The Stone Dweller's Curse: A Story of Curses, Madness, Obsession and Love

by Jacqueline Henry

  ‘I thought you might want to go to the pub for a drink,’ Dylan continued. ‘Then it came to be dinner time so Vee told me to wait and join them. We knew you’d turn up sooner or later.’

  She smiled apologetically, shaking a snowdrift of salt onto her plate. ‘Sorry,’ she repeated.

  ‘Did ye go t’da croft da day?’ Stuart asked. He was sitting at the end of the table closest to them, his eyes locked onto hers.

  How would she answer this? They’d know that’s where she’d been so why was she trying to hide it? Why was she being so secretive? She could go where she damn well pleased.

  ‘Yes.’ But the guilt was there, as if she’d been doing something she shouldn’t, something naughty and frowned upon.

  Something in the chimney.

  She held her eyes averted feeling Mavis’ gaze on her.

  ‘Croft?’ Dylan asked at her side.

  ‘Did ye find it aw right?’ Stuart continued.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Aye, Deedree here is da owner of da Hart Croft oer in Erdin Valley,’ Stuart explained. ‘Did she no tell ye?’

  ‘Erdin?’ Dylan frowned. ‘Isn’t that the…’ Deidre looked down at his fingers tapping on the tabletop, one fingernail misshapen, the tip of his left middle finger blunter than it should be, a thick scar stretching around his thumb. ‘What do they call it?’ he asked.

  ‘Da Curse Valley,’ Mavis said loudly from the other end of the table, cutting across conversations.

  ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ Dylan replied, turning his head to look at Deidre with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. ‘You’ve got a croft in the curse valley,’ he clarified, expelling an almost inaudible chuckle.

  ‘Yes I do. How do you know about it?’ she asked.

  ‘People love to tell their stories around here.’ He turned to Stuart. ‘That’s the Coffin Road isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye,’ Stuart replied sagely.

  ‘Da Coffin Road,’ the boy ventured. Deidre turned to look at him seated at the head of the table, it was the first time she’d ever heard him speak. ‘Ye don’t go der at night,’ he said, pointing his knife at Deidre with the mannerisms of an old man. ‘Dat’s when aw da ghosties come oot an’ travel doon da road.’

  Dylan slipped out of the conversation with Geoff the geologist, turning to Stuart to discuss the work he’d been doing on his croft, leaving Deidre to listen to Geoff as he explained the various rock formations found on the isle using words like chromite, ultramafic igneous rocks, ophiolites and oceanic crusts. She nodded occasionally wishing he would shut up.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk down to the water,’ Dylan suggested after dinner and she eagerly accepted, ignoring the comments from Stuart and Vee’s winking eye.

  Dylan waited for her downstairs while she retrieved a bottle of wine from her room and two plastic cups from the kitchen, then headed out towards the bay together. Dylan didn’t make any attempt to hold her hand or wrap his arm around her waist or touch her in any way as they walked around the shore, which only confused her, her self-doubt compounding her conviction that she’d read the signs wrong again. He was just one of those nice, friendly, have a chat type of people who went around kissing strangers on the lips. What she thought had read as a Clearway had in fact translated to Turn Around You’re Going the Wrong Way. Asking her out for a drink was probably no more than a friendly gesture.

  ‘You seem to know everyone quite well,’ Deidre said, their feet crunching as they walked along the narrow beach made up of small round pebbles, dark sand and broken shells, the beach looking like thin ribbon of brown sugar and mixed nuts.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been coming here for eight or nine years now,’ Dylan said, bending and scooping up a handful of pebbles.

  ‘Restoring crofts,’ Deidre confirmed, watching him throw the small stones into the calm water.

