by Janni Nell
He started raving about Phillips again. “He keeps me away from Lady Justina. It’s his fault she doesn’t love me.” He continued rambling about his dislike for Phillips until we reached his cottage.
Two of the men he’d been drinking with in the pub were sitting on his front step. Their butts must have been freezing but they were too drunk to notice.
“Took you long enough,” said one of the men. His voice was gruff, a smoker’s voice.
McEwen said, “The Three M’s together again.” He embraced his mates.
Douglas explained to me. “They call themselves The Three Musketeers or The Three M’s-McEwen, Melville and MacDuff.”
McEwen slurred, “All for one and one for all.”
“Right,” I said, turning to Douglas, “Let’s get McEwen inside. Then we can take the other two Musketeers home.”
“We’re not going home,” said the gruff voice.
“That’s Melville,” whispered Douglas.
“One for the road,” said Melville. “McEwen’s buying.”
McEwen seemed happy to oblige. He fumbled a key from his pocket and miraculously opened his front door on the first attempt.
“Come in laddies,” he said. “And lassie.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I’ve had a long day. I need to get some rest.”
Douglas declined too and we left The Three M’s to drink themselves senseless.
As we followed the road to Mac’s I looked right and saw the loch spreading like a dark malignant stain. I wasn’t frightened, but I felt an itch in my right big toe. Don’t ask me why, but my aberrant brain cells have decided that when they detect an undercurrent of paranormal activity, they will make my toe itch—kind of like an alarm that rings once and then stops. Needless to say, I don’t share this with my clients. It wouldn’t help my credibility.
When my toe stopped itching I fell into step with Douglas. We walked slowly, our breath misting in the still air. Neither of us spoke. I think we were both reluctant to break the thread of silent camaraderie that had sprung up between us. We were like soldiers enjoying a brief respite before being sent into battle.
When we re-entered Mac’s, it was empty. Except for Bess, who was wiping the tables.
Douglas said, “I’ll show Allegra to her room. Then I’ll help you clean up.”
“Don’t be long,” she said. “I’m exhausted.”
He turned to me. “I took your suitcase upstairs while you were visiting Mrs. Ferguson. You’re in the Loch View room.”
The name was written on the door, olive green italics on a pale yellow background. Sounds revolting but in the flesh it created a charming, cozy ambience that extended to the room itself.
Flinging my jacket on the floral quilt, I headed toward a pair of floor-length drapes. Wrenching them aside, I stared down at the lawn that led to the shore of the loch. The moon appeared from behind a bank of clouds, bleeding drops of light onto the black water.
“Beautiful,” breathed Douglas.
“In an eerie kind of way.”
In the centre of the loch a patch of water had begun to seethe and bubble.
“What’s that?” I asked Douglas.
He came to stand beside me. “Where?”
But the patch of choppy water had suddenly calmed.
“Never mind,” I said, turning away from the window. I tried and failed to stifle a yawn.
“I should leave you to sleep.” Douglas headed for the door. “Bess cooks breakfast between seven and eight.”
I smiled. “I’ll set my alarm.”
When he left I locked the door behind him. It was probably unnecessary in a village this size, and it certainly wouldn’t keep out the paranormal, but I thought it would make me sleep a little sounder.
I changed into a long flannelette nightie that would have made my grandmother proud and threw back the bedclothes. I was preparing to jump into bed when I realized the drapes were still open. Once again I moved to the window and stared out at the loch. The moon had disappeared, leaving the water in darkness. In the sky a small cluster of stars had escaped the clouds. I stared up at them and thought of Casper.
I had met him at the age of six, so it was no exaggeration to describe him as my oldest friend. Leaning my forehead on the cold windowpane, I wondered where Casper was now. He hadn’t been in touch with me in a while and—okay, I’ll admit it—I missed him. Just so you don’t get the wrong idea about Casper I should remind you that, despite his name, he isn’t a ghost.
