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Dark Encounters: Ghost Stories

Page 7

by William Croft Dickinson


  He waved a friendly hand, got into his van, and drove off, leaving me alone with uncomfortable thoughts. I was positive I had not fallen asleep. I was equally positive that a large boulder had missed my car by inches. And what of that old woman with her dank hair and dripping clothes, who might almost have risen from the waters of the loch below, and who, after glaring at me with burning hate, had apparently been swallowed up in the waters again? If not, where had she gone? And who was she, anyway? How did she fit in? ‘Well,’ I said to myself, resignedly, ‘strange things certainly do happen. But I’d be glad of an explanation, if anyone could give it.’

  I stepped into my car, started the engine, and drove on again. Possibly I was more shaken than I had at first realized, and possibly I was worried with my thoughts; certainly I now crawled along the road, through Arisaig, and on to Morar. I remember that when at last I pulled into the drive of my hotel I felt as though a great burden had suddenly been lifted from my back.

  Morar is a lovely spot, with its stretch of silver sand and with the islands of Rum, Eigg and Muck standing like sentinels in the sea. Inland, I found delightful walks, especially one by the side of the loch. In a couple of days the old woman of my adventure on the road from Glenfinnan had become a puzzling memory, and nothing more.

  I had reached Morar on the Tuesday evening. Wednesday and Thursday I spent in lazily wandering about, or in lying in the heather and feeling how good, for a time, was a life of ease. On Friday, much against my inclination, I caught up with some long-delayed mail from home and then, in the early evening, took a short walk that led to the falls, where the waters of the loch, at that time still unharnessed for electric power, poured through a gorge before finding their way to the sea.

  I had scrambled down a steep and narrow path that led to the foot of the falls, and had taken my stance on a boulder there, when a noise, rising above the thunder of the falls, made me turn round. I was only half-interested, and I turned round casually, but, to my horror, I saw a large rock hurtling down the narrow path on which I stood. How I managed to make the right decision in a split second of time, I shall never know. I flung myself down behind the boulder on which I was standing. The rock struck it with a mighty crack, bounced, harmlessly over my head, and plunged into the whirlpool at the bottom of the falls.

  Dazed and trembling, I carefully picked myself up. Then, pain made itself felt, and I discovered that I had injured my left knee by throwing myself down to the ground. Would I be able to climb back again to the top of the path? I looked up at that steep and broken slope, and my heart suddenly jumped into my throat. An old woman with dank grey hair, and with clothes that were dripping wet, was glaring at me from above; glaring at me with intense hate, as three days before she had glared at me on the road from Glenfinnan. And again, though this time far more pronounced, I felt the same strange fear, and, with it, a weakness that seemed to affect every part of me.

  I gripped the boulder beside me with both hands, frightened lest I should fall backwards into the whirlpool below. Gradually the weakness passed. Then, summoning the little courage that was left in me, I began a slow and painful crawl on hands and knees, taking advantage of every turn in the path, and praying constantly that no other rock would be hurled against me from above. When, at long last, I reached the top of the path, I lay there completely exhausted and unable to take a further step. The old woman was nowhere to be seen.

  As I lay there, worn out and riddled with fear, my mind strove vainly to grapple with accidents that were beyond all reasoning. I now knew definitely that I had not fallen asleep at the wheel of my car. I knew, too, that twice a fiend of an old woman had tried to send me to the shades from which I was convinced she herself had risen. I had had enough, If, all unwittingly, I had disturbed the haunts of some avenging ‘ghost’, the only answer was to leave her haunts forthwith. Call me a coward, if you like; and coward I certainly became! But, then and there, I determined to return to Edinburgh and the safety of its streets.

  I limped slowly back to the hotel, intending to pack my bags and depart. Yet, as soon as I had reached the hotel, a new fear struck me. To leave forthwith would mean driving through Arisaig, and on to Glenfinnan, by night. I couldn’t face it. I knew that even driving along that road by day I should be crawling at a snail’s pace, and looking to the right and the left of me all the time. I even had thoughts of driving the odd four miles into Mallaig and there putting myself and my car on the boat. In the end I decided to stay the night, and to leave on the Saturday morning.

