Next Time
Donna Kauffman
One
This time, she’d definitely seen the ghost. Abby Ramsay stood at the window of her tower room and sipped her tea as she stared out across the castle inn courtyard.
She felt preternaturally calm, considering what she’d observed, almost as if she was having an out of body experience.
“I should be so lucky,” she murmured, as she gently set the teacup and saucer on the small writing desk next to her.
If only she could step out of her body, trade it in for a new one.
Preferably one that wasn’t going to give out on her so soon.
“But then, I wouldn’t be here,” she murmured, allowing a small smile as she returned her attention beyond the narrow, mullioned window.
She’d been surprised and delighted when the handle at the bottom of the framed, heavy leaded glass had turned and she’d been able to swing the louvered window outwards, giving her a clear view across the courtyard, beyond the far corner tower, and onwards to the Black Cuillins beyond.
In an earlier time of her life, she’d have been out there, climbing those dark, jagged peaks.
But she’d made peace with her brief future and was simply happy to be here, in the midst of them, enjoying their grandeur.
At the moment, however, it wasn’t the fog-shrouded, mystical mountains that held her attention.
It was the tower across the courtyard. She watched, patiently, waiting for …
something. It had all started with the flicker of light she’d seen through the turret window yesterday morning as she’d been out taking her stroll in the mists.
Like most of the north side of the castle proper, the tower was falling to ruin.
The turret at the top was crumbling, the windows long since empty of their glass, the ledges broken and fallen on to the stone piles below.
According to the travel literature, it hadn’t been habitable for more than a century.
So, it made no sense that she’d seen a light there, flickering, like candlelight or lamplight, which was why it had caught her attention in the first place.
At first she thought it was one of the many adventurous hikers who came to stay at the Gillean Castle inn to take advantage of hiking Scotland’s most jagged peaks.
Maybe one of them had tried to climb up inside the tower.
But upon further inspection, as she’d got closer and slowly made her way around the tumble of stone at the tower base, she’d assured herself that what the travel guide and inn brochure had stated was true.
Unless they could levitate, no one could be hanging around up inside what was left of that tower.
She’d told herself the flickering light could have been the sun glinting off something inside … but what? She’d managed to get close enough to peer inside and up. It was nothing more than a hollow shell of crumbling stone. Nothing glint-worthy to be found.
She’d toyed with the mystery for the remainder of the day, but the flickering light had never returned, and she hadn’t come up with a workable explanation for what she’d seen.
She’d amused herself as she’d drifted off to sleep the night before with the idea that perhaps she’d seen evidence of the infamous tower ghost. She wasn’t certain what she believed about such things, but it had been a fanciful distraction and she’d fallen asleep more easily than she had in quite some time.
So, it had been quite the startling moment when she’d peered out of her own tower window in early dawn hours this morning, thinking about the flickering light … only to see the ghost himself standing in the open window of the tower ruin.
She remembered thinking that she’d been certain the local literature on the Gillean ghost had romanticized his appearance …
but the reality out-distanced even the most avid imagination.
The oil portrait rendering that hung in the castle hall proper didn’t begin to do the man justice.
He was quite tall, causing him to casually slouch in the open window frame, broad shoulder leaning against the stone.
He wore a white shirt with billowing sleeves, the laces at the neck loose and open, like an old poet.
Only when this poet had lifted his chin, shifting his gaze from whatever he was holding in his hand, to look across the courtyard, seemingly directly at her …
he’d been anything but old. His was a face that could haunt dreams. That strong jaw, slash of brow and brooding mouth.
And that had been from across a misty courtyard. She couldn’t imagine what kind of impact he’d have made up close and personal. Abby rubbed her arms, though the morning fog had long since lifted as the sun had edged well past the distant peaks by now.
She couldn’t stop thinking about him, this ghost. And he had to be an apparition.
Didn’t he? The tower was gutted, she’d seen that with her own eyes.
She continued to stare at it now, cold and dark, wind whistling through the crumbling window openings.
No sign at all that anyone inhabited the place, much less with candlelight, billowing shirt, and perfect chin stubble.
The Gillean ghost was the stuff of legends.
Although, throughout the centuries that had passed since the first sighting of him, no one had discovered his name, the story behind his being there, or a link to any of the clans who had inhabited the castle before.
But he’d been seen many times over during that same time span.
The description was always the same. The lore that had grown around him had launched many a tale or supposition.
Most of them romantic folly, Abby had thought, but they’d made her smile nonetheless.
For all anyone knew, he was a marauder with a black heart and a bloody sword who’d been cut down while looting and pillaging.
Of course, that wasn’t as romantic as the notion that he was a man in love, doomed to search the misty cliffs for his one and only.
Or any of the other silly stories detailed in the local guides.
But now that she’d seen him herself … she wasn’t sure what she believed. Or wanted to believe. The man she’d seen this morning surely hadn’t looked like a looting marauder. Or, for that matter, an apparition.
She took a last sip of tea, replaced the cup again, then resolutely turned and plucked her jacket from the back of the chair.
Her energy stores were at their best in the earlier part of the day.
So, she was going to go explore the tower again, even more closely this time.
Perhaps she could find a way to climb all the way inside.
She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for. Answers? Proof? The ghost himself?
It didn’t matter, really. It was intriguing. And what else did she have to do with her time? Her strength would wane quickly, but it wasn’t like she had to worry about whatever dangers might await. “What is it going to do?” she murmured. “Kill me?”
That was the one thing Abby no longer had to worry about. It was amazing how much more brave and courageous a person could feel when they knew they were going to die.
Two
She’d seen him. Not that she’d been the first. Not by a long shot.
But he hadn’t removed himself from sight upon discovery like he typically did.
Instead, he’d welcomed her steady gaze. Had, in fact, looked back.
Though he couldn’t have said why. In all his visits to the tower, Calum had never once felt compelled to do that.
She hadn’t even been that particularly striking. Soft brown hair, wide eyes and mouth, a narrow frame. And yet, he hadn’t been able to look away.
And she hadn’t looked at him like she was seeing a ghost.
He didn’t get any enjoyment out of folks believing he was an afterworld wraith.
Far from it. He’d much rather be left to his own devices, to enjoy the peace and solitude of Loch Sligachan and the towering presence of the Cuillins.
That was why he came here when he needed to think, needed to get away.
No’ to play tricks on unsuspecting visitors.
But, the castle inn, which had become more ruin than inn at this point in time, was remote enough, appealing mostly to outdoor adventurists, that it didn’t happen all that often.
So, when it did, it seemed a small price to pay for his haven.
He’d tried other places, other times in history but, for some time now, he’d come back to this place, this time.
His tower had little left for comfort, but with his advanced abilities, he could work around that.
The early twenty-first century had been a quiet one in the western Highlands.
Still pure, despite its bloody history, with a sense of being largely untouched, reclaimed by Mother Nature.
The endless green carpets of grass encroaching right up against the towering, jagged peaks that soared above them, soothed him.
It looked much the same in his time. The mountains did, at any rate.
The rest … well, that had changed. Changed with the needs of the people who had to sustain life from it.
A life filled with challenges that those who lived during this time and in this place couldn’t possibly fathom. And were fortunate in their ignorance.
In his time, people led a very different life from the one most likely lived by the woman who’d spied him this morning.
He’d looked into those wide, all-seeing eyes and, even across the stretch of the courtyard, he’d felt such a yearning.
A yearning to go to her, talk with her, listen to tales of what life was like in these easier, calmer, more bountiful times.
But why torture himself? He had to go back.
There was too much to do. Only his weariness still lingered.
More and more often, his slides through time didn’t feel wide enough or long enough.