  He glanced at her, opened his mouth as if to speak and closed it again, threw another pebble. ‘I stayed here for about six months the first time I came over,’ he began. ‘Unexpectedly. My brother Colin moved here when he got married to Katy. Her family lives here. You would’ve met Katy last night,’ he added. ‘I took a couple of months off to help Colin fix up a croft they’d bought. Anyway, to cut a long story short, he died. Brain haemorrhage. Sudden. Katy was eight months pregnant. I stayed, finished the croft.’ He bent down, plucking a large palm sized seashell from the sand. ‘I come over as often as I can, stay for a little while, do some work on the croft. Katy remarried.’ He rubbed the sand from the shell, exposing its intricate pattern. ‘Owen. Nice guy, and he’s great with Ronan, her son. My nephew. I still come over to keep in touch, especially for Ronan.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, especially for me,’ he corrected, absently rubbing the shell. Deidre regarded his hands, small and thin like his body, but calloused and rough, scarred. Working hands.

  ‘Ronan’s got Colin all over him,’ Dylan continued. ‘He’s his spitting image. We’ve got pictures at my parents’ house of Ronan and Colin at the same age. They’re almost identical.’ He shook his head, a faint, sad smile pulling at the corner of his lips. ‘Anyway, Colin was the one that got me started on renovating croft houses,’ he explained, offering the shell to her. Deidre took it gratefully, knowing that she would treasure it as a memento of this evening. ‘I had a look around and found an old cottage near Katy and Ronan that was still salvageable and free of the crofting laws,’ he continued. ‘They’re not that easy to get hold of,’ he added, shaking his head in dismay. ‘That took a few years to finish. I live there now when I’m here. Baltasound. You should come over one night and I’ll make dinner for you.’

  Deidre smiled, nodded, ‘that would be nice,’ she said, grining, feeling a rush of goodwill towards all things.

  ‘I’m onto my third restoration now,’ he stated proudly, ‘that’s including Katy’s place.’

  ‘Wow, you’re productive.’

  ‘It keeps me occupied. There’s not a lot to do around here after a while.’ He looked at her and smiled. ‘And I love bringing these old buildings back to life.’

  ‘You could fix up my croft next,’ she said boldly, the statement out before she could stop her mouth from speaking.

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ He smiled politely, shaking his head with certainty.

  Deidre looked at him in wide-eyed surprise, affronted. ‘Why not?’ It came out in a sad whimper.

  His lips curved downwards in distaste. ‘Everybody on this island knows about that valley and its curse.’

  ‘And you believe it?’ she asked, hearing the mocking tone in her voice so contrary to how she truly felt, her father’s voice, close and urgent, still echoing through her head, that uneasy cold shiver still resonating through her.

  Dylan shrugged, indecisive, thoughtful. ‘I’m not sure. These people believe it.’

  ‘Hmm, and you were coming across as being an intelligent, rational human being,’ she said, remembering how she’d bolted up the side of the hill, tripping and stumbling, a scream gurgling in her throat, running away from da ghosties just a few of hours ago. ‘George Hart obviously had some kind of mental imbalance,’ she continued, her legs still slightly wobbly after her flight of fright. ‘He was in a psychiatric ward for six years, he was obviously nuts. My God, these people should go and have a look at the psychos wandering the streets of any big city. That’s the curse of modern society,’ she concluded, adamant.

  A splash in the water caught her attention and she turned, startled, her nerves still rattled. ‘What’s that?’

  Dylan pressed his finger to his lips. ‘Ssh. It’s an otter. Come over here.’

  He took her by the hand and led her to a large rock at the water’s edge and they sat watching the sleek creature in companionable silence, their legs touching. They opened the wine and drank from the plastic cups and she lost all concept of time. It must have been late she guessed, because the sky, although still quite light, had taken on a pink and purple hue, the calm waters of the bay gently lapping at their feet reflecting the col
ours above. Dylan turned and kissed her then, a real kiss, soft and lingering, as gentle as the colours surrounding them.

  It was the most beautiful evening of her life. And it wasn’t her imagination.

  Monday Afternoon – Haroldswick

  Butterflies fluttered like bats in her belly as she drove to Haroldswick. She was meeting Dylan for lunch at the croft he was restoring and she said she’d bring some lunch, stopping off at Walters to pick up a couple of pies from the bakery.