Oh, what am I doing thinking about Casper? He’s not here and I promised myself I wouldn’t think about him while he was away.
Angry that I had broken my promise to myself, I let the drapes fall and strode across the room to the double bed. Maybe I would feel less lonely in the morning.
I jumped into bed. After pulling the covers up to my chin, I flicked off the lamp.
I slept soundly. But I dreamed of Casper.
Chapter Three
Warmed by my dream of Casper, I faced the morning with a smile. From my bedroom window the calm water of the loch glistened in the sunshine. I almost believed that all traces of the paranormal had disappeared overnight.
After dressing in jeans and a sweater, I went downstairs to breakfast.
Bess had prepared oat porridge followed by kippers and scrambled eggs. I couldn’t face kippers that early in the morning, but the eggs tasted as though they had come straight from the farm. If the breakfast had been accompanied by fresh coffee it would have been perfect.
After finishing the food I took my second cup of instant coffee onto the terrace at the back of the pub. Douglas was there. He stood like a sentinel, staring contemplatively over the loch.
“Sleep well?” I asked, making conversation rather than seeking information.
He shook his head. “Not after hearing the banshee.”
Mentally I kicked myself for asking a stupid question.
“I don’t want to see this beautiful place destroyed by dark forces,” he continued. “Och, I sound like a character in Star Wars.”
Gently I touched his arm. “I know what you mean. I promise I won’t let the darkness win.”
He gave me a searching glance. “I know you’re good at what you do. Your reputation speaks for itself. But how do you fight something so elusive? Mrs. Ferguson’s dreams, the wailing of the banshee, you cannae shoot them or stab them. You cannae even destroy them with a light saber.” He gave a hollow laugh. “So how do you…?”
“Leave that to me. I mean, I’m the one who discovered why the member of that European royal family talked to trees—and it’s not the reason you might imagine.”
Douglas leaned forward eager for me to go on, but I shut my mouth. Better late than never. My clients expect confidentiality and it wasn’t my place to blab about ancient curses or a modern-day prince searching for The Silent Princess of Druid Wood. That case ended in marriage, by the way, just as the prince wanted. Unfortunately he demanded a refund when the princess wasn’t as silent as he’d expected. Well, you’d talk a lot too if you’d been imprisoned inside a tree for a thousand years.
I changed the subject. “Is there any more coffee?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
We hadn’t gone two steps before I heard a man call out, “Douglas!”
The man was white-faced and sweating profusely. As he moved closer I recognized him from the pub last night. He’d been drinking with McEwen but he wasn’t one of The Three M’s.
“What’s wrong, Hamish?” said Douglas. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Hamish shook his head. He was panting as though he’d run a long way very fast.
“Sit down,” said Douglas, easing Hamish onto one of the benches on the terrace. “Catch your breath. Now, slowly, tell me what’s happened.”
“Cannae—I—I…” Hamish stuttered to a halt, and tried again. “Cannae explain. Have to show you.”
“Have to show me what?” asked Douglas.
“Near the rose,” gasped Hamish.
Immediately I sprang into action. “Come on. We’ll take my car.” Taking Hamish’s arm, I helped him to his feet. Douglas took his other arm. Although Hamish’s legs wobbled like Jell-O, between us we managed to get him out to my car.
When everyone was buckled in I sped along Loch Road until I screeched to a stop near the track that led to the rose.
I leapt out and hurried around to help Hamish but he was already climbing out of the car. Although still unsteady on his feet, he managed to walk down the track unaided. But he stopped long before we reached the rose.
“I dinnae want to go any further,” he said, as the color drained from his face. “You’ll find it in the grass beside the rose.”
Leaving him where he stood, Douglas and I headed down the track. I smelled it before I saw it, but that didn’t make the sight less grim.
Holding my breath against the stale fish smell, I surveyed what appeared to be a large marine creature that had been caught in a bundle of rags. With the toe of my shoe, I tried to flip it over, but it was too heavy. There was no choice but to use my hands. Trying not to grimace, I took hold of the thing and heaved it onto its back.
