Chapter 3
Rowan
CLOSED.
Jaw clenched, I scowled at the sign in the window before peering through the glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of anyone inside.
No one. Huffing my annoyance, I quickly scanned the other notices on the door, searching for any information on when the police station would be open again.
But there were no hours of business, no contact number, even.
It was as if the building were no longer running.
I noted a couple of Missing Person flyers and one lost dog poster, but they were from months earlier.
Stalking away, I skulked in front of the building, trying to work through my frustration.
Missing. Absently, I thumbed through my phone, debating my next move.
No messages from Sarah yet. Looking up and down the empty street, my eyes landed on a sign for a hotel bar not too far away, and my stomach growled at the thought of food.
Deciding this would be a good chance to mingle with the locals, I pulled up the hood of my jacket to shield against the soft rain and ran up the sidewalk towards the lights of the pub, leaving my car parked beside the vacant station.
Being that it was a Monday night, I had not expected the bar to be overly busy.
And I was right. Only a handful of patrons were scattered throughout the dimly lit interior.
Though as I stepped through the door and their collective gaze turned towards me, it suddenly felt like the whole town was eating out for the night.
A flush of self-consciousness reddened my cheeks.
Pasting on a small smile, I ignored the curious stares and made my way through the sparse tables towards the counter.
Once I was seated on a high-top stool, I leant against the polished wooden bar, taking in the cosy room. The bartender, a burly man, approached with a welcoming grin.
“Whit wull ye hae?” he inquired with a thick Scottish accent.
Eager to unwind after the day’s events, I asked for a glass of wine and the food menu.
Nodding his acknowledgement, he set about preparing my drink, his movements unhurried.
As I waited, my eyes were drawn to the bottles behind the counter, all lined up in front of a burnished glass mirror – an impressive collection of whisky.
Not being a whisky drinker myself, I only recognised the more well-known commercial brands: Glenfiddich, Glenmorangie, and Glenlivet.
The sheer number that started with “Glen” was staggering, but I turned my attention away, instead focusing on the people in the bar.
Next to me, one chair over, sat an older gentleman, hunched over his drink.
Deep creases were etched into his brow, the leathery skin telling me he spent a great amount of time outdoors.
The bartender returned with my wine and set it down in front of me with a clink, along with a sparse dinner menu.
I offered him a nod of gratitude before lifting the glass to my lips, perusing the meal options.
I decided on the fish with salad, and my gaze drifted back to the mirrored backdrop.
Peering past the array of whisky bottles, I discreetly observed the other customers in the reflection of the dimly lit space.
Most seemed to be couples engaged in hushed conversation, though there were a few solitary figures, like the gentleman beside me.
Glancing at him in the mirror, I was startled to find his gaze meeting mine, so turned towards him. “Hello. Nice evening, isn’t it?” I ventured, hoping to engage him in conversation.
“Aye, ‘at it is,” he replied, a hint of a smile softening his weathered face. “Whit brings ye to toon?”
“A holiday, I guess. I just arrived today, actually. And yourself? Are you a local?”
“Aye, born an’ bred,” he confirmed with a nod.
“Perhaps you might know when the police station will be open next?”
The bartender came by to ask for my dinner choice then, so the man didn’t have the opportunity to answer me straight away. But when I turned back, there was a shrewd look in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
“Noo whit wuid ye be needin’ the police fur so soon into yer stay? Is summat amiss?” he questioned, his tone laced with suspicion.
“Oh, nothing serious,” I reassured him quickly. “Just hoping to follow up on something from twenty-five years ago when my family visited here.”
He let out a knowing chuckle. “Ah, sometimes the past is best left in the past, lass. No’ much slips by me, though, especially no’ summat from then,” he remarked mysteriously.
I couldn’t help but laugh in surprise. “You must have the memory of an elephant if you remember events from that long ago. I struggle to recall what happened last year!”
“Ma memory’s a powerful thing. I dinnae forget,” he replied. “Twenty-five years ago, ye say?” He looked at me speculatively. “Ye’d be the Andersons, then. I remember ye as a wee sìthbheire the last time I saw ye.”
I stared at him incredulously. “Dr Anderson was my father, yes. But how could you possibly know that?”
“As I said, lass, I dinnae forget a thing,” he answered cryptically, tapping his forehead.
Before I could press him any further, my dinner arrived, momentarily distracting me.