  Her hands were sweating against the steering wheel as she drove north slowly, savouring this feeling, this sickening excitement. Follow the A968 and turn right at the Haroldswick sign then follow Beach Road, Dylan had directed. Take the first right and follow that around to the first intersection, there’s a big white house on the corner, turn left. Drive a bit further; I’m the last house on that road, so you can’t drive past it. She could see the croft. She could see Dylan, dressed in a blue sloppy joe and old stained jeans bent over a large piece of wood. He turned around hearing her car approach, dropped the hammer to the ground and came over to meet her, smiling broadly.

  Her heart leapt. She had such a crush on him. She’d known this Irish carpenter for less than forty eight hours and he’d lingered in her mind almost every minute of those hours, looming like a large planet in her sky, pulling her into his gravity, her mind, her thoughts, her emotions revolving around him. Yesterday’s events at the croft, although still playing in her head, had begun to recede, time giving her a fresh perspective. Whatever was in the chimney had been there for decades. It would still be there tomorrow, next week, whenever she had the chance and the courage to go back there. Her auditory hallucination, well, that’s just what it was. Wind blowing up the chimney, blowing through the grasses, the squeak of loose metal somewhere. Anything.

  But she knew that wasn’t it. She knew what she’d heard.

  ‘Hello my lovely,’ Dylan said, holding the car door open as she alighted, kissing her on the lips. She smiled shyly and blushed, her hand flapping self-consciously to her hair. She’d tried to do something with it before she left Stayne House but it had been a futile effort. The day was overcast, dank, the moist air turning her blow dried fringe into a frizzy, fluffy clump on her forehead the moment she’d walked outside.

  ‘Come on and I’ll show you around,’ he said, taking her by the hand and leading her over to the building. She stole a glance at him, unable to believe that she’d met him. Within a mere two days she couldn’t, wouldn’t imagine her life without him now. This felt too good here, now, today, in this golden light that would probably burn her, leave her parched, leave her heart a dried out husk. It was reckless behaviour to throw herself into a relationship like this when there was such finite time involved. He had a life in Dublin and she had... things... in Sydney. There would be a departure. A separation. And she would be hurt.

  ‘I’m almost finished retiling the roof, and I’ve put new windows and doors in, so it’s pretty much weather proof now.’

  Deidre regarded the cottage with interest. The building didn’t appear to be as old as Hart Croft, being in a much less dilapidated state.

  ‘Did you do all this yourself?’ she asked.

  Dylan stood at her side proudly surveying his work. ‘Kevin helps me as much as he can. But I mostly work by myself through the week. Inside still needs a lot of work.’ He turned to her and smiled, beamed and she almost groaned in pleasure. ‘How are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Good. Great!’

  ‘Are you good with your hands?’ He held her in his gaze and she was locked there unable to look away. Her face flushed. ‘Can you use a hammer?’ he clarified.

  ‘Oh. Yeah. Yes. I can whack things,’ she said, mortified by her own words.

  A smirk formed on his lips and her flush intensified. Deidre turned and walked away under the pretence of studying the view out to the water. Her eyes latched onto the hammer lying on the ground and she headed towards it, her back to him, hiding her burning cheeks.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Dylan asked. She could hear amusement in his tone as she bent to pick up the tool. The hammer was very interesting and she studied it with great concentration.

  Her eyes fluttered towards him, back to the hammer.

  ‘You’re blushing,’ he said, stepping up to her, taking the hammer and dropping it to the ground. ‘Was that dirty talk?’

  ‘No,’ she replied, her eyes averted, staring at the hammer on the ground, her face aflame.

  ‘I think it was.’ He laughed, reaching out and pulling her into his arms, kissing her. She loved it and she kissed him back with fervour. She’d been thinking about him since the moment he left her last night. Daydreaming about him, of living her life with him, wondering, hoping that maybe he could be the one. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said in her ear.

  And there it was, the lie. Doubting Dreary Deidre. Sweet talk her, walk over her, screw her and walk away. Far away, back to Dublin, back to his real life where she didn’t exist or belong. Back to Valerie who sounded far more beautiful and interesting than she ever would. What was she doing? She barely knew this guy. She was going to get hurt. Very, very hurt.

  She felt herself close down and pull away.

  ‘Are you gonna show me inside?’ she asked, stepping closer to the cottage.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Dylan asked, and she could hear the curiosity in his voice.

