Winter

by Raven Taylor

  It was tiring watching the rat race go by and I was glad when I was on the train, sitting quietly by the window with my head bowed low.

  I rummaged again through Ransley's bag where I found an old mp3 player with the head phones wound around it and I decided to see if the battery had any life in it. It did and I was greeted instantly by more music from that German band Ransley had liked so much, some of which seemed hauntingly familiar. I took out my notebook, rested it on the fold out table and took note of these possible new memories.

  What I had so far did not make a lot of sense. It just looked like the idle scribbling of someone who was trying to write down ideas for a story and not getting very far. But these scrawls were my memory, it was all I had. All those around me had whole pasts; childhoods, homes, families, friends, holidays, day trips, their first kiss I had only this short list and even then I had absolutely no idea what any of it meant. I had to find Lilly, she was at the centre of all this, the one that mattered. Not the other, the dark one with his harsh voice, I did not want to see him with all the negative feelings he inspired. I wanted to see her, the beautiful red haired girl who represented to me only light and love, whoever she might be.

  I hoped that when I arrived in Edinburgh it would suddenly all come flooding back to me. I pictured myself stepping off the train and out into the streets and suddenly everything becoming clear. As if by magic I would know who I was. I would have an identity again and perhaps even a home to go back to.

  Of course all of that was nonsense. I knew deep down that recovering my memory was going to be a long and difficult process. Whoever had damaged it in the first place had damaged it severely and it would take a long time to repair the mess they had made of me. In reality I would be stepping out into an alien place where I would have to find shelter. And then what would I do? How would I begin the search for the people I knew, for Lilly? To be honest I did not have a clue. Something else was bothering me too, just a niggling feeling in the back of my head: if this Lilly had been such an important part of my life why had she not seen the appeals and come forward? I did not even want to entertain the thought that she might no longer even be alive...

  I became aware of a fat man in a suite staring at me from across the isle. He quickly looked away when he realised I had noticed . Not long after the train pulled out of the station I felt myself drifting away and soon I was fast asleep.

  I felt myself jump as I woke and I wondered if I had cried out because everyone was looking at me. I had seen her again as I slept and the images had been dark and brutal. In my dream she was being restrained by a dark figure in a cap. Against the wall of the alley she had struggled and cried as she tried to free herself from her attacker. She was wearing red shoes and one of them had come off and was lying abandoned a short distance away. All through the dream it had felt like I was there but all I could do was watch and no matter how hard I tried I could do nothing to help her.

  The train pulled into Edinburgh Waverly half an hour late due to frozen signals. I had slept most of the way and so had not seen much of the journey. I felt anxious as we arrived. I had hoped on putting the home behind me I might feel freedom but instead I had a deep, heavy feeling as I thought of the two people I had left dead. It would only be a matter of time before they caught up with me and I could only hope I would have some answers when they did.

  Luckily there was a tourist information centre just up the stairs from the station and I went inside to enquire about cheap places to stay in the city. The woman at the desk sighed when I asked and told me I had chosen a bad time of the year to visit without a booking. The place was, she informed me, swarming with tourists who had come for the cities hogmanay celebrations and had not yet left. After much searching on her computer she managed to find me a room in the not too pricey Ibis hotel which was just off the Royal Mile and apparently only a 10 minute walk from the station. She gave me a map and I thanked her for her help.

  As I crossed Waverly Bridge and passed into the old town onto Market Street I realised I did not need the map at all. Although I did not really remember the place it became apparent that I was familiar with the winding streets that tangled up the side of the mound and was able to find my way to the hotel in Hunter Square unaided. As I walked I felt a great sense of belonging and I was more positive than I had been since they found me. Until that point I still had doubts but now I knew I had made the right decision in coming here. I only wished Ransley could have joined me.

  I checked myself in and paid for my room using cash from Ransley's bag. The hotel was large and basic but my room was clean and pleasant enough with its own bathroom. It was late morning and I realised that I was hungry and hadn’t eaten since the day before. I decided that before I put together a real plan it would do me good to spend the rest of the day simply taking in the sights and not worrying too much. Pretend I was just a normal person down here for the New Year.

  I showered in the small adjoining bathroom and pulled on some clean clothes; black leather trousers, a black velvet shirt and heavy boots. There was not any snow on the ground here but it was very cold outside and the streets where busy with tourists and most of the shops and café’s were open for business. I stopped for some early lunch in a small place on the Royal Mile and then began my walk.

  The Royal Mile, or High Street, ran on a slope from Holyrood at the foot of the hill all the way up to the castle at the top. When I began I was about half way between the two and I started by heading downhill. The street was lined with ancient sandstone buildings most of which housed Scottish gift shops displaying an array of tartans, whiskies, shortbread and tacky statues of the Loch Ness Monster. The fact we were nowhere near Loch Ness did not seem to concern the tourists who lapped it up. In the window of one of the whisky shops a grey terrier sat, barking at passers by, much to the amusement of the American tourists.