“Oh my God,” Douglas said. I heard him gag.
I uttered a single word. “McEwen.”
By his appearance, McEwen had drowned, but that wasn’t what had prompted Douglas’s reaction, which had now progressed from gagging to vomiting quietly into the undergrowth.
Leaving Douglas to lose his breakfast in private, I inspected the body more closely. It had been savaged by some kind of animal.
Much of McEwen’s clothing had been torn away, leaving large areas of pale skin exposed to the elements. But that wasn’t the worst of it. There were bite marks in his flesh. Some of them had drawn blood.
I felt rather than saw Douglas move to my side.
“Sorry,” he said. “I dinnae usually have a weak stomach, but this… What kind of creature would do this?”
I didn’t answer, not because I wanted to spare him, but because I had no idea.
“We’ll have to call the police,” I said, getting out my cell phone before I remembered there was no coverage.
“We can call them from the pub,” said Douglas.
“Are you near finished?” Hamish called from a safe distance. His voice was thin and quavery.
“We’re done,” I assured him, and headed back to my car.
When we arrived back at Mac’s, Douglas called the police. They promised to come immediately but Douglas estimated it could take up to an hour to drive from their base in the nearest town, depending on the condition of the roads.
Unwilling to twiddle my thumbs for the next two hours, I asked Douglas how far it was to the clearing where McEwen had seen Lady Justina dancing naked.
Douglas glanced at my legs as though estimating the length of my stride. “You could probably get there in twenty minutes if you walk fast.”
Excellent. Plenty of time to get there and back before the police arrived.
Douglas walked me to the end of the village—the end farthest from Loch Furness—and pointed out a fork in the road.
“Go right,” he said, “that way leads to Maitland House but dinnae go all the way to the house. After you’ve been walking for about fifteen minutes you’ll see a track, also on your right. It leads to the clearing.”
“Thanks.” I set off but I had gone no more than a few steps when Douglas called out.
“Beware of Wilson’s Creag.”
I turned to face him. “What’s Wilson’s Krayk?” I asked, imitating his pronunciation.
“It’s a cliff near the clearing. One minute you think you’re in the middle of the wood, the next you’re at the edge of a sheer drop.”
After promising I’d look out for Wilson’s Creag, I headed up the steep road. Sir Alastair kept it in good repair. I guess he didn’t want to damage his Rolls or Mercedes or whatever fancy car he drove. I wished I could have driven my rental car but strictly speaking this was a private road. According to Douglas, Sir Alastair allowed pedestrians but drew the line at cars.
Keeping an eye out for the track that led into the clearing, I noted that, in direct contrast to the land surrounding the loch, the land beside the road was thickly forested. From here I couldn’t see Maitland House. If it hadn’t been for the road I could have been in the middle of nowhere. I was surrounded by the sounds of nature. Birds, mostly, but there were occasional rustlings in the undergrowth that might have been rabbits.
I had been walking for fifteen minutes when, just as Douglas had predicted, I saw the beginning of the track. Turning off the road, I moved deeper into the wood.
I had gone only a few yards when I noticed the birdsong had stopped. The wood was plunged into a deep, dead silence. I slowed my pace. Taking care to make as little noise as possible, I crept down the path. I was making steady, if slow, progress when my big toe began to itch.
I stopped walking. Cautiously, turning in a complete circle, I took note of my surroundings. Trees. Undergrowth. More trees. A patch of sky. My eyes took it all in, missing nothing, but it was my ears that alerted me to what lay ahead.
The voice was feminine, but hoarse, as though the owner had laryngitis. Despite the hoarseness the sound was melodious. I was reminded of McEwen’s description of Lady Justina’s singing. Not exactly singing was how he had described it; more like chanting. I struggled to make out the words but the language was foreign. Witch? I’d heard Witch before and this didn’t sound like it. This was something I hadn’t encountered in seven years of paranormal investigating.