  After dinner I told the landlord of my decision to leave early the next morning. I excused myself by reference to some urgent business that had arisen from my mail; and, in expressing my appreciation of the comfort of my stay, murmured something of my regret at having to leave so soon, and before I had even made any attempt to trace my ancestors who had come from Morar about two hundred years ago.

  ‘Have you seen Father MacWilliam?’ came his unexpected reply.

  ‘No,’ I answered. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, it will be this way,’ he said. ‘The Father knows the history of Morar. He’s been at the books and the papers these many years. And he’s the one who would be telling you about your own folks, way past, if, indeed, there is anything to be known of them at all.’

  ‘Could I call upon him now?’ I asked eagerly.

  ‘Indeed you could; but he’d be out.’

  I looked at him in surprise.

  ‘He’d be out, for he’s in my own parlour this very time. Come you with me, and you can have a talk with him before you go.’

  Full of interest, I was led to the back-parlour of the hotel, where Father MacWilliam, a plump and rosy-faced priest, was snugly ensconced in an easy-chair, and deep in the pages of an enormous book.

  ‘Father, I’ve brought you Mr John MacDonald,’ said my host, without further ado. ‘He’s for leaving tomorrow, but he’d be glad if you could be telling him of his people who, it would seem, came from these parts maybe two hundred years ago. If I were to let the two of you talk together, maybe he’ll be learning something of what he wants to know.’

  The priest gave me a warm smile of welcome, and somehow managed to unfold himself out of his chair. The landlord gave us a nod, and left the two of us together.

  ‘John MacDonald,’ said the priest, looking at me. ‘It tells me nothing. Everyone here is a MacDonald. Every man, woman and child. God bless them all. Could you tell me more?’

  I had to confess that I couldn’t. All I knew was that my forbears had left Morar, or some place in its vicinity, about the 1750s. That, and no more.

  Father MacWilliarn shook his head. ‘’Tis no use,’ he said. ‘I can be of no help to you, much as I would have liked. Too many MacDonalds have left these parts — and sometimes I think too many have stayed on. But there, you’ve had a good time for the few days you’ve been here. And that’s aye something.’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered slowly, and then, with a sudden desire to unburden myself, ‘a good enough time if it hadn’t been for an old woman who has twice tried to stone me to death.’

  ‘What?’ shouted the priest, his eyes suddenly blazing. ‘You will be telling me that! Were her clothes dripping with water? Did you see, man, did you see?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered, quickly. ‘They were dripping wet. And she glared at me with such hatred in her eyes that I knew she was trying to kill me. Who is she? Or what is she?’

  ‘I know only too well what she is,’ he replied, slowly and quietly. ‘And I know now who you are, John MacDonald, and I can give you your forbears. I’m thinking, ’tis well you’ll be leaving when the morning comes. But tell me your tale, and I’ll tell you mine.’

  Briefly I told him of my two encounters — on the road from Glenfinnan, and on the path by the falls. I told him, too, of the feeling of fear that had come to me. ‘But why,’ I protested, ‘why should this old hag — ghost or spirit or fiend or whatever she is — hate me, a complete stranger, and try to murder me?’


  ‘Because you are no stranger,’ answered the priest, gravely. ‘You are a MacDonald of Grianan, and the curse is on you and all your kin. That’s why. And there’s more to it. The same curse made your own people sell all, pack up, and sail across the seas in the year 1754. And though I’d be the last man to be frightening you, I shall be glad when you’re back in your own land again.’

  ‘But the thing’s impossible,’ I burst out, even though my own experiences had told me the very contrary.

  ‘Not at all,’ he replied firmly. ‘Doesn’t the Holy Book itself speak of evil and foul spirits? And didn’t an evil spirit attack the seven sons of Sceva, leaping upon them, and driving them away, wounded and naked?’

  ‘Well, what is the curse?’ I demanded impatiently.

