Chapter 1 #2
Just in case.
The decor doesn’t exactly put me at ease. It’s like a Scottish tourist shop exploded, vomiting plaid everywhere. Red plaid carpet, blue plaid blankets, yellow-and-brown plaid curtains. The room is small, musty. But I guess it’s clean enough. And yet…there’s a sensation I can’t quite place.
Like something is watching me.
Listening.
I shake it off. I’m being ridiculous.
It’s my mother’s fault. Or rather, the song she used to sing me.
I haven’t thought about it in years, but ever since I saw signs for Loch Lomond, it’s been looping in my head.
“O ye’ll take the high road, and I’ll take the low road, and I’ll be in Scotland afore ye, but me and my true love will never meet again, on the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond… ”
The tiny me had adored it. A story of true love, like a prince and princess in a fairy tale. Until the day Janet announced its true meaning.
She was good at that. Ruining things.
“It was sung by a prisoner,” she said. Even now, I remember her voice—low, strangely gleeful. The way it scared me.
“Captured by his enemies, he was. The lad knew he was to die in the morning. So he sang a song to his love.” Janet leaned in close, watching me. “He’d take the low road. And only then could he meet her again.”
I didn’t understand at first.
“The low road,” she whispered. “The one the ghosties travel.” She waited, watched my face, let it sink in. Then burst into peals of laughter when it did.
I never let her sing it again after that.
And now it’s back in my head, spooking me. “Relax,” I say, extra loud, and shattering the silence makes me feel better.
I’m just overtired. It’s making me dramatic.
I toss my phone onto the side table and drop onto the bed.
The mattress is thin and feels almost slightly damp, but I’m too beat to care.
Maybe I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes before figuring out dinner.
I don’t even bother changing. I just kick off my shoes, crawl under the yellowed sheets, pull the scratchy wool blanket to my chin, and pass out.
My eyes flick open into darkness.
Something has woken me.
I fumble for my phone on the nightstand. It lights up at my touch. 2:19 a.m.
There’s a voicemail from Poppa. I tap it.
And the battery dies. Because of course.
With a groan, I stretch over the edge of the bed, flailing my arm blindly until my fingers graze my backpack. I drag it closer. Dig around. And it hits me: I must’ve left my power adapter at the hostel in Edinburgh. I raced out of there so fast when I got the call about Janet.
I grab the cord instead and wriggle it into the USB outlet on the lamp, and why does that never work until the third try?
I finally get it, and…nothing. I wait a minute, but the little charging symbol never appears.
No surprise, this ancient building probably has sketchy wiring to go with its creaky stairs.
I flop back onto the mattress and try to make my body relax, but it’s no good. I’m wide awake.
With a sigh, I swing my feet onto the floor. I didn’t shut the curtains before passing out, and the glassy black rectangle of window draws me toward it.
Pressing my forehead to the cool glass, I peer outside. The night is still. Heavy. It wraps around the inn, thick and silent. Somehow, it comforts me. Reminds me of home.
This land, as lush and remote as Poppa’s farm, fills me with a deep, familiar peace. The similarities steady me. Make me feel less alone.
Outside, the moon hangs pale in the darkness.
A new moon.
I learned about them in astronomy class. It’s when you see the side of the moon that’s not lit by the sun. Faint and gray, it hovers in the sky like the ghost of itself.
A knot in my chest begins to loosen. I take a deep breath. Exhale slowly. It feels so good, I do it again. Deeper. Slower.
Cheek pressing against the glass, I crane my neck, searching till I find Loch Lomond. It gleams in the distance like a bead of mercury. I pull back, soothed.
And then—a man. In the window.
I shriek, stumble back. He’s young, maybe a few years older than me, his silhouette stark against the night sky. But I’m on the second floor.
He can’t be outside. Which means it’s his reflection. He’s behind me.
Pulse slamming, I spin and stumble back, knocking my head on the glass as my eyes dart around the room. It’s empty. Holding my breath, I brace a hand on the sill and force myself to look back at the window.
He’s still there.
Impossible.
Outside, there’s nothing but a two-story drop.
Which means…a ghost? No. That’s ridiculous. Right? But he feels like a ghost. And he’s looking at me. Watching me.
An unexpected sense of peace washes over me. I should be terrified. Screaming, running, calling for help.
But I’m not.
There’s something about his presence that feels familiar somehow. Safe. The only thing that scares me is that he might look away. Somehow, in his gaze, I feel known. Seen. Down to my soul.
I don’t want him to disappear.
We study each other. Who was he? When was he?
His shirt is old-fashioned—laced at the neck and smudged with dirt, like he wiped his hand down the front. Dark hair falls messily to his collar. Even in the foggy reflection, I can tell he’s strong. Tough. Like he’s got bigger things to worry about than clothing and hair.
“Who are you?” My voice is barely a whisper.
And yet, his eyes snap to mine, corners narrowing with intensity. His gaze is a force, a weight, like it might bore through time to reach me. Charisma rolls off him, an invisible thread pulled tight between us.
He mouths something, but all I hear is silence.
“What?”
He tries again, frustration creasing his brow. Shaking his head, his lips form words he needs me to understand.
A surge of heat prickles my chest as his anguish pierces me, sharp and insistent. His need becomes my own. I press my palms to the cold glass, like I could reach through time itself to touch him.
It’s too much. I squeeze my eyes shut.
When I open them again, he’s gone.