I crept along the path until I could see the woman. It had to be Lady Justina. How many other women danced and chanted in the wood?
To my relief she wasn’t naked. She was wearing a long white dress, the kind they wore in the hippie communes of the sixties and seventies.
Her sleek, unadorned hair was black as midnight. It swirled like a silken river as she danced around the clearing. Her skin was very pale.
My gut instinct, which I rely on a lot, told me I had nothing to fear from this woman. Most likely she was a foreigner who had a penchant for dancing in the woods, which, although eccentric, didn’t mean she had anything to do with McEwen’s death.
Ignoring the itch in my toe, I stepped into the clearing. Immediately she stopped dancing. Like a startled fawn, she poised ready for flight.
“I’m not going to harm you,” I said. Then, just to make sure she was who I thought she was, I added, “Lady Justina.”
She seemed surprised that I knew her name. “Who are you?” Although she still appeared wary, the blind panic had left her eyes. “Do you want to see my husband?”
The question was the kind any Lady who lived in a stately home might ask. So why did it disturb me?
It took a few moments to realize that it was not her question but the tone of her voice that bothered me. She sounded like the saddest woman in the world.
Resisting the urge to ask why she was so sad, I said, “I haven’t come to see Sir Alastair.” Then I lied. “I was exploring the area when I heard your song. I stopped to listen. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”
“It does not matter.” She turned as if to go and then turned back. “You are not from the village.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I’m from America.” Couldn’t she tell by my accent?
“America,” she repeated. “Is that far away?”
I was so dumbfounded all I could say was, “Yes.” Recovering my wits, I asked where she was from.
In her odd little accent she said, “I am from very far away.”
“What is the name of your country?”
The panic returned to her eyes. “I have been out here too long. Alastair will wonder where I am.”
“Please don’t go,” I said.
“I have to.” She turned those sad, sad, eyes toward me. “He does not like me talking to people.”
I should have let her go, but I
felt I was on the brink of something. Stupidly I rushed after her. I grabbed her arm.
She gave a hoarse scream and tried to jerk away. I held on tight.
“Wait,” I said. “I only want to talk to you.”
A wind sprang up. Fallen leaves began to eddy around my ankles. They whirled higher, reaching my thighs and then my shoulders. Soon they were buffeting my eyes forcing dirt beneath my eyelids. I cried out, blinking rapidly to clear the dirt, but it wouldn’t budge.
Justina broke away from me. I could hear her running through the undergrowth, but I didn’t care. All that mattered was getting the dirt out of my eyes.
I took a few steps trying to escape the cloud of leaves, but it followed me, churning up more dirt, more leaves. I couldn’t see but I began to run. I tripped over something, fell heavily and got up again.
It isn’t smart to run blindly through a wood, but all I could think of was escaping the cloud of leaves and getting the scratching, gritty dirt out of my eyes.
I ran and ran. The cloud followed.
Beneath my feet the ground changed from soft and squishy to rock hard. Then there was no ground at all and I was falling.
Apparently I had found Wilson’s Creag.
Falling toward certain death isn’t much fun. Time slows, giving you plenty of it to think about how it will feel to hit bottom. I didn’t like the painful images that entered my mind so I pushed them away. Instead I thought about the possibility of not hitting bottom.
You might think I had little chance of avoiding it, considering I was plummeting downward at a frightening rate. But nothing in life is certain. There are always surprises.
I felt an updraft of wind beneath me. Seconds later I had stopped falling and was being carried upward in a strong pair of arms. Leaning my head against the broad expanse of chest at my disposal, I sighed. Casper.
I couldn’t see him—I was still battling the dust particles in my eyes—but I could hear the steady beat of his wings.
Casper is my guardian angel. He’s been with me, on and off, since I was a child. Because he could appear and disappear at will, I had called him after the friendly ghost. I don’t know what his real name is. I never asked. But I probably couldn’t pronounce it anyway.