  To the left and right cobbled closes, that seemed impossibly narrow, ran between the buildings and it was easy to picture people in period dress alighting from horse drawn carriages and wandering down them. The place was steeped in history.

  Then something on my right grabbed my attention; A hanging sign jutted out from one of the buildings which read ‘museum of childhood’. I paused, wrestling with my mind, asking it why it had stopped here but I did not know. I felt compelled to go inside but it was, unfortunately, locked up for the holidays. There was, however, something in the window. It was a cutting from a newspaper showing an article about the museum. ‘Mystery of Black Death Children’ the head line read and the photograph showed a man holding up some sort of document and an ageing teddy bear. The caption below said ‘baffled Paul Dean with the nursery records and child’s bear .’ I scanned the article. It was a chilling story about how to stop the spread of the plague this building had been walled up when it was a nursery with the sick children still inside. Then one day a member of staff had opened up the museum for the day to discover the records of all the children who had attended at the time and an old bear lying next to the till. Apparently nobody could explain how they had got there or who had found them. They suspected a visitor from the spirit world. It was as if I already knew the story though. I was certain I had been here before. Pleased, I took out my book and added ‘museum of childhood’ to my list of memories before I continued on my way.

  I made it all the way down to the parliament buildings without anything more coming to me, besides that general sense of familiarity, and I proceeded to walk back up the hill the way I had come. My next point of interest was a small church that sat just over half way up the Mile, St Giles Cathedral. Around the cathedral steps a number of advertising boards painted with grisly images of skeletons and ghosts gave information about the various terror tours that departed from this spot in the evenings. All offered to give willing customers a glimpse into Edinburgh’s bloody past and the underground city but one board in particular intrigued me: The Dead of the City Tours. I picked up a flyer and read the sales pitch.

  Not
for the faint of heart, Edinburgh’s most terrifying walking tour will chill you with the dark history of the old town and is the only tour to have access to the Covenanter’s Prison and the Black Mausoleum, home to the world famous Mckenzie poltergeist. This being the highlight of the tour with many people claiming to have been physically attacked by the poltergeist, countless cases have been recorded of visitors waking the next morning with unexplained scratches all over their bodies. Join us if you dare!

  Please note: the poltergeist can cause genuine physical and mental stress, we do not take responsibility for any injury that may occur.

  Again that twinge of familiarity. Another story I already knew. Edinburgh certainly loved its ghosts almost as much as it loved its tartan and bagpipes. I grinned to myself as I pocketed the flyer. I had already decided I would be joining the tour that night.

  The remainder of the day I spent much the same, just like a tourist I wandered enthralled by the old town’s charms but avoiding the more commercial new town. As evening drew in I went up to the castle high on the hill and watched the winter sun set over the buildings.

  I was sceptical as I waited with a crowd of ten or so others outside of St Giles’ by the big board in the bitter cold that night. I shuffled impatiently from one foot to the other and jammed my raw hands in the pockets of my coat.

  “Now my lovely’s are we all waiting here to meet the Dead of the City?” a woman in a heavy black cloak had appeared out of nowhere and was standing on the cathedral’s steps, “Gather round, gather round.”

  The eager tourists pressed in around the steps while I hung around near the back.

  “Now before we begin let me tell you a little about how this tour will work. We are going to be heading to Grey friar’s Kirk where we hope to meet the Mckenzie poltergeist, but I’ll explain more about that later. On the way I will stop you at various points of interest and reveal some of the cities gruesome secrets. As it is quite a small group tonight, I think we might be in for a good one. If you’d like to all follow me.”

  Cloak billowing she jumped down from the steps and began to stride off around the back of the cathedral. The exited crowd followed. As we wound our way down the shadowy streets our guide told us stories about the city. Everything from murders to grave robbing to witch hangings, it was certainly true that this city was steeped in blood. I listened with mild amusement, it was the Kirk and the alleged poltergeist I was most interested in.

  On Candlemaker Row we finally came across the gates to Grey friars Kirk yard and the guide ushered us all in. On the driveway at the front of the church a few lights glowed and it was not too dark.

  “Now, a few points,” said the guide when everyone had caught up, “Firstly, before we go around to the prison this is where I have to ask for the fee from each of you. Secondly, though it is quite bright here, once we get around the back of the church there will, I’m afraid, be no lights and it can get very, very dark so just to be careful and stay together. Now if you’ll form a queue.”

  Once everyone had handed over their £5 we were taken around the back of the church into the cemetery itself. It was eerie in the still silence of the winter’s night. Tombstones loomed blackly out of the uneven ground and gnarled trees twisted their scrawny old branches up into the velvet sky. My heart was beating fast. I knew this place. Out of everywhere I had been this place felt closest to me. I could almost see myself sitting on one of the graves on a night just like this.