The aroma wafting from the plate was mouthwatering, and I eagerly took my first bite, delighted to taste a subtle lemon flavour.
I entirely forgot about the enigmatic stranger sitting beside me as I enjoyed it.
But when I did finally turn my attention back to him, eager to continue the conversation, I was surprised to be met with an empty seat.
Scanning the room, I searched for him amidst the other patrons.
But he was nowhere to be found. Disappointment surged, and I returned to my meal, his words playing on my mind, along with the blasted letter I had yet to get answers about.
When I returned to the cottage a short while later, I read it again.
Just to assure myself that what I had seen the first time was true.
It was.
Sighing, I flicked through the other envelopes, hoping to find more information, but none stood out as being particularly interesting.
Correspondence mainly with doctors home and abroad; the questions asked were a little unusual, but not something I wished to explore.
Setting the papers aside, I reached for my phone and sent another text to Sarah, reminding her to call me back as soon as possible.
With that done, I finally let myself surrender to the exhaustion that had been building up and took myself off to bed.
Dense foliage hampered my frantic sprint.
Vines. Rocks. Fallen trees. All placed in my path, trying to catch at my feet.
An ever-present feeling of urgency compelled me onwards.
Onwards. Onwards. Heart pounding, I stopped.
Listening. Looking. Searching. Yet no matter which way I turned, I couldn’t find him. I couldn’t hear him.
“Where are you?” I called out. But the only sound that answered was the crunch of my bare feet upon the pine-needle carpet.
The wind captured my voice and swallowed it up in the vast expanse of woodland.
The trees pressed in. The forest enveloped me in a thick shroud of darkness.
Ancient pines reached higher than my eyes could see, stealing the light.
Taming the moon. Their thick trunks, fractured bark, and needle-like leaves the perfect weapons. Daunting obstacles in my path.
Beneath my feet, damp mossy mounds fought for space with the discarded litter from above. Their pungent scent and the mouldy aroma of the underbrush teased my nostrils. Stuck in my airways. Clouded my senses. I ran on, trying to outrun that smell. Trying to find what I was looking for.
A clearing!
Spawning amidst the foliage were mushroom caps of every hue, their vibrant colours reminiscent of tiny stools fit for woodland sprites.
The rush of the wind in the branches above, the rustle of the bracken on the ground below, the swoop of an owl’s wings as they floated through the middle.
It all came together in a symphony of sound.
But even the nighttime melodies couldn’t drown out the persistent pull that coursed through my veins. That tugged at my heart.
I called out again. “I can’t find you. Where are you?”
“Come,” he whispered. “Hurry.”
His familiar voice was a seductive lure that called me forth.
Its deep velvet undertones a sensual caress to my ears, driving me relentlessly forward.
The insistent clutch in my chest persisted.
Despite the exhaustion that threatened to swallow me whole, I couldn’t give up.
Not now. Not when I was so close. Not when he was so close.
I ran faster. Pushing and pushing and pushing.
Calling for him. Desperate for him. But his voice only seemed to float further and further out of my reach.
With a surge of determination, I pressed myself harder.
And then harder still. And in the distance, a ghostly figure emerged.
Barely visible. But I knew it was him! The one I had been searching for.
The one who haunted my thoughts. Pulled at my heartstrings.
His features sharpened.
That sense of familiarity stirred.
I drew closer. I stretched out my hand, reaching, reaching for him. I was so close – only a few more steps…
My eyes flew open. My body jackknifed upright.
Lungs heaving, I searched the room. Searched the shadows.
As if expecting to see him there. Desperately, I tried to cling to the fading images, to the words he had said, the voice I had heard.
But it slipped away, so fast all that was left were my panting breaths, and an ache deep within my chest.
A fluttering sensation winged there, but I wished it away, absently rubbing my sternum as I looked out the window.
Dawn fought with the hazy gloom of the night.
And won. My gaze found the forest bordering the back of the property.
The Culag Woods gazed back at me, dark and foreboding.
A thousand emerald leaves with a thousand gem-filled eyes watched me from within.
That overwhelming sensation tugged again.
A magnetic pull, drawing me in. Dragging me in.
I nearly gave in to it. Found myself rising from the bed before I even realised what I was doing. But I shook my head, forcing myself to look away.
I knew, though. Knew, without a doubt, that I would not be able to ignore that call much longer.