Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
The first stop on this outing was the front desk, and now I’ve done all I can. Borrowed an adapter, switched our flight on the airline’s app, and left a voicemail for Poppa with the revised plan. My phone is charging, safely tucked away in my room.
I set off on the trail feeling upbeat. The woods behind the inn burst with red ferns and tiny white wildflowers. Birch and rowan leaves glow gold and crimson among the Scots pine. The trail cuts uphill, burning my legs in a good way. The brisk air clears my head.
The higher I climb, the more the trees thin, until I crest the top and…wow. The trail opens to rolling hills—lazy, sprawling, endless—blanketed in a spiny carpet of heather. And there, in the distance, Loch Lomond. Sunlight glimmers across the steel-blue water, serene and tranquil.
I grin. “You’re not so scary, are you?”
I shut my eyes and inhale deeply, filling my lungs with crisp, clean air. But a twinge of homesickness sneaks in. This is beautiful. Peaceful. But something’s missing.
Back home, mornings burst with life—our sheep bleating, chickens fussing, the old rooster crowing at all hours.
Our farm sounds alive. It smells alive, too—paddocks, pasture, sun-warmed hay.
It’s a gut-deep reassurance of life and work and sustenance.
Other kids complain about farm life—the dirt, the stink, the chores.
But not me. I love it. And in a few days, I’ll be back.
I sigh. Because when I’m raking out the henhouse, wishing I were anywhere else, I’ll regret not enjoying this more.
So I hike on.
Up ahead, the trail splits. One path curves toward the open hills—the West Highland Way, the one Una told me about. But I’m not in the mood for encountering other hikers.
The smaller path vanishes into the trees, half-hidden, almost secret. Like it’s been waiting for me.
I step forward before I can think twice.
The narrow footpath twists and weaves into the woods. The earth, damp with fallen leaves, gives softly beneath my boots. Branches arch overhead, filtering the light into shifting patches of gold and shadow. The deeper I go, the quieter it gets, the hush of the forest pressing around me.
By the time it spills me into a valley, the sun has shifted. Cold gusts of air creep down my neck, and I button my sweater to my throat.
What if I get lost? What if Janet turns up and I’m not there?
I curse myself. I didn’t come all this way just to play it safe.
Chafing my arms to warm up, I follow an old post-and-rail fence into a glen. Ragged heather clings to the hillside, crunchy yet springy underfoot.
The wind picks up, and this time I smile into it, tasting the crisp air. For the first time in forever, I feel free. I surge forward, cresting a small rise. And stop cold.
Graves. A lot of them.
Cemeteries are normal. Nothing supernatural about them.
So why is my skin crawling?
I force my feet forward. It’s just old stones and history. That’s all.
And now that I’m actually looking, the place is kind of cool.
A massive burial vault looms at the entrance, half-swallowed by vines, its iron fence rusted and buckling.
The structure itself is rectangular, shaped like a stone shed.
Crude skull carvings gape from the front, their hollow eyes worn smooth by time.
A jagged crack splits the door almost in two.
And above it all, a blank-eyed angel with one chipped wing. She holds a carved banner across her chest: CAMPBELL.
A shiver runs down my spine. My fingers find the chain around my neck—Janet’s old wedding ring. I tug it free from under my shirt, the crude band of yellow gold heavy with history.
My mother won’t tell me about it, but Google did. The inscription: Ne Obliviscaris.
Forget Not.
The Campbell motto. My family motto.
The air feels suddenly colder. Are these buried Campbells my ancestors? I remember Una’s strange comment. It’s enough to forgive your mum for being a Campbell.
What did the Campbells do that needed forgiving?
I glance up. The angel looms overhead, face frozen in silent judgment. Then the clouds shift, and sunlight slashes across her features.
I recoil.
Her eyes—blank before—aren’t blank at all. Deep gouges form a pair of irises, shadows pooling inside them. Following me. Watching.
“Freaky.” I step closer but stumble, falling to my knees onto gross, mucky soil. I flick mud from my hands and glance back to see what tripped me: a flat, square stone, nearly buried in the grass. As I wipe away the grime, ancient, curling script emerges beneath my fingers.
The Burrying Place.
The letters, nearly worn away, have been here for centuries.
I push to my feet, wiping my hands on my dress, which is past dirty anyway. A strange stillness settles over the graveyard, the air thick with something I can’t name.
My gaze drifts to the nearest intact gravestone. Its edges have decayed to black, but the inscription remains legible.
