by Cat Knight
But with the coming of the new moon, the Laird’s henchman fell ill from madness and threw himself over the cliff. They found him mangled and broken, empty sockets seeing nothing. Spruce’s men began to fear for MacDougal’s mother had been a healer, a hag. What powers of the hex did MacDougal possess? A terror besieged them. A plan was formed with pike, axe, and sword, they pummelled Spruce to the cliff edge. Justice would be done for Mallory Breac and Ian MacDougal.
Chapter One
Highcliff Hall
The Solway Firth
Anglo-Scottish Border
September 2017
“I’m going to miss this place.” Catherine Davidson looked across the pub to the bar and its cohort of grinning men. The Dancing Hawk had been her watering hole of choice since she was twenty. Cosy, familiar, it was a copy of a thousand other pubs in London, each with their dart boards and raucous talk.
“Then, don’t go,” Sheila said. “Why would you want to live in that godforsaken neck of the woods in the first place?”
“You know why. I’m tired of the road. I’ve been around the world for Auntie Beeb, and what have I got to show for it?”
“Well, there are those trophies, right there.” Sheila glanced at the white, round marks on Catherine’s wrists born from spending several days in handcuffs, captured by mercenaries in Afghanistan. ‘Trophies’. Battle scars born in the line of duty for a foreign correspondent.
Catherine took a deep breath and let it out. A sigh of relief that never left her, when she recalled the memory. “Don’t remind me. That’s was undoubtedly the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done. If my interpreter hadn’t known the cousin of a cousin of a cousin, I’d be in some harem in the middle of the desert.”
“But Highcliff Hall? That doesn’t even sound hospitable.”
Catherine smiled at Sheila who had been her best friend for ten years, even before they both went to work for the Beeb. Catherine liked to think she had aged better than Sheila who had piled on the pounds of motherhood. Catherine supposed that the satisfaction of two children made the weight worthwhile, but she wasn’t convinced. While she had met a couple of men she might share her bed with, they had never quite qualified for marriage. If they had asked… She avoided that “what if…”.
“I’m assured Highcliff Hall is perfectly liveable. It has grounds, a caretaker, and a housekeeper. I won’t even have to dust or cook. And, it comes with a small stipend for upkeep.”
“Yes, but what will you do? Oh, I know, that great novel you’ve been outlining since puberty. ‘Romance Under the Stars.’ Was that it?”
“All heathens mock what they do not understand.”
“Did you steal that title? I distinctly remember hearing it before.”
“Google it and find out.”
“I’m not that desperate, although I did Google your Highcliff Hall. Do you have any idea how old it is?”
“Yeah, centuries. It’s been in that branch of the family since before Adam left Eden, or so it seems. And it would still be in that branch if grand aunt what’s-her-name hadn’t died. She was my grandmother’s sister and the last of them, may she rest in peace.”
Catherine looked across the room and spotted an old, bent woman in a black shawl sliding between the tables with a familiarity Catherine didn’t quite understand.
“Who is that?”
“Who?”
“That old woman. What is she doing?”
“The Hag? She’s trying to get drunk.”
“Begging?”
“The Hag doesn’t beg. She reads your future for a pint. And I have to admit, sometimes, she’s quite funny.”
“You bought her a pint?”
“Of course, and she told me I was pregnant long before the test did. Then again, most people look at me and guess I’m pregnant. It’s my shape I think. And don’t try to spare my feelings. I have no illusions as to my figure and nothing but envy for yours.”
“You know correspondents never eat while they’re working.”
“So, that’s the secret. One more thing, the Hag—“
“Does she have a real name?”
“I’ve never heard anyone use it. Anyway, the Hag also told me it would be a boy, but that’s not so magical since that’s a fifty-fifty chance.”
At that moment, the old woman shuffled to Catherine’s table. Up close, the woman was uglier and more misshapen than Catherine had imagined. She smelled too. Catherine guessed Thai or Indian spices, but she couldn’t be sure.
“Your future for a pint,” the Hag rasped.
