Hauntings

by Ian Whates (ed)

  Paul tried to sleep on the sofa, lay awake listening to the rain rapping on the windows. Soon he would get the place listed with an estate agent, a clean white sign outside, and his mother’s things would be gone: a new beginning, for someone. He got up once during the night and pulled aside the curtains. Outside he saw nothing but the outline of more houses, their windows dark. He looked up and beyond them. He knew the hills were there, but he couldn’t see them; there was only an area that was blacker than the rest. He squinted. Had his mother really imagined some creature up there? It must be a foolish thing to haunt such a place. He shuddered, pulled the curtains closed, and tried to sleep once more.

  ~*~

  The study was the first thing. Paul knew the ornaments would have to go, the books; but he couldn’t think of moving them, not yet. His visitor of the night before had piqued his curiosity. Was there really any truth in it? He went in, sat down at the desk. Although the house had been closed up this room felt bright, airy; light streamed in, streaking the walls.

  There was a picture on the desk. It was of a face carved in wood, peering from between oak leaves, mouth open, tongue sticking out. He grimaced, put the image aside. Beneath it was a book on the mysterious places of Scotland; below that, printouts, something about brownies, selkies, the sidhe, then Am Fear Liath Mòr, the greyman. He rested his hand on it a moment, closed his eyes. Hadn’t he known his mother at all? He scanned the page about the greyman, read something about a supernatural presence haunting the peak of Ben MacDhui – the sound of spectral footsteps that would follow hikers through the mist, the terror it inspired in all who heard it. He frowned, turned the page to see a map; the mountain it spoke of was miles and miles away. At the bottom, written in his mother’s hand, were the words: Another type? Sound only. If seen, seen only once. And then, a single word, underlined: cold.

  Paul frowned and pushed the papers away. What on Earth had she been doing, writing a book or something? She’d never said anything to him, never mentioned this. He leafed through the rest, glancing at notes, local legends listed and tagged. Surely that must be what she had been doing; it couldn’t be anything else. Then, at the bottom, he found in her writing: The minister. He knows the grey.

  Paul looked up, stared at the wall. Photographs had been pinned to it: an island in the loch, a hilltop wreathed in mist, a small church. His mother, smiling into the camera. She was wearing walking shoes and a padded jacket, and she looked happy. She stood on a slope covered with springy heather, some place Paul had never been and didn’t know. He glanced out of the window. Perhaps he should get outside, go and see the things she had seen; it was one way to bring her back, if only for a while.

  He frowned. Was that why he had chosen that book to read, last night – to bring his mother back? But anyway, a walk would do him good, and he could call by the church on the way. Without thinking, he took the sheet of paper, folded it and slipped it into his pocket before he went out.

  ~*~

  The church was larger than Paul had expected, made of dour grey stone and rising tall into a pointed tower. From this angle, close to the front door, it seemed bigger than the mountains beyond. He was still peering upward, seeing catches of blue sky through breaks in the cloud, when someone called a greeting; a moment later Paul heard the sound of footsteps. He turned to see a minister carrying a trug full of weeds, the man’s face reddened with exertion, only a dog collar belying his profession.

  “I’m Mrs Heyward’s son,” Paul said. He found it odd to identify himself by someone who was gone, but the minister showed no sign of it being strange; he merely nodded, held up his hands to show they were too dirty to shake, and led the way inside.

  “Tea,” he said later, while they sat on a pew and sipped. “Drink of the lord, if I may say so.”

  Paul smiled, cradling a mug in his hands. He’d never really liked tea, had only accepted because doing so would make it easier to talk; now he didn’t know what to say.

  “So what brings you here, son? Your mother was a good woman, but she didn’t attend, not really.”

  Paul shook his head, set down his mug on the stone floor, reached into his pocket. “I found this,” he said. “I wondered if you knew what it meant.” He spread the map, saw the minister’s puzzled look and pointed to the words written beneath.