  ‘That the stones of the earth shall crush you and all your kin,’ answered the priest, looking at me sadly. ‘And I’d be glad to be seeing you escape.’

  ‘But why should there be such a curse?’ I pleaded.

  ‘Listen, my son. Away back in the seventeenth century the MacDonalds of Grianan were big folk, holding their land by charter of the king and with a right of judging the people on their land — even with a right of furca et fossa, a right of “gallows and pit”, a gallows for hanging guilty men, and a pit for drowning guilty women. And in that time, when many a poor woman was put to death because she was reputed to be a witch, Angus MacDonald of Grianan, you’ll forgive me, was a cruel man. Then it was that Isabel Mackenzie, a poor creature on his lands, was accused of witchcraft because a neighbour’s cow had sickened and died. Isabel Mackenzie was condemned to death, and Angus MacDonald, the cruel man, decreed it should be death by drowning. Did not his own charter say so? That poor creature was tied by her wrists to the length of a rope; the rope was tied to a boat; and Angus himself, with others of his house, rowed out into the loch, dragging her behind them till at last she was drowned.

  ‘Then, it is said, as the waters slowly ended her unhappy life, she cursed Angus and all his kin. “The waters of the loch shall drown me, but the stones of the earth shall crush you and all your kin — Pronnaidh clachan na talmhainn thu ’s do chinneadh uile.”’

  The priest paused. ‘And so it has been,’ he continued, with a sigh. ‘Angus laughed, as the years passed and he still lived. But one night, in a storm of wind, the chimney of his house was blown down and the stones of it fell through the roof and crushed him to death where he lay in his bed.

  ‘Alastair, his son, was of finer mould. I can find no word of him doing wrong to man or beast. Yet he, too, was to die. There was a jetty to be built — and this was maybe a full twenty years after his father had died — and Alastair had gone down to see the men at the work. There was a tackle of some kind for lifting the heavy stones, and, somehow, a stone slipped from the tackle. It fell on him and crushed him to death.

  ‘Then it was that people began to look at Grianan and quietly, among themselves, began to talk of the curse. And then it was that the MacDonalds of Grianan began to die more quickly. Always there was a stone of the earth in the way of their dying; and some of them, with their last words, would be speaking strange things — of a woman with burning eyes, and whose clothes were wet with the waters of the loch. And, in the end, one, Roderick MacDonald, having seen his own father crushed to death by a millstone that was firmly fixed and yet somehow broke loose, sold his lands and his cattle, and sailed to America with his wife and child.

  ‘And you, my son,’ said Father MacWilliam, laying his hand gently on my arm, ‘you are come of Roderick’s stock. Yet I see some comfort for you. In all the papers that I have read, Isabel Mackenzie’s curse never failed before. Twice it has failed to touch you. To me it would seem that her evil power is on the wane. I shall pray for you. But I shall still be glad to see you gone.’

  ‘And I can do nothing?’ I asked lamely.

  ‘Nothing, save to put your trust in God,’ he answered. ‘And to remember that the power of the Lord is greater than all the powers of evil.’

  Again he touched me lightly on the arm, looked kindly at me, and went out.

  To be quite frank, I do not remember very clearly how I passed the rest of that evening. I was already completely unnerved, and now the story of my own house, the house that had the curse upon it, occupied my mind to the exclusion of all else. I wanted company. I wanted to have people around me. And yet my mind was never on the talk that they made. I am ashamed to think how boorish and uncivil I must have seemed. I am ashamed, too, to think of the drink that I took. I freely admit that terror had taken hold of me. Terror of being left alone. Terror of going to my bed. I drank in the bar, trying to make friends with complete strangers and yet thinking always of an old woman and her curse on my kin. In the end, I am told, I had to be carried to bed by the local doctor and a guest at the hotel. For a time, drink had ousted terror.