Sheila waved to a waitress who nodded and headed for the bar. “Not me,” Sheila told the Hag. “Read her future.”
For some reason, Catherine had no desire to hear the Hag say a word. Catherine had attended all sorts of magical ceremonies in all manner of countries, and she had never felt one iota of fear. Whether the shaman or witch doctor had worn face paint or a bone through his nose made no difference. For Catherine, it was all phony, jazzed up chants and dances for the gullible. Yet, this smelly woman, this Hag made Catherine’s skin crawl. It was as if she expected the Hag to bring forth an evil eye.
“You don’t believe,” the Hag told Catherine. “That’s my curse. I tell nothing but the truth, and no one believes. No matter. I’m a cheap show. A pint for what you will never believe. I’m like those fakirs you took photos of.”
“You? You know my work?” Catherine asked.
“I know your days of chasing stories are over.”
“Everyone knows that. I signed off last night.”
“Yes, yes, you did.”
The waitress arrived with a pint of ale and set it on the table. The Hag eyed the drink as if it was ambrosia, the nectar of the gods. But she didn’t reach for it as Catherine expected. Instead, the Hag looked Catherine in the eye and grabbed her hand.
The strong grip surprised Catherine, and she fought the urge to jerk back. Instead, she forced a smile.
The Hag laughed. “You control your emotions well.” Then, she studied Catherine’s paw. As Catherine waited, the old woman shuddered. She let go of Catherine and started to turn away.
“Wait,” Sheila said. “Your pint.”
“Keep it,” the Hag said.
“You owe Catherine a telling.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Catherine said.
“Of course, she does. I paid.”
The old woman turned back, and the cast of her black eyes seemed more pity than anger. She grabbed Catherine’s hand and stared at it for a moment more.
“You are going to the sea where a great evil awaits.”
Catherine wanted to laugh, but the intensity of the little woman wouldn’t allow it.
“It hungers for your blood, hungers in a way you cannot understand. For it, death is too kind. Agony and pain are its desires, more pain than you can endure.”
“Oh my god,” Sheila said.
“Go on,” Catherine forced through clenched teeth. “What else?”
“You cannot escape it. If you go, you will serve it with your dying scream.”
“There must be a way to stop this ‘evil’. What is it?”
Sheila grabbed Catherine’s arm, but Catherine shook off her hand.
The Hag ran a black, gnarled fingernail along her palm, and Catherine shivered. “The spirit must be released. It must recover what is missing.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Catherine said.
“It does not matter.” The Hag dropped her hand. “You do not believe.”
“That’s enough!” Sheila thrust the pint into the Hag’s hand. “Go! Go! Go!”
The Hag took the pint and stared into Catherine’s eyes. Catherine couldn’t find the courage to challenge. Then, the Hag drained the ale in one long pull, slamming the glass on the table when she was finished. Without another word, the little creature limped away, leaving Sheila and Catherine speechless.
“What ho, Catherine!”
Catherine looked up as Nigel and Paul, two men
from the Beeb arrived, pints in hand.
“Lord,” Nigel said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Worse,” Sheila said. “The Hag just read her future.”
“And predicted what? A long, running out of money in Europe?” Paul laughed.
Catherine forced a smile despite the cold in her heart. “OK, which one of you did it?”
“Did what?” Nigel asked.
“Paid that morbid creature to scare the pants off me.”
“Not me,” Nigel said.
“Nor me,” Paul added.
“Right.” Catherine turned to Sheila.
“Don’t look at me. I may be dark, but I’m not that dark.”
“OK, mates,” Catherine said. “I never get mad, but I do get even.” She grabbed her glass. “Woe betide the person responsible.” She drained her glass and slammed it on the table.
Later, outside the pub, Catherine and Sheila hugged.
“I shouldn’t have had that last pint,” Sheila said.
“You don’t have far to go.”
“You’ll email and text and skype, correct?”
“You’ll get sick of me.”