Here lyes Cora
Dere wife, Dere mother
Departed this lyfe 19 February 1619
Her infant rests by her Side
Under my feet lies someone’s dere wife, dere mother.
Enough of that.
I head for another grave, taller and more prominent. Whoever was buried here must have mattered, with a long inscription carved deep into the rock.
Young Hamish, Braw Lad
Here he Lyes
Straight limb’d and tall
Hamish, Pride of Campbell
His enemies shant live to tell
A peculiar sadness swamps me. What happened to Hamish? How young a lad was he?
I shake off the thought. Even if he lived to ninety-nine, he’d still be long dead now.
I wander to a pile of gray stones, tumbled and jagged. As I spin a slow circle, it dawns on me. I’m standing in the remains of a castle. A Campbell castle, if the family graveyard is any indication. “Cool.”
I step over the rubble, weaving through what’s left of the halls, and it’s like walking through the ghost of a home. Walls reduced to shards, doorways leading to nowhere.
In one room, semicircular niches and narrow shelves line soot-blackened walls. A kitchen, I decide.
At the far end of the ruins, two tiny chambers sit side by side. Bedrooms?
The air hums with history. People lived here. Loved here. Laughed, fought, dreamed.
Now, only silence remains.
I shiver.
The ghost I saw…was he real? The way he looked at me felt real.
Maybe he lived here.
Maybe he was a Campbell.
I step into what was probably the dining hall. A massive, charred alcove marks where the fireplace once stood. And there, in the corner, a strange patch of green, perfectly square. It’s too smooth. A trapdoor maybe? I step forward to test it—and keep going.
A hole.
I flail, lurching back just in time, and crash onto my butt with a gasp. Then, breathless, I crawl forward again, tearing at the grass.
The pit is deep, its walls sharp-edged, carved from stone. Not a hole.
A dungeon.
At the bottom, a manacle lies black with age. A slow, sinking dread creeps through me. I pop to my feet, eager to get away from here. “Yeah, I’m done.”
The Campbells lived and loved here.
But did they also torture and murder?
A pit. Just off the dining room. Prisoners, trapped for someone’s evening entertainment.
No wonder this village hates the Campbells. Is this the blood that runs in my veins? The blood of people who dropped their enemies into a pit so they could hear their screams over dinner?
I picture that well-sculpted tombstone.
Hamish, Pride of Campbell. His enemies shant live to tell.
I’ll bet.
A shudder rolls through me. I start to jog, imaginary ghosts at my back. Cold air whooshes around me, whipping my hair into my eyes, turning my mom’s ring into an icy lump against my chest.
“Screw this.” I break into a run. I don’t know if I’m heading the right way—all I know is I’m putting as much distance as possible between me and that Burrying Place.
Finally, I spot the trailhead and push into one last burst of speed. As soon as I cross into the shadowed woods, I stumble to a halt, folding over a cramp in my side. Hands on my knees, I catch my breath and let out a shaky laugh. Running from a graveyard like some scared little kid.
I press on. The trail bends and jags in familiar ways, but something feels…
off. The foliage seems thicker. The light somehow different.
I tamp down my nerves. If I can navigate Grand Central Station, I can handle a stupid hiking trail.
And sure enough, the light shifts, growing brighter—and my mood with it.
Maybe this whole episode is good for me. For once, I’m finding my way without relying on my dumb GPS.
I step into a clearing, and the sun-dappled glade is straight out of a fairy tale. A lone tree stands guard, its leaves glowing in the sunlight. The sight loosens something in me. Maybe good things happen when you wander without a plan. I smirk, unbuttoning my sweater. “Who needs a phone?”
I head for the tree and plop down. Leaning back, I let it support me as my fingers trace the deep grooves of its bark. It feels ancient, older than old. Rough and real. Rooted in the earth. Solid. Safe. And so completely soothing.
I sigh deeply, and the scent of apples hits me. A grin bursts across my face as I look up. An apple tree. Can there be anything more reassuring?
I’m such a dork. Drop me in a graveyard with a creepy dungeon, and suddenly I think I’m in a Scooby Doo episode. This tree is real. Predatory ghosts and cursed woods aren’t.
“They say dead men tell no tales.” The voice comes from nowhere. I shriek and jerk upright, cracking my head against the bark with a sharp thunk.
A man is there. Smiling. It’s not necessarily kind.