  “I know the grey? My parishioners aren’t that bad.”

  “I don’t think she meant –”

  “Ah, don’t worry yoursel’. I know what she meant.” The minister smiled. “She was interested in the local stories. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  He got up, led the way past the altar and through a heavy curtain. Behind it was a small anteroom, a sink and kettle at one side, a couple of chairs, a clothes rail with robes hanging from it. “Backstage,” he said. “Now, your mother heard there was a wee strange carving in the church. So I showed her this.” He walked over to what looked like a blank section of wall. Paul went closer, saw lines scratched into it; they weren’t regular, not professionally carved but scratched into the surface.

  When the sun is behind ye

  And the mist is afore ye

  Then shall the spectre come

  And be seen in its glory...

  “What does that mean?” Paul asked.

  “What does it mean? I don’t know, lad. But your mother was interested, right enough. Said she thought she knew what it meant, but she never told me and I didnae ask. Didn’t really seem like church business, you know, even though it’s been carved on our wall.”

  “Do you know who did it?”

  “I don’t, lad. It’s been there as far as I can remember, and as far as my predecessor could remember. For so long, in fact, I hardly see it anymore. It was only your mother coming that made me even think of it. Now, how about finishing that cup o’ tea?”

  “Do you mind if I copy it down?”

  The minister shrugged. “Help yoursel’. Your mother did.” Then he clicked his fingers. “No, she didn’t; she had the best idea, son. She just took a picture.”

  ~*~

  The camera was in a drawer in his mother’s desk, and Paul turned it in his hands, finding the ‘on’ switch. The lens extended with a whirr and he turned it over, reviewed the pictures his mother had taken before she died. It was difficult to make out the details on the small screen but there was a grey wall with lines scratched on it; the inscription in the church, as the minister had said. After that there were mainly landscapes, taken up in the hills somewhere as the day was fading, the sun bleeding across the sky. There was the loch too, sombrely lit in the shades of dusk, a slow mist creeping across the water.

  Paul frowned. When the sun is behind ye, he thought.

  When the sun is behind ye

  And the mist is afore ye.

  ~*~

  What had Mrs Lennox said?

  She were chasin’ here and chasin’ there... Especially around this time o’ day.

  He looked out of the window into bright daylight. He could follow her, but not yet; he could wait for the sun to pass away – to fall behind him – and then perhaps the mist would come, rising from the loch as in the picture. The sun behind him and the mist before him. Perhaps, then, he could feel closer to her, could look at things as she had looked at them.

  He closed his eyes. What the hell was he thinking? It was too late to try to feel closer to his mother. He was too late; she wasn’t here any longer, had gone and wasn’t coming back. It wasn’t as if she’d return to him. There were no ghosts, no goblins. It was as if the neighbour’s talk had put ideas in his head. If he still felt his mother’s presence in these rooms it was only because he hadn’t banished it, done what he was supposed to do and prepared it for sale. If there were ghosts they were only in his thoughts, of his own making.

  He rose and went to find something to eat, to find practical things to do. Before he did, he saw the copy of Dickens sitting on the table; he picked it up and pushed it back onto the shelf.

  ~*~

  That even
ing, Paul went for a walk. He told himself he hadn’t chosen the timing; he had merely become tired of packing away abandoned things, that it was coincidence that the sun was just sinking behind the peaks. He told himself he hadn’t chosen the direction either, but he meandered down through the village and towards the loch, which glistened the no-colour of the time between day and night.

  The sun was beginning to redden, still haloing the mountains in bursts of glare. The air was tepid and midges hung in tenuous globes above the path. Paul swatted at them as he walked, his scalp beginning to itch; he wasn’t sure whether the bites were imagined or real.

  He walked towards the water’s edge and then skirted it. He stopped and listened, could hear nothing; then realised there were sounds, the distant hum of a motor, the intermittent call of a bird. Nothing else except a faint rushing that may have been his own blood, might have been nothing at all.

