The Ghosts of Tullybrae House

by Veronica Bale

  Applause erupted from the people at the tables. Playfully slapping at a few young men seated around him, the one called Cael rose and made his way to the front of the hall.

  Emmie gasped—the one called Cael was the Highlander.

  He was younger than the man that stood behind her now. Not much, but enough that he still retained the baby-faced softness of his late teen years. His cheeks were a healthy pink—perhaps from the ale that the people were drinking in copious amounts, or perhaps from the excitement—and his dark hair was shorter, coming to the base of his neck and falling in wayward strands into his eyes. He grinned, the way young men do when they are immensely proud but trying not to show it. As he passed the tables on his way to the dais, he fended off more playful slaps, and submitted to an onslaught of congratulations from the more seasoned men and women in the hall.

  Just as she was wishing they could get closer, the room spun, and Emmie found that her view had changed without having moved. Now she was on the dais. The Highlander was still behind her, one hand still firmly planted on her waist and the other on her shoulder. In front of her, the young Cael approached the chieftain, and bowed low. When he righted himself, the chieftain wrapped him in a fatherly embrace.

  “Ye’re a bastard nae more, Son,” he said for Cael’s ears only. “Ye can now well and truly call yerself a MacDonald.”

  Pride lighted the chieftain’s face as he pulled something from his breast pocket. Emmie narrowed her eyes, peering through the dim light.

  It was a small drawstring leather purse. The man opened it, and out tumbled a kilt pin.

  The kilt pin. The very one that had been pulled from the earth by the dig crew hundreds of years into the future. It gleamed under the candlelight, its newness breathtaking. The chieftain fastened it to the young Highlander’s feileadh mhor. All the intricate detail as she’d seen it in Dean’s photo, worn away by time and exposure to the elements, was now crisp and clear. There, on the bottom, were the fish, the ship, the lion and the cross which Paul had identified as the coat of arms belonging to the MacDonalds of Keppoch.

  She could feel the happiness emanating from the young man in front of her as surely as she felt the unspoken question coming from the man behind her.

  Why was I killed?

  Why was I killed?

  Why?

  The patter of rain roused her. Emmie opened her eyes to the leached colours of a dreary morning. They were the colours of her bedroom—her bedroom at Tullybrae. And she was tucked up under her covers, with her pillow beneath her head.

  The great hall was gone. The people were gone. The Highlander was gone.

  Yet, he wasn’t gone. Not really. He was still there, still in the room with her. She could sense him, his constant presence.

  In her head, he whispered the only two words she ever heard him say:

  Save me.

  “SHE’S AWAKE. I know she’s awake.” Lamb paced in his shuffling gait around the large worktable in the kitchen.

  As soon as he heard Emmie up and moving around, he’d hurried downstairs as fast as his stiff legs would carry him and started the meal. When a half hour passed and she hadn’t come down, he covered the plates of hot food with tea towels. When another half hour passed, he gave the now cold food up as spoiled.

  One man’s loss being another’s gain, Clunie was delighted to have been tossed a full strip of bacon. He munched contentedly by the stove, where he’d been enjoying the warmth.

  “She should have been down by now.”

  “Hush now. You can’t force the child to eat with you,” replied Mrs. Lamb from somewhere near the door. “Perhaps she’s just no’ hungry.”

  Lamb furrowed his snowy brows. “You’re a terrible liar, Mother, and a hypocrite. When I dared to suggest something similar, you gave me what for. You’re just as worried as I am, admit it.”

  Emmie’s behaviour since coming back from Glasgow had taken a turn. Her cataloguing, which she’d taken so seriously at first, had become completely neglected. Instead, she spent her time pouring over her computer, trying (he learned, from the brief conversations he’d had with her) to find information about the wars between the Campbells and the MacDonalds. Why she was so intensely interested, though, stumped him. Tullybrae was Cameron land. Everyone knew that.

  Emmie had also made two day trips to two different libraries. One to the University of Aberdeen, and one to the local archives in Inverness. Both times she’d come back with armloads of books which she read voraciously when she wasn’t at her computer.

