bright purple shirt, close fitting flat black shoes highlighting how surprisingly small and out of proportion her feet were. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she asked, ‘we were just aboot t’send a search party oot fur ye.’

  Deidre bent down untying her other shoe lace, recalling that moment in the fireplace, that touch of something waiting there for her, the sound of her name ringing out in her father’s voice still playing over and over in her head in an eternal loop.

  ‘What’s wrong,’ Vee asked.

  Deidre pulled her gaze up from the floor. Vee was staring across at her, a small wrinkle forming between her brows.

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied. She felt slow and dim witted, as if she’d had a jolt of electricity.

  ‘Hiv ye seen a ghost?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come an’ get someting t’eat. Dylan’s been waitin’ fur ye fur over an hoor.’

  ‘What?’

  Vee nodded her head over her shoulder and Deidre jumped from the bench, alert suddenly, stepping past Vee into the kitchen. Every setting at the long dining table was occupied, her eyes scanning the faces, most familiar, others not.

  Dylan stood up smiling at her from the other end of the table, pulling a chair out for her and she felt a blushing grin spread across her face as she sat down beside him.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, bending close.

  ‘Deidre,’ one of the twins voiced. Looking over at the old woman, Deidre assumed it to be Mavis. ‘Dis is Matt an’ Geoff. Dey’re from Australia as well. Dey’re geologists.’

>   Deidre looked across the table at two unfamiliar faces. Hairy, full-face beards greeted her, big glasses.

  ‘Hi.’ Matt lifted his hand in a stiffly awkward, flat-palmed salute.

  Deidre nodded, smiled.

  ‘Where are you from?’ Geoff asked.

  ‘Sydney.’

  ‘How long are you here for?’

  ‘A few weeks,’ she replied.

  ‘Birdwatching?’

  ‘No.’ Shut up, she thought.

  ‘We’re here mainly for the rocks but we came to look at the birds as well,’ Geoff continued, clearly the more confident of the two, his accent distinct and familiar to her ears so far away from home, but all the same, she just wanted him to shut up. ‘Olivia said you haven’t been to Hermaness yet. We’re probably gonna go tomorrow if you wanna tag along?’

  ‘No, I’m right thanks,’ she said.

  ‘I’m hoping the white tailed eagle will still be around. That’ll be quite a sight.’

  She smiled politely, nodding. She didn’t care about white tailed eagles, geeky geologists or creepy twitchers. Dylan was here, clean-shaven, lovely faced Dylan and he was sitting right beside her.

  ‘We saw a Thick Billed Warbler last year,’ Olivia added and Deidre glanced at Dylan, disengaging herself from the bird conversation as the chatter picked up.

  Vee placed a plate loaded with roast beef and vegetables in front of her. ‘Der’s plenty more of ye want some,’ she said, before returning to her seat at the other end of the table.

  Dylan leaned towards her. ‘I rang earlier but you weren’t around so I thought I’d drop over,’ he said, close in her ear.

  ‘Sorry.’ Deidre hunched her shoulders in apology, looking at him, trying to note every wrinkle and character of his face, hold it and memorise it. She felt herself blush and turned away, glancing around the table, Dot talking to her grandson seated at the head of the table where it allowed the free clumsy movement of his plastered arm.