  I do not know what time it was when I awoke. It was already daylight — but daylight breaks early in the Highlands in summer time. My head ached violently. Then I remembered my heavy drinking, and, with that, I remembered its cause. But what had awakened me? The wind was blowing strongly and yet, I assured myself, not strongly enough to bring a chimney-stack crashing down. But what was that? My ears caught a strange noise that seemed to come from the corridor outside my room. At once all my terror returned. I sat up in bed. There was the noise again! A shuffling noise. And something more. A noise that came between each shuffle. What was it? A shuffle; a strange dull thump; a shuffle; a thump. And drawing nearer all the time.

  I tried to shout, but I could only croak like a feeble frog. I jumped out of bed, trembling from head to foot. How could I escape? Outside, in the corridor, a hell-hag, dead three hundred years ago, was coming to me, coming to crush me to death with a stone. A stone! That was the noise I could hear! She was pushing it before her, pushing it up to my door!

  I looked wildly round. Thank God! The window! Flinging it wide open, I climbed quickly out, and, hanging from the window-ledge by my hands, let myself drop. As I landed on the ground I fell over backwards and, at that same instant, there came a heavy thud at my feet and the soft garden-earth splashed over me. I lay there, paralysed with fear.

  Then, slowly, I raised my head to look. A large stone had embedded itself in the ground exactly where I had dropped and exactly where I would have been had I not fallen over on my back. The curse was still upon me, and my life was to end with a stone.

  I sprang to my feet, and, strangely, found my voice again. With a wild cry I ran across the garden, my injured knee sending quivers of hot pain up my thigh. And immediately I was held in a fast grip. Trembling and overwrought, I whimpered like a beaten cur, only to be at once calmed and reassured. I had run straight into the arms of Father MacWilliam.

  ‘You are safe, my son,’ came his gentle voice, as he still held me in his arms. ‘Safe and saved. The powers of darkness shall trouble you no more. I have wrestled, even as Jacob wrestled at Peniel. Come with me to my own house. The Lord forgive me: I should have taken you there before.’

  Paying no attention to the confused hubbub that now came from the hotel, he led me gently across the road — its stones feeling smooth and cool to my bare feet — and over the open moorland to the church. There he took me into his house and put me in his own bed. On the instant, I fell into peaceful sleep.

  Late the next morning I awoke to find my clothes on a chair by my bed. I washed and dressed, and went downstairs. A wise and gentle priest was awaiting me. He gave me breakfast, and then took me to my car which, with all my luggage packed and neatly stowed on the rear seat, was standing at his gate. ‘There you are, my son,’ he said. ‘The curse is at an end. You can take any road and drive on it as freely as you wish — though,’ he added, with a twinkle in his eye, ‘always observing the laws that are enforced by the police! He gave me his blessing, and wished me God-speed. With unashamed tears in my eyes, I thanked him again and again. At last I drove away.

  Without a qualm, without fear of
any kind, I drove back through Arisaig and Glenfinnan, back through Balllachulish and Callander, and so to Edinburgh.

  Yet my tale has not quite ended.

  On my way back, I stopped at Ballachulish for a very late lunch at the inn. As I ate alone in the dining-room, I heard two men talking outside by the open window.

  ‘That was a mighty queer business last night, though I could get nothing out of the landlord when I tried to pump him this morning.’

  ‘Yes, but the fellow was obviously drunk. He had to be carried to bed, you know.’

  ‘I agree, old man. All the same, there was more to it than that. As you know, my room was next to his, and, just before he gave that awful yell which woke up everybody, I’d already been wakened by a strange kind of bumping noise which I couldn’t fathom. I got up and looked out of the window, thinking the noise was probably coming from outside — and it may well have been that coping-stone, which had obviously worked loose, and which the wind may have been lifting slightly before it fell.

  ‘However, that’s not what I was going to say. As I looked out of the window, there, in the clear light of the early morning, I was astonished to see the local priest standing in the middle of the lawn, with one arm raised above his head, while a dishevelled old woman crouched and cowered before him. The very next second I saw this fellow climb out of his window and drop down. There was a crash as the coping-stone fell. And, with that, he jumped up, gave his appalling yell, and rushed straight into the arms of the priest. Where the old woman had gone to I don’t know. She just seemed to disappear. And what she and the priest were doing . . .’

 

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