  Her appearance had taken a dramatic turn, too. Once remarkably neat and composed, she now looked downright frumpy—not that Lamb cared; she looked lovely either way. Her hair was always pulled back into a messy top-knot now, she rarely put on any makeup, and her unlaundered yoga pants and hoodies had as good as become a uniform.

  If those thing weren’t worrying enough, then the fact that the poor thing looked bone-weary was deeply concerning. It was as if she was being burdened by an unbearable weight. And the dark circles under her eyes betrayed that she hadn’t been sleeping well.

  “Aye, I am worried,” Mrs. Lamb admitted. A shadow of her outline flickered in the corner of the kitchen, revealing that she was watching through the windows into the corridor with her arms crossed over her withered breast.

  “I daresay that Clara is making things worse. Leading her to him like a lamb to the slaughter. Does he make her do it? Are they in cahoots together?”

  “How many times, lad? I hate when you use that phrase—lamb to the slaughter. Your father would be turning over in his grave if he heard you.” She shuddered visibly. “Deeply unsettling. Use ‘goat.’ Or ‘cow.’ Anything other than ‘lamb.’”

  “I’ll use whichever animal I please, you old bat,” he muttered under his breath.

  “You cannot blame Clara,” Mrs. Lamb continued. “She’s a naturally curious child. She’s drawn to them both. She’s not leading Emmeline so much as she’s simply enchanted by the sheer strength of her and the Highlander’s connection to one another.”

  Lamb shook his head. “I still don’t understand what he might have in connection with Emmie.”

  “Nor should you. ’Tis no’ for you to understand. Any more than it is for me to understand. But for one reason or another, they are a part of each other’s story—if they can overcome whatever obstacle is between them.”

  “Obstacle?” Lamb sputtered. “He’s dead. How much more of a bloody obstacle does one need?”

  Mrs. Lamb ignored her son. She continued to stare out the window, still worried. “Perhaps it’s time the countess and I stepped in. I’m no’ convinced he’s worth the strain he’s unwittingly causing her.”

  “Do you think that will help?”

  “At this point, it couldn’t hurt.”

  Lamb thought on it a moment. “Then do. For now, I can bring breakfast up to her. She needs something in her stomach either way.”

  Emmie was sitting at her desk with one of the volumes she’d borrowed from the Aberdeen University library open in front of her keyboard. It was the genealogy of the MacDonald clan. But so far, she was not finding much on the MacDonalds of Keppoch.

  As to what she had found, everything about this branch of the clan had been relatively superficial—births, marriages, a cattle raid here and there—and all culminating in the line being wiped out over a land dispute between them, the MacIntoshes and the Campbells.

  All she had to show for her research, which she was currently trying to fill in with Internet sources, was that her mystery probably took place sometime before fourteen ninety five.

  It was maddening. And she couldn’t dislodge the obsession to find out. The Highlander needed her to solve the mystery. She needed to solve the mystery, for herself as much as for him.

  This despite the fact that she was very aware of how badly she was slipping. Worse than slipping, to be honest—she was falling apart, losing control. It terrified her, and yet she couldn’t stop the downward slide.r />
  She looked up when Lamb knocked at the door. In his hands was a silver tray.

  “I thought you could use something to eat.”

  She stared blankly at him for a moment, the MacDonalds of Keppoch still rolling around in her brain. Shaking her head, she forced her mind into the present.

  “Breakfast. Oh, Lamb. I’m so sorry. I completely forgot to come down for breakfast.”

  “No need to apologize, surely.” He scuffled into the nursery-slash-office and placed the tray on the corner of her desk. “Promise me you’ll eat it. The last thing I want is for a lovely young woman in the prime of her youth to wither away to nowt under my watch.”

  Her shoulders slumped, and she gave a weak, apologetic grimace. “I promise.”

  An hour later, the tray was only a slice of bacon and a nibble of toast lighter.

  Her back was growing cramped. So she decided to take a break and go outside. She hadn’t been outside in ages. Not properly, anyway.

