Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
Iclap my hands over my face as a pathetic whimper escapes me.
Because that’ll protect me. Real mature.
I peek between my fingers.
He’s still there. Watching me.
Not fully solid. Not quite mist. Like a reflection on water.
His expression is set, stoic, but there’s something in his gaze. I’d swear he’s as startled as I am.
It’s the guy from the window. Though he’s not fully clear, I’m certain it’s him. Same messy, scruffy hair brushing the collar of that absurdly costumey shirt. And the same intensity. Like he knows me.
I lower my hands slowly and shift to the left. His eyes follow. I try again, moving right. His gaze still tracks me.
Somehow, impossibly, he’s here. Watching me.
I hear Una in my head. A taish. Dinnae be afraid of them.
Does that mean I should be afraid when it’s not a taish?
“What…what do you want?” I whisper.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move toward me, either.
“Who are you?” I try again, a little more sure this time.
I’m a physics major. I don’t believe in ghosts. And yet here I am, talking to one.
He lifts a finger to his lips, and I startle at the movement. But that’s all he does—a simple request for silence. There’s something oddly courteous about it.
A floorboard creaks. Not drunken stumbling this time—something slower, heavier. Footsteps. I spin toward the door, every muscle locked tight. Someone’s just outside.
The steps grow closer.
I bite my lip hard enough to hurt. Glance back at the ghost. Instead of floating menacingly—or whatever ghosts are supposed to do—he’s shifted into a fighter’s stance. Legs braced. Shoulders squared. His entire body is coiled with tension.
Like he’s ready to protect me.
Which is ridiculous. He’s a ghost. What’s he going to do—haunt them away? And yet, something about his presence steadies me. Whether it’s the determined set of his jaw or the fierce concentration in his eyes, he radiates capability. Strength.
Another creak. A clatter. I hold my breath and squint though the peephole. Two figures. A man and a woman. His voice is a deep, inaudible hum. Then—a giggle.
I exhale with a little laugh. The couple from down the hall, returning for the night.
I turn back to my ghost.
He’s glaring at the door, holding a sword now, braced in both hands. The stance is so natural, so practiced. Like a soldier from another time, ready for battle. Ready to fight for me.
A strange calm washes over me. I’ve got myself a ghost guardian.
“It’s okay,” I say unsteadily. “Just the neighbors.”
His shoulders ease. His gaze returns to me, and the weight of it hits like a physical thing.
I lean against the door, body hot and cold all at once. His eyes. I hadn’t noticed the color before. Gray—almost silver. Is it that he’s a ghost? Is he gray all over?
I let my gaze roam, taking him in. His broad shoulders and strong build. He carries himself like someone who’s seen real fighting.
When my eyes return to his face, he nods once.
“What’s your name?” My voice comes surer now. Less afraid. More…enthralled.
He begins to waver. A blur at the edges.
Is he fading?
I step closer. “Wait—”
But he’s gone.
I dart to the window, open the curtain, and peer outside. Nothing but night. Dark and ordinary.
Am I in shock? Shouldn’t I be scared? I can’t make sense of what just happened. What it means. All that’s left is a strange sensation. Not quite companionship. More like…not-aloneness.
And I’ve become so accustomed to the aloneness.
One thing’s for sure: I won’t tell anyone this time. Whatever just happened, it was only for me.
I sit on the edge of the bed and attune myself to the night, waiting for any sign of his return.
The inn is silent, but outside, the weather is picking up. The wind has begun to howl, rattling the glass. Tree branches scrape against the building.
Yet I never do shut the curtains.
I lay down and think about tomorrow. Janet will turn up again. She usually does. Like a bad penny, Poppa would say. Only now, I find I’m no longer in such a rush to leave.
That was a ghost. An actual ghost. And he made me feel…safe.
Will he come to me again? Might he speak to me?
I change into my pajamas and slide under the covers. As my mind jumps between modern responsibilities and old souls, I’m sure it’ll take forever to relax. But as soon as I close my eyes, I’m out.
I dream of him. My ghost guardian.
The images flash vivid and terrifying.
He’s in trouble. Needs help.
My help.
I’m in the woods, running. I hear distant, panicked grunts—the sound of someone fighting but losing. Though I’ve never heard his voice, I know it’s him. Branches slap my face as I push harder, breath sawing in my chest.
The woods vanish. Suddenly, I’m at the mouth of a cave. Inside, there’s only darkness. And deeper inside, horrific sounds.
It’s him.
The fight is leaving him. His moans are dwindling, becoming low and guttural.
I don’t hesitate. I step forward, and the cave swallows me whole. As my eyes adjust, I make out torchlight flickering on stone walls.
And there he is. Bound. Struggling. Helpless.
Three hooded figures hunch over him. They’re feeding on him.
Oh, dear God.
They’re feeding on him.
I try to scream, but my throat, my chest, are paralyzed. I must manage to make some noise because his eyes snap to mine, bright as a lightning strike. What I feel is instant, electric. A surge of something so real, it crackles through my bones. His gaze smolders…with warning. Connection. Longing.