  He looked across the loch, which was filling with gold that spread outwards from its centre. He stared at it, trying to decide if a light mist was gathering on the water; he couldn’t tell. He tried to decide if he could feel a presence there, anything at all, but the air was empty, and he knew with absolute certainty that he was alone.

  ~*~

  In the house, it was better. The books were still there, his mother’s pictures. He had packed away the ornaments, leaving the rest; probably better, he had decided, if the house still looked lived in when prospective buyers came to view.

  It didn’t altogether come as a surprise when there was a sharp knock at the door.

  The caller was Mrs Lennox, her cheeks pink with the night’s chill, this time bearing a tray of flapjacks. “I got them at the store,” she said. “Ah’m not that much of a cook.” And she winked at him like an old friend.

  Paul went to make tea, to bring plates. When he came back she was standing at the bookshelf, her back to him, reading the spines. He set down the cups, almost dropping them; on the table was a single volume he recognised. It was A Tale of Two Cities.

  “Did you take that down?”

  Mrs Lennox turned. “Oh – well, aye, I suppose I must have. Sorry, dear, I didnae mean to touch anything. It was her favourite, you know.”

  “No – I’m sorry. It made me jump, I suppose.” Paul paused. “I didn’t know it was her favourite. I knew she liked Dickens, but –”

  “Aye, well. I ne’er could stand him, mesel.”

  He gave a startled laugh. “Me neither.”

  “You know, I really was very sorry. When I heard they’d found her, I – well, I was upset. She was nice, like I said.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And you’re a nice lad. Just as I’d have imagined.”

  Paul waved the compliment away, but then something she’d said registered, and he blurted: “When they found her?” He couldn’t seem to take in those words. When it happened, his grandparents had organised everything; now he realised he didn’t really know the details, only that she had died here, miles away from him. Now he wondered. Who found her? What exactly had happened? He knew she had suffered a heart attack, had died almost at once: but was that true, or something they’d only said to make him feel better?

  “What is it, hen?”

  “I just – I don’t really know how it happened,” he said. “I don’t suppose you could tell me, Mrs Lennox?”

  “Well, hen, I don’t know much mesel’. I only know they found her out by the roadside.”

  “The roadside? She wasn’t here, at home?” New images flooded into Paul’s mind: unpleasant images.

  “No, poppet. She was on the road up on the moor. Her car was in a lay-by, not so far off. She was just lying there, so I heard. She was – sorry, hen. Someone drove past and saw her – she was already gone when they found her. It would have been quick, so they said.”

  Paul didn’t answer. He stared down at the book on the table, idly turned the cover, flicked through the pages without seeing them.

  “Sorry, hen,” she said. “It was a wee bit strange though, wasn’t it? That she had such an interest in the others who’d gone before, and then – a tragedy, dear. A tragedy.”

  “The others,” Paul repeated. And he remembered: she’d said something about that on her last visit, hadn’t she? What had she meant, exactly?

  She thought it were himsel’ that was taking the others.

  “Aye – sorry, lad, I thought you knew. She’d been asking around about some folk who died up on that same stretch of road: heart attacks, like her. One o’ them was a tourist. Another was years back – old Mr McTavish. He was old, though; it was only natural. I told her it didn’t mean anything, but she seemed so interested.”

  Paul stared down at the book. He barely trusted himself to speak, but he asked the question anyway. All he could see before him now was the grey road carrying him across the moor; he could have looked at the very spot where his mother had been found. Maybe it was the same place he’d felt such relief, where he stopped thinking the bends in the road were holding him back, and he crossed over into the place he was trying to reach at last.

  ~*~

  The next morning Paul packed up his things, locked the door, got into the car and left. He had done enough; either his mother’s house would sell or it wouldn’t. He found, today, he didn’t much care either way. It was hers, and he didn’t want to empty it. The only thing he took away with him was the book – A Tale of Two Cities. It was his mother’s, and he would read it, if only because she wanted him to.