  Well into a Highland autumn now, the air was crisp. Emmie stopped by the hall closet where she’d taken to keeping a thick cable-knit cardigan for the infrequent times she did need to venture out. Slipping her arms into the garment and hugging herself, she stepped through the front door and onto the drive. Her Uggs crunched over the gravel as she headed to the east field.

  She hadn’t seen much of her friends on the dig crew lately. They’d come in looking for her a few times just to say hi, and see how things were going. And she’d felt bad for neglecting them every time. But their visits had trailed off of late. The last time she stopped by, Famke had told her that they were collectively making an effort not to bother her. They could see how busy she was, the Dutch woman had said. Which made Emmie feel doubly guilty because that wasn’t exactly true.

  It was Famke who was the first to spot her as she came into view.

  “Emmie, hey.” She waved cheerfully.

  Alerted, the rest of the crew popped their heads up from where they were digging like prairie dogs. Except for Ewan, who was in the tent bent over his laptop.

  Emmie crossed the field gingerly, taking care of her steps once she reached the gridded dig site.

  “Long time, no see,” Famke teased, meeting her half-way.

  “Sorry,” Emmie apologized. “I haven’t been a very good friend lately, have I?”

  “Don’t be silly. We’re just happy you’re here. Want to come see the progress we’ve made?”

  “Sure.”

  Famke led her to the heart of the dig. The Highlander went with them, hovering over Emmie’s right shoulder. He was agitated. Anxious about what these strangers were doing. Where they were digging and what they might disturb.

  Famke led Emmie to Dean’s trench first. He smiled up at her from his crouched position. “Thought you’d forgotten about us.”

  “Never,” Emmie insisted warmly. “Whatcha working on?”

  “We found the foundation of one of the outbuildings. See here?”

  He pointed, and indeed Emmie saw a long row of brick.

  “We’re not sure what it is yet, but it’s exactly where lady Rotherham thought it would be.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “It is,” Famke said. “Sophie has come across something interesting, too. Let me show you.”

  Emmie gave Dean a friendly wink before leaving him. She knew his eyes were on her when she walked away. So did the Highlander. His presence flared suddenly, as if he was trying to get her attention. It felt… suspicious. Distrustful.

  Was he suspicious of what Dean was doing? Where he was digging?

  The possibility didn’t feel quite right, but rather than dwell on it, she pushed the Highlander aside and focused on Sophie.

  “Another midden heap,” she was saying. “But earlier than the buildings, we think.”

  “Oh? How can you tell?”

  “I’m much farther down than Dean. He started working in his trench after uncovering that kilt pin we found, but I’ve been working in mine longer. Because this trash is farther down than the brick foundation of the building, it’s likely to be earlier.”

  “I see. And what’s Adam working on?”

  “Bloody nowt,” he called from his trench.

  Famke grinned when Emmie raised an eyebrow. “He’s… oh, what’s the word… cross?”

  “Peeved?” Emmie suggested.

  “Pissed off,” Sophie answered.

  “Peeved,” Famke chose. “He’s peeved because nothing’s turned up in his trench. He thinks we did it on purpose.”

  “Ewan’s the lead on this dig. It were his call,” Sophie added.

  “It’s a bloody conspiracy,” Adam insisted, still working. “You lot have got me shifting a bloody load of dirt so you can keep the good finds all to yourselves.”

  “No one’s organized any kind of conspiracy against you, Adam,” Famke responded.

  “Ballocks.”

  Emmie laughed, and for a second, she felt lighter. That was, until the Highlander re-exerted his feelings of mistrust on her. He was urging her to leave. This time, she had no desire to fight it. She’d done her duty, visited her friends. Besides, she was getting cold.

  “I’d best get back inside. Not dressed properly for this weather.”

  “Awright,” Sophie responded. “But you come back and see us soon, yeah?”

  “Count on it,” Emmie promised.

  She turned to leave, and had gone a few yards when Dean called after her.

  “Hey Em, wait up.”