Something ancient jolts through me—something primal, intimate.
He knows me. I know him.
But then someone slices into the space between us, eclipsing him from view.
It’s one of the hooded ones. A woman, and she’s close. Too close. Her shadowy silhouette fills my vision. She’s staring at me.
With eyes stitched shut.
I jolt awake, a ragged shout ripping from my throat, heart galloping so hard it thuds in my neck. I press my hand to my pounding chest. Just a nightmare.
But it felt so real.
I take in an unsteady breath. Could I have just witnessed his actual death?
No. It was only a dream.
And yet, I can’t shake this unsettled feeling. Shivering but sweaty, I rub my arms, more exhausted than when I went to bed.
I have to get out of here.
Tomorrow. No matter what.
I try again to sleep, but it fractures into disjointed images and distant sounds—voices in the stairwell, clattering plates—until I can’t tell if I’m awake or dreaming. Sleep drags me under like quicksand each time I try to surface.
When a slash of sunlight burns red behind my eyelids, my body finally lurches to life, stiff and sluggish. My legs are tangled in the sheets, and my sleeves have left angry, crisscrossing indents along my skin. The hair at the nape of my neck is damp with sweat.
I think hard, grasping at the dream before it slips away. The ghost wasn’t a ghost. He was real. Flesh and blood. His eyes—the color of fog over the sea—were full of terror as he was lashed down and tortured in a cave.
Then there was his expression—so full of love. The way it made me ache.
I am clearly all kinds of messed up.
I try to gather my wits with a long shower, then dress for a day of travel. A shapeless sack of a dress, an oversize cardigan I stole from Poppa, and an old pair of boots. The outfit will annoy Janet, and that cheers me a little.
Una appears the moment I find a seat in the dining room and sets a minuscule cup of juice in front of me. “You’re a fair sight this morning. Rest well, did you? Och, I wager not. Up to your armpits in worry, nae doubt. You relax. I’ll make you a pot of the French press.”
I open my mouth to say tea would be fine—her coffee is godawful strong, with black grit at the bottom—but before I can reply, she rattles on.
“Myra—you mind Myra, aye? Works dinners at the pub. Well, Myra says old Betsy was at your door late last night, and I’m sorry for it.
But it was a blessing in a way, it was. It made Myra miss her lift, so she got one from Dan, who said he’d seen your mum.
She was in the drink—your mum, not Myra—and Dan helped Myra track her down so she could put her up for the night.
She rang this morning—Myra, not your mum—and she said your mum’s not fit for the day yet. ”
As she goes on and on, the knot in my stomach pulls tighter and tighter. So it begins.
“All right. Is there a bus I can take?”
She blinks. “A bus?”
“To get to Janet.”
A laugh bursts from her. “Travel by coach to Myra’s flat?” She pats my shoulder. “Dinnae mind me. You’ll not be knowing up from down. She lives just past the visitor’s center. But you’ve nae yet seen the loch, have you?”
Loch Lomond. From my mother’s song.
My ghost carried a sword. Had he been a soldier, like in the lyrics?
“Not up close,” I answer with a shrug, not sure if I’m curious or if it’s the last place I want to think about.
“You cannae leave without seeing the loch,” she exclaims. “I imagine your mum’ll nae be fit for some time, in any case. You should have a wee wander around the grounds. Put the color back in your cheeks. You can walk up to the old ruins. It was once a Campbell holding. Your people, aye?” She winks.
My people. Might I really have people out there? Family who’d claim me?
I sigh. This whole trip has been about Janet. I can take one morning to make it about me. I’m stuck here anyway. Unless we leave in the next half hour, there’s no way we’ll make our flight.
Maybe it’s the visits from my ghost guardian, but now, standing on the banks of Loch Lomond is all I want to do.
“You’re right.” I meet her eyes. “How do I get there?”
“You could get a lift with the postie.”
“The postman?” Cramming myself in a mail truck with yet another stranger is more than I can deal with right now. “Can’t I walk?”
“You surely can. The fastest way is along the main road, but then you’ve cars, lorries, and the like speeding past.” She thinks for a moment. “There is a shortcut through the woods that’s a sight more pleasant.”
The rightness of it hits me instantly. I push back my chair, practically on my feet when she stops me.
“Nae so fast,” she laughs. “Have a care not to get lost. And keep an eye on the weather. It turns quick this time of year. Watch the sky—if the clouds darken it’ll be a dreich day.”
I frown. “A what day?”
“Wet, lass. It could turn wet outside.” She points at my boots. “And you without a decent pair of wellies.”
I glance out the window. The sky is blue as a robin’s egg, with puffy, white clouds gliding across the horizon. The vastness of it draws a sigh from my lungs. A strange comfort settles over me. The mountain, the loch, even my ghost—it all feels right.
Maybe it’s the Campbell in me.
Poppa wouldn’t let me mope. Quit your sulking and get your butt outside, he’d say. And that’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ll salvage this trip. Make it mine.
I look up at Una. For the first time in days, I smile—really smile.
“I’ll take the shortcut.”