  We had reached the back of the cemetery now and the group had stopped once again. It was hard to see but there was a wall ahead of us and a locked iron gate was fastened to the stone.

  “This is where I am required to give you some serious warnings,” the guide told us, “I don’t know if the Mackenzie poltergeist is real or not but I do know that there is some incredibly strong energies at work beyond this gate. I have been doing these tours for about six months and I have experienced things I can’t explain. People do become genuinely distressed once they’re inside, some even suffer physical injury, we have a lot of people faint too. Others on the other hand, feel nothing at all, it all depends on the individual. Either way I have to ask are any of you known to have extra sensory perception?”

  There was a chorus of mumbled ‘no’s’ and shaking of heads.

  “Ok, well its possible some of you do but you just don’t know yet. If you do you will know as soon as you walk through the gate, believe me, it will hit you like a fist, if this happens you will draw the poltergeist out and you might be better leaving the prison for your own safety. Also, if anyone feels uncomfortable in anyway and wants to leave, just let me know and I’ll open the gate for you. Well, here we go.”

  The old lock rattled and clanked and the hinges squealed as the gate opened. The small group began to move forward, some reluctantly, into the small space beyond. I stepped across the threshold and immediately felt as if I had been punched and all the air knocked out of me. I gasped and righted myself. I was feeling most peculiar. I was determined not to leave though. The guide was now shooing us through a second arched doorway that led into a roofed building that housed a family of graves. The space inside was tiny and claustrophobic with all those bodies and when the guide switched of her torch for dramatic effect it was pitch black. She proceeded to then to tell us all the story of George Mckenzie and the covenanters and of the ghosts of the cemetery.

  Somebody at the back let out a stifled little shriek and the guide paused.

  “Is everybody ok?”

  “I just felt something brush my face, but there’s no one there.” a woman’s voice followed by a nervy laugh.

  “Mmm hmm, that’s quite common. Anyone else feeling anything?”

  “There’s a scratching, coming from the corner.” a man’s voice announced.

  “Again, quite a common occurrence in here.”

  Everyone was silent, straining to hear. There was indeed a low scuffling noise like an animal clawing the stone. I was feeling very bad now, the already cold air seemed to have dropped a good few degrees and my breath came in small white puffs. I was barely aware when the guide continued with the stories because I was feeling physically sick. I struggled not to throw up. Another scream from my right.

  “Something just scratched my leg!”

  “Me too.”

  “Shit! Someone pushed me!”

  I felt the crowd move violently as individuals were pushed and collided with one another. There was a real sense of panic about the place now, people were yelling that they were being assaulted by an unseen force. I stood frozen, cold sweat on my brow, trance like in the middle of the commotion. The guide had put the torch on and was urging everyone to move outside quickly, we had disturbed the energies but we would be fine if we left now. I could not move. I was terrified. Something was clawing at the back of my leg. Then it was at my throat, scratching and pulling. It seemed I was surrounded by hands but most of the party had left the tomb and nobody was near me. The last thing I remember before I collapsed was a whispery breath at my ear and a voice that breathed ‘dark one’ over and over again.

  I could only have been out a matter of minutes and when I came round it was to the bright torch shinning in my face and the concerned guide staring at me.

  “Come on, you need to get out.” she urged, as if I needed telling.

  I was on my feet in seconds and hurrying for the gate where the remainder of the group were huddled in the cemetery. Some of them still looked slightly shaken, others awe struck while a few grinned and clearly thought that I was a plant brought along to give them a scare.

  “My goodness!” exclaimed the guide, “That was interesting. I haven’t had a faint on my tour for a good while. Are you alright?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I think you set it off, you must have ESP after all!” she said this like it was a good thing, “Now, you’ve all had what you came for tonight, a good scare. Our final stop, you’ll be glad to know, will be at a pub. Scotland’s most haunted pub of cour
se, where you can settle your nerves with a drink.”

  As she led us back through the cemetery the group chattered excitedly about their experiences, the stories getting more and more exaggerated. As for me, I was quiet and still shaking. What had that been anyway? Another reminder of just how damaged my mind was? Maybe I was taking things too fast. What was I thinking putting myself through something like this on top of everything else?

  We came to a small road called Niddry street a block away from my hotel and were shown into a fascinating bar built into the supposedly haunted vaults called Nicol Edwards. It was divided into three separate bars the first of which was the Witches Bar. Down some stairs was Mary Queen of Scots Tavern and through the back was the damp vaults. At the bar I ordered Jack Daniels over ice and took a seat in a quiet corner of Mary Queen of Scot’s tavern. I sat contemplating the frights I had suffered that evening and added some more points to my list:

  Grey friars Kirk yard

  ESP

  More unsolvable clues in the giant riddle that was my life. As I drank the guide approached me and asked if I had any injuries from my ‘assault’ as some of the others already had visible scratches. I loosened the collar of my jacket and she put her hand up to her mouth to silence a gasp.