  She spun slowly around and waited as he loped towards her, tall and handsome. The Highlander didn’t like this. She could feel his displeasure.

  Did he not trust Dean?

  “What’s up?” she asked innocently.

  Dean looked back to the team, where Sophie was gawking playfully, while Famke nudging her with the toe of her boot to get back to work. He laughed self-consciously, and passed a hand through his windblown hair.

  “So… how you been, really?” His Texas drawl was unusually thick. Perhaps because he was nervous.

  Emmie was immediately wary.

  “I’ve been okay,” she lied. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “That’s good. Hey, listen. I was wondering if maybe I could convince you to come out for a drink sometime. You know, just to hang out, away from this place.”

  “Um, sure. What are the others thinking? They up for it?”

  “Oh. I, er, meant just the two of us.”

  Just the two of us. She’d known that’s what he wanted, and hoped she was wrong. The nervous smile on his face was, as always, boyishly charming. He was a good-looking guy. She wished she was attracted to him. She did like him, too—just not like that.

  The Highlander’s dislike grew stronger. It pulled her away from whatever true feelings she might have for Dean. Or could learn to have. She wasn’t sure.

  “Oh. Dean, I’m flattered, really. And I think you’re great. It’s just… well… I’m not really in the right headspace to be going out on a date.”

  His face fell a fraction, but he remained undeterred. “That’s okay, no worries. What about just as friends, then?” When she wavered, he hastily added, “C’mon, it’d be fun. I think you’re a lot of fun to talk to, and, heck, I need a night off. Away from these guys.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulders.

  Emmie eyed him skeptically. A part of her wanted to say yes, knew she would have said yes if she’d met him under different circumstances. If the Highlander wasn’t doing everything he could to dissuade her.

  My goodness, he really didn’t trust Dean.

  Was Dean dangerous in some way that she didn’t know in her limited mortal capacity of understanding? He didn’t drown kittens, or stick pins in voodoo dolls, did he?

  “C’mon,” Dean cajoled again, giving her his full Texan charm.

  “Okay,” Emmie relented, deciding that the Highlander must be wrong—whatever it was that he thought. “But just as friends, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he
said, giving a two-fingered salute. “What about Friday? You’ll probably be busy tomorrow and Thursday, with the guys from Haunted Britain coming and all.”

  “Oh, my God. I forgot all about that,” she exclaimed.

  Dean gave a startled laugh. “You forgot? How can you forget something like that? You sure you’re okay?”

  “No, not at all sure.” She passed a hand over her makeup-free face. “Oh, I am so not looking forward to that.”

  He shrugged. “Chin up. Think of it this way—at least you’ll know for sure if the place is haunted or not.”

  Later that night, as Emmie lay in bed trying to read, Dean’s words kept circling in her head.

  He didn’t have it right, didn’t understand. She already knew Tullybrae was haunted. The constant presence of the Highlander proved it—a presence which was currently at the foot of the bed, watching protectively. The reason she wasn’t looking forward to Haunted Britain coming was because she didn’t want to find out just how haunted the house was.

  Or perhaps, more alarmingly, that it wasn’t haunted. That the Highlander wasn’t real. After all, no one else seemed to know of his existence.

  What if her worst fears were being realized: that she was losing her mind? That she was weak? That she truly was losing her iron-clad grip on herself? It didn’t matter how hard she’d tried before now to keep herself together. She was destined to fail, just like her mother.

  She gazed across the room to the face on the dresser. Today, that smile told her nothing. It wasn’t even a smile. It was just photo ink on paper. A glossy finish. That was not her mother in that frame. It was no one.

  “I hate you,” she told the photo. And she meant it.

  HAUNTED BRITAIN WAS scheduled to film the Tullybrae House episode in two parts over two days. On the first day, the show would interview Lady Rotherham, and host Elena Seaton-Downs would talk about the history of the house and the hauntings. The first day would also be when one of the show’s three regularly featured psychic mediums would be brought on location to give her supernatural impression of who or what was haunting it, and why.