Sheila stepped back. “I know what the Hag said is silly, but you will be careful, won’t you?”
Catherine worked up her best smile. “I’ve travelled through some of the most dangerous places in the world. I don’t think a village by the sea is going to do me in.”
“I bet it was Nigel.”
“What?”
“I bet Nigel paid off the Hag. It’s like him.”
“Nigel thinks I’m going to Paris.”
“Why would he think that?”
“Because I didn’t want him hunting me down over some nonsense detail.”
“Ah, Paul then.”
“Paul thinks I’m going to Paris too.”
Sheila frowned and then burbled. “It wasn’t me, Catho. I swear, it wasn’t me.”
“I believe you,” Catherine said. “Go home.”
With a wave, Sheila turned and weaved down the walk. Catherine turned away, a sense of dread lodged deep in her soul.
A little village by the sea. Nothing more.
Chapter Two
Catherine’s first view of Kilmaran came from the cliff overlooking the little village. Hard by the sea, Kilmaran was a forgotten outpost of Devon, a place where men still fished and women still had babies. She could see two churches at either end of the main street and the seemingly mandatory town square with its spate of small shops.
The rain was coming in, which according to her driver was a daily event. It was far easier to count the days without rain. With the grey clouds and the lashing rain, the town looked dark and empty. Too early for street lights she supposed, too wet for people. The village filled her with a sense of foreboding. What did the Hag say? Catherine didn’t want to remember.
“Lonely enough for ya?” the driver asked as she climbed into the car that had brought her from the train station in Oban.
“Rainy and cold enough too,” she answered.
“Want to turn around and head south?”
“Is that what most people do?”
“Aye, Kilmarket, that’s what the locals call it. Kilmaran has little to recommend it.”
“It has silence, I hope.”
“More than you can stand.” He laughed, a snickering, little laugh. “More than you can stand.”
Catherine settled into her room at the bed and breakfast before she put on her slicker and splashed to the office of the solicitor handling her grand aunt’s estate. Over tea and biscuits, she received a set of keys, and signed several documents that she would read, more carefully, later. That wasn’t the way the turnover was supposed to go, but she wasn’t going to study in depth with the solicitor glancing at the wall clock.
The solicitor offered to take her to dinner, but she knew his heart wasn’t in it. He wanted to be home with the wife and two children Catherine spotted in the standard desk photograph. And she couldn’t blame him. Had she had a warm home to run to, she’d be there in an instant. He did walk her to a pub much like the one she had visited the night before. Warm, bright, loud, she felt right at home as she slid into a booth.
The first pint of ale was spent sifting through her emails and texts. There were the usual congratulations, the usual spam, the usual updates, all to be ignored, and a weepy text from Sheila who was still worried by the prophecy of the Hag. Catherine answered with a matter-of-fact lie about how quaint and welcoming the village was. After years of journalism, she had a way with gentle falsehood.
The second pint was split between the diary she always kept and the local men who worked up the courage to approach the booth.
Keeping her body language deliberately aloof, Catherine met them with cool replies. Giving her best, insincere smile she simply said what was true, in a polite and firm manner. She wasn’t interested in company or a date or even a pint with them. They just as politely returned to the bar, no doubt with the message that the bitch in the booth was one cold fish. She didn’t care. She had left those games behind. Then, the young man in a green tam sat down.
“I’m sorry,” Catherine said. “But I’m really not interested at the moment. I just got here.”
“You’re the new owner, aren’t you?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Of the Hall. You own Highcliff.”
“I inherited it, yes.”
“Then, I’ll give ya a noggin of advice. Go back to London or wherever you’re from. Sell the bitch and go back.”
“And I would do that why?”
“Because no good comes to the owner of Highcliff. Trust me.”
She looked into eyes bleary with alcohol. “You know someone who wants to buy Highcliff?”
“Nae, not anyone from around here. We all know the curse.”
“Well, thank you for your concern, but I don’t believe in curses.”
He laughed, not a pleasant laugh, and stood. “Aye, you’ll not believe ‘til it’s too late.”