  ‘Nothing.’ She didn’t look at him, studying the façade of the building. His prolonged silence made her turn and look at him. He was staring at her, a small notch forming between his brows. She looked away again, uncomfortable under his scrutiny, the silence reeling out. ‘Just don’t say things like that?’ she blurted, despite her intention to hold her silence, to wait him out.

  ‘Things like what?’

  She looked at him, her face hot. ‘Don’t call me beautiful,’ she said, embarrassed, exposed, her eyes sliding away from him. She folded her arms, kicking at a large tuft of grass at her feet.

  There was a long silence, awkward, and she felt like crying suddenly, getting in the car and driving away. She was pathetic.

  ‘There’s lots of different beautiful, Deidre,’ Dylan finally said. ‘Beauty’s deeper than a pretty face.’ Deidre swung a glance over to him, back to the tuft of grass at her feet. Dylan sighed, took a few moments before he began. ‘When I saw you walk into the hall on Saturday night I noticed you at first simply because you were a new face. Then I saw that you were with Vee and Malcolm and realised you must be staying at Stayne. A tourist. Which I thought was a shame because I thought you looked nice. You looked like a nice person but you wouldn’t be staying long. Visitors don’t stay very long on Unst,’ he added. ‘I had no intention of talking to you that night at all but my eyes kept seeking you out. I watched you. Then I saw you cry. I caught a glimpse of who you really are, your heart, and I thought to myself, she’s beautiful, a beautiful person with sensitivity and compassion, and I at least had to say hello.’

  Deidre looked across at him and smiled. That was a good reply, she thought. She believed it. She wanted to believe it. She wanted to believe that anything was possible, she wanted to believe that maybe, at last, she’d found love.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you said hello.’

  Wednesday, One Week Later – Hart Croft

  ‘This is the resting stone,’ Deidre stated, stepping up to it. ‘They placed the coffin here while the coffin bearers had a rest.’

  Dylan silently nodded his head, regarding the large flat protruding rock jutting out from the side of the hill. ‘Yeah, I’ve heard the stories,’ he said indifferently, turning away, hands in the pockets of his jacket as he looked out across the valley.

  Deidre regarded him for a moment. He’d been quiet and brooding the length of the walk, Deidre making most of the conversation, happy she’d finally got her way. ‘I can’t get my head around the fact that they carried coffins with a body in it along these tracks,’ she said. ‘It’s amazing.’

&n
bsp; ‘They did what they had to do back then, I suppose,’ Dylan commented. He was looking across at Brud Stone.

  Deidre turned her eyes in its direction. It looked more brooding today, probably because of the leaden sky heavy with cloud cover. ‘That’s Hart Croft down there,’ she said, pointing, a faint tremor in her voice. She hadn’t been here since running away in terror over a week ago and despite Dylan’s presence, she could feel the low thrum of anxiety deep in her bones, her nerves jittery, her ears catching every sound.

  Hindsight, distance and time had convinced her that her previous auditory experience had been her imagination, but it had spooked her all the same, enough to prevent her from coming back here again, alone, despite the compelling urge, her fingertips tingling at the memory of touching something in the chimney.

  Once, earlier in the week, she’d walked to the top of Ayres Kame, looked out across the empty wilderness below her and knew she hadn’t imagined it, knew that she’d heard her father’s voice out there, in that croft. A coward, she’d turned around and went back to the car, her fear defeating her.

  She hadn’t mentioned her experience to anyone, certainly not the superstitious lot at Stayne House, nor Dylan. She’d been lucky to get him to come here at all today after asking him on numerous occasions over the past week, Dylan putting her off with glib comments like ‘later today, maybe’ which then became ‘tomorrow’ and that had been last week. He used excuses like having too much work to do on the croft. He wanted it at lock up stage before he left and he only had a couple of weeks to go, but he had the time to drive down to see her for two, three, four hour lunchbreaks, time they could’ve taken to walk to the valley and back easily. Instead, they’d walked the half hour each way to Walters Store and sat on the bench outside eating a lunch of hot pies and cans of coke followed by stodgy buns filled with custard.