I wobble to my feet, rubbing the back of my head, and glare at him. I keep the tree close behind me, just in case he has friends. “What?” The word comes out hard and demanding.
I’m tall, but this guy still looms over me, big and burly. It’s more than his size that sets me on edge though. And more than the gruesome scar running from eyebrow to chin like a twist of pale, lumpy cord stitching the two halves of his face together.
It’s his eyes.
Something about them tugs at my memory. Before I can place it, he speaks again.
“Did I give you a scare then? Dinnae be angry.”
Maybe it’s not his eyes. Maybe it’s his expression that’s familiar.
Weathered. Hard-lived. Poppa has that look, but this man isn’t grandfatherly at all. He’s younger, just the barest silver at his temples.
I press my back more firmly against the tree. It no longer reassures me. Now it’s just hard and cold, leaching warmth from my body.
“Who are you?”
“I’m no threat.” He steps closer. “You’re safe here. You came up the forest path. It’s a winding one, aye?”
My pulse kicks up. I dart quick looks around the clearing. He’s waiting for an answer. I shrug, noncommittal.
Will I have to run? Poppa sent me to a weekend self-defense class before my ninth-grade trip to New York City, and I mentally cycle through the moves. I brace for him to act, but he just watches me.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “The trail had a couple switchbacks. So?”
“Then you’re safe.”
He waits for me to get it. I don’t.
“Because the path winds?” I keep my tone even. That’s one thing I learned from living with an erratic woman for nineteen years. Keep it calm.
He clicks his tongue. “Dinnae understand a thing, do you?” His gaze drags over me, head to toe. “You’re not from here.”
My stomach churns, a queasy mix of outrage and adrenaline. “I guess the accent’s a giveaway.”
He just stands there. Silent.
I’m starting to feel over it. My fear is fading, leaving irritation in its place.
“Well, bye then.” I move, veering away without turning my back.
He steps in front of me.
I stop short. My heart pounds, hard enough that my vision starts to tunnel.
“I believe you are from here.” His voice is thoughtful. “That bonnie hair of yours. I seen it and thought…well. Never you mind what I thought.”
My chest tightens. I shift back, slow and careful. I’m in the middle of the clearing now, completely exposed. I could run, but that might set off something predatory in him. I’m quick. I might make it.
But if he caught me—
Nope.
I keep my voice measured, deliberate. Buying time. “I’m American. Definitely not from here.”
He presses his lips together, considering me. Like he has something to say, but maybe I’m not bright enough to get it.
“Look,” I say evenly. “Can I help you with something? Because I really need to get back. People are expecting me. They know where I am and stuff.”
His laugh is sudden, sharp.
“Ah! I’m no danger to you. And this here?
This is a safe place. Safe from spirits.
They travel in straight lines.” His eyes lock onto mine, sparking with intensity.
“But the path from here curves, back and forth, till the spirits cannae find their way. It’s how the dead stay in their place. But they want to speak.”
Something cold slithers down my back.
I step back unsteadily. “Look, sir. I was just—”
“Easy, lass.” He lifts a hand, patient. “What I’ve been trying to say…the story goes, dead men tell no tales, but that’s wrong, eh? The dead have lots to say. But they cannae leave their tombs to do the telling.”
He takes another step.
“You were at the burying place. You read them markers.”
My fingers curl into my pocket, closing around my hotel key. I let the end jut between my knuckles. A makeshift weapon.
Poppa. He taught me that.
But the man is no longer watching me. He squats beside the tree, using a stick to scrape away a soggy layer of rotting leaves. Slowly, something takes shape beneath the sediment.
A grave marker.
He leans back on his heels, satisfied. “This here soul, on example. This one has much to say, aye? Nae as many words as those Campbells. Not nearly. But this here speaks more, mayhap. Some get their fancy stones and carvings, but nae this poor creature.”
He tosses the stick and rubs away the last layer of sludge with his fingers.
“Look here, lass. You must pay heed. One’s heart lies buried here.”
He lifts his eyes to mine. Daring me to look.
Curiosity wins out. I approach, tentative. He’s calm now. Settled. Like he’s said his piece.
Still, I don’t take my eyes off him as I kneel to read the gravestone.
R MacGregor
1622
Departed this Lyfe
A tremor runs though me, sharp and electric. The words are so stark. So emotionless. Whoever’s buried here, he doesn’t even get a first name.
“Why’d you show me this?” I look up at the man.
He’s gone.