  He didn’t see anyone as he left the village. He was already up on the moorland road in his mind; no, beyond the road, where it stopped heading across the top of the moor and started to wind downwards on the other side. The place his mother had died.

  ~*~

  The morning was clear and bright as Paul passed over the moorland, the sun sparking off pools of still water. It felt almost like clarity, a new beginning. It was a good place to say goodbye to her, and then he would put it behind him and he would leave; he would not come back.

  Mrs Lennox had described the place and as the road turned downward, the land falling away to one side, he saw the lay-by. It was broader than he had expected, smoothly paved. He signalled and pulled in, sat there for a moment leaning over the wheel and looking out across the valley. The sun hadn’t yet burned away the fog and it lay swathed in the dips, whitely shining.

  Paul’s legs felt heavy as he stepped out of the car. She said it had happened a little further down the road, and he walked along it, but after a short distance his steps faltered. He didn’t know if it was here or further; there was no way of telling. Perhaps, after all, it didn’t really matter. He mouthed his goodbye into the cold air. Maybe she heard him, maybe she didn’t. He turned to go, looking out over that drop once more.

  The fog was there, a white stillness; it was simple, beautiful. He stepped closer to the edge. He could feel the sun on his back, warming him. Soon the fog would be gone and there would be nothing to see but a bright, clear day. Then his eyes narrowed. There was a shape in what should have been shapeless: a grey outline in the mist below.

  His breath froze in his throat.

  When the sun is behind ye.

  He shook his head, blinked. There was a shape. It was tall, much taller than a man, and spindly; its legs were those of a giant. And about its head - Paul caught his breath: its head was crowned in a halo that shone in rainbow colours.

  When the sun is behind ye

  And the mist is afore ye

  Then shall the spectre come

  And be seen in its glory.

  Oh God, he thought, and then he let out a spurt of a laugh: oh, Mother. He knew now what it was, had heard of this before: it was nothing but his own shadow cast by the sun behind him onto the mist below. Wasn’t it called a brocken bow? Or a brocken spectre. There was no ghost, no one there, nothing but a trick of the light. Was that all the poem had been about, that had sent his mother chasing about the hilltops? Perhaps he shouldn’t be laughing, but then perhaps
his mother had known, too; of course, she must have. This must have been what she expected to find, when –

  The shadow changed. Paul stared down at it. He was wrong, of course he was, but when he blinked it was still there, undeniable: not one shape now outlined against the fog but two.

  The air was cold in his lungs. It was choking him, making him want to cough, but he daren’t; he swallowed it back.

  There were two brocken spectres in the fog, one a little behind the other, as if standing just at his shoulder. Paul knew there could be no one behind him; there had been no other walkers, no other cars, but of course it was just another trick of the light; the sun’s rays had been split by some crag, were projecting a double image of himself onto the fog, nothing more.

  He didn’t want to move, it made him feel vulnerable, but he forced himself to do it anyway: he raised his arms into the air.

  Below him, far away, a grey figure lifted its arms. One figure. The other stood motionless. The chill was defeating the warmth of the sun now, trickling down Paul’s back like water. It was cold: so very cold. He had known. He had known it wasn’t a trick of the light, some projected image. He had known because he could feel it at his back, a presence so much stronger than the lingering remnants of life gone from the little house in the village. It was standing behind him. It was waiting.

  The grey, he thought. Is that what it was? Is that what she was, now?

  He couldn’t breathe.

  She had known: of course she had known. She had put it in her notes, had listed and catalogued it. Then she had got into her car and driven out here.

  If seen, seen only once, she had written. And then, one word: cold.

  He couldn’t take his eyes from the shades below him. Soon the sun would rise higher and the day would come. The fog would pass away and the spell would break; he would be able to breathe again, could leave this place, drive away and never look back. But he could feel the presence behind him. He could prove to himself that it was real, if he would only turn and look.