He doffed his cap and walked away. Catherine watched, and somehow the ale didn’t taste so smooth, and the Hag came unbidden to her memory.
The rain had ceased, but the wind whipped Catherine as she walked to the B&B. A HOWL ripped the night, and for a moment, Catherine thought she was in Africa, out in the bush where the jackals and hyenas owned the dark. As the howl faded, she looked up the cliff, toward an old stone tower.
She knew it was Highcliff Hall, her new home. And she knew the howl had come from it. Turning her face and leaning into the wind she stifled a niggle of anxiety yet her heart beat faster as she waited for the next howl. But it didn’t come.
Making her way through the dimly lit entrance, she found her way to her bedroom, shutting the door firmly and making certain the curtains in her room blocked all light before she sunk into bed. With any luck, they would block sound too, she hoped sliding under the thick, down comforter. Despite its warmth, she shivered. What had she gotten herself into?
Chapter Three
“That all ye got?”
Catherine looked at the two large suitcases in the back of the old truck and nodded. “That’s it.”
“Don’t seem like enough.”
She looked across the truck bed to Brainerd, the old caretaker who had come to pick her up. Stooped, black patch over his left eye, faded and wrinkled jacket, Brainerd didn’t look strong enough to put in a full day’s work. His craggy face betrayed nothing.
“I travelled all the time,” she said. “I learned that having too many things didn’t make you richer. They just tied you down.”
“If you say so.” Brainerd adjusted his flat, plaid cap and hoisted himself behind the wheel.
She climbed in beside him and looked around for a seat belt even though she was pretty sure there weren’t any. As he put the truck in gear, she leaned back and told herself to enjoy the ride.
As they pulled out of Kilmaran, a small group of local women stopped
talking long enough to stare. Catherine returned the look, and she was pretty sure the women were not exactly friendly.
“What did I do?” Catherine said out loud.
“Ye’ve come to live at Highcliff. That’s enough.”
“Why is that enough?”
“Because ye livin’ there will stir up the trouble.”
“I’m no trouble. I’ll probably never talk to those women.”
“Did ye hear the howl last night?”
“Of course, who didn’t?”
“Then, ye know why they don’t like ye.”
“Because of some wild animal up in the hills?” A slight frown passed over Catherine’s brow.
“Because the howl comes only when the heir is livin’ in the Hall.”
“I’m sure you’re mistaken.” She stifled a smile.
He glanced over before he turned and spat out the window. She thought about asking more questions, but that didn’t seem like a good idea. She wondered if she had somehow offended him. She looked out the window as the truck laboured up the hill. The view grew better by the second.
In the light of day, Highcliff Hall looked old, used, and oddly inviting. Made of stone, it was a long building with small windows. She supposed the windows had to be small for any number of reasons.
The top third of the Highcliff Hall was a tall square tower with battlements at the top. The tower windows were even smaller, but they were glass. That said something for the upkeep. A half-circle, crushed stone, drive led to the front door. Brainerd entered the drive slowly, as if trying not to let anyone know they were there. He needn’t have bothered. As soon as they left the road, a stern looking woman stepped out of the front door to wait for them.
“That must be Wanetta,” Catherine said.
“Aye.”
Catherine was hoping Brainerd would add something, some hint, some knowledge, something that would help her deal with a woman who looked as stony as the Hall itself.
But Brainerd said nothing, which made Catherine certain she had somehow offended him.
She stepped out of the truck and surveyed her weather worn home. From up close, the grey stone looked beaten, all the sharp edges smoothed by time, the mortar was cracked and missing in places. Shielding her eyes against the glare of the sky she looked high up toward the tower, and a curious “Oh!” escaped her. She couldn’t believe it! Several stories above her, a girl, a white-haired girl looked down. The girl neither smiled nor frowned. She made no sign that she even saw Catherine. But it was not the lack of acknowledgement that bothered Catherine, it was that she had been assured that the only people at Highcliff were Brainerd and Wanetta.