The Ghosts and Hauntings Collection

by Cat Knight

  “I’ll settle for anything, truth or rumour,” Catherine said.

  Beatrice stirred milk into her tea and smiled, a tight-lipped smile. “I guess Highcliff’s story begins with the Laird Spruce. He didn’t build the keep, but he was its most famous occupant.”

  “What made him famous?”

  “The killing, what else?”

  “Killing?”

  “Well, not always killing. Sometimes, he simply mutilated. He was a bit of a sadist, which was easy, considering the dungeons.”

  “Dungeons? I haven’t found any dungeons.”

  “Have you toured the tower? I was under the impression it was off limits to everyone.”

  “Well, I haven’t explored the tower yet, but I intend to.”

  “That’s a tour I would be willing to take with you. I love the history of the place.”

  “Yes, but what about the Laird Spruce?”

  “Oh, back to him. Well, in a nutshell, here is the lore.” Beatrice pushed up her glasses. “One day the Laird Spruce was riding through the village. Since his visit was unannounced, Mallory Breac wasn’t hidden away in her house, something that always happened if the family knew Spruce was coming. Spruce took one look at Mallory, a blonde beauty, and swore he would have her. In those days, a Laird had immense power. True to his word, Laird Spruce took Mallory and put her in Highcliff. He wasn’t going to bother with marriage or anything like that. He lusted for her and took her. Mallory was betrothed to Ian MacDougal, a fine young man by all accounts. Ian wasn’t about to accept what the Laird had done, so he raced up the hill where Spruce captured him and placed him the dungeon, a very bad place if history is to be believed. Spruce thought having a captive would make Mallory more amenable. He was wrong. Mallory managed to escape the keep, but she knew she couldn’t get far, so lore has it that she jumped off the cliff to her death.”

  Catherine wanted to reveal that she had seen Mallory make her fatal leap, but that would make Catherine sound like a whacko. Instead, she forced a smile. “That wasn’t the end, was it?”

  “Indeed not. When Ian heard of Mallory’s death, he swore he would make the Laird pay. He laid a curse on Spruce. Ian swore he would not pass on until every person in the Laird’s family was dead. Ian would see to it either in this life or the next. They would all die.”

  “And did they?”

  “Well, the lore isn’t exact. Spruce did die. His body was found at the bottom of the cliff. His eyes were missing and presumed gouged out.”

  “And the rest of the family?”

  “It is impossible to trace every member of the clan, but there were a number who died in or around the Hall. And no one knows if it was the ghost of MacDougal or someone trying to use the curse for his own purposes, but most of the dead were found without eyes.”

  Catherine shivered. She sipped tea and wondered if talking to Beatrice was such a good idea after all. “What happened to MacDougal?” she asked.

  “No one knows for sure. He never left the dungeon as far as history knows. Of course, he died, but his remains were never buried. His family stopped asking for them after a while.” Catherine thought about the padlock, and she was certain of one thing. She needed more than ever to get into the tower.

  If there was any substance to this this It would seem that the real problem was there, in a dungeon. But another thought nagged at her.

  “Beatrice, would you mind if I probed a little bit more... about the history of Highcliff? Wanetta and Brainerd, seemed to have lived in the Hall a very long time, in between heirs. They have a garden growing – a nice little setup. Why do you think they move away when the heir is in residence? I didn’t ask them

  to leave... and … well, they moved.” Catherine shrugged, “I just wondered.” Beatrice took a knowing look.

  “Well. it’s the superstition of course. Its old MacDougal they don’t want to get caught up in the mix.” She giggled nervously, as though it was a totally ridiculous idea. Catherine felt in her pocket for the sprig she carried with her from the garden.

  “Is there a herbologist here?”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  “Yes, I know what that is. The thin wiry man brushed a shock of hair from his eyes. Its valerian. A useful herb. It calms people down, so folklore says and it’s scientifically known for it now. Used in natural medicine all the time.”

  “Is that all? Is there anything else?”

  “Well, through the ages it’s been known for that, and a host of other things. It’s quite common around these parts. You’ll often find it growing around old castles and other places where ghosts and phantoms might lurk.” He chuckled and wiggled one eyebrow. “It’s said to ward off demons.”

  “I found some hung under the windows of my house,” Catherine stated in a matter of fact tone, “I live up at Highcliff.” Now Bertrand eyebrows met his hairline.

  “Oh… yes. I heard some-one new was moving in. Not much is kept secret around here. Well, that’d be old Wanetta then. She’s a bit like our local healer-slash-soothe sayer. Her family has been here for-ever doing the same thing. Even the compounding pharmacist from three towns away buys herbs from her. There’s nothing she doesn’t know about them.” Catherine took a deep breath and asked

  “Can this cause hallucinations?”

  “Valerian?” Bertrand frowned. “Not usually. In highly concentrated doses it can, some are more susceptible than others….” His voice had a note of question to it. “What’s going up there?”

  “Oh Nothing.” Catherine fumed. “I… just had a strange dream. Its hanging outside my bedroom window you know, I wonder if I breathed it in?”

  “Oh well, that wouldn’t do it, besides it’s usually given in a tea. But it would have to be extremely….”

  “Hmmm.” Catherine cut him off nodding her head.

  Chapter Ten

  By the time Catherine reached Highcliff, another squall had begun. Catherine stood in the rain, rubbing at her eyes staring at the door. Her stomach was churning and anger burned hot. After a moment of deep breathing and few actual thoughts she pulled the door open.

  Standing and dripping in the entry, Catherine accepted a towel from Wanetta who didn’t say a word.

  “Thank you,” Catherine said pulling the plant from her pocket.

  “What is this Wanetta?”

  “It’s a plant miss.”

  “I fucking know it’s a plant. It’s Valerian. You’ve been feeding it to me every chance you get.” Wanetta’s face, for the first time, lots its stony appearance. “It’s to help you rest ma’am.”

  “It’s hanging all around the windows. Bunches of it. Even outside my bedroom. How much does it take to give some mad hallucinations?”

  Wanetta’s face became indignant. “The tea is for the nerves. We all drink it. And the hanging of it keeps the devil away.” Her expression was shocked, her face open.

  Catherine almost believed her. A frightened expression worried Wanetta’s eyes

  “He’s on the loose again miss.”

  “What? Who?”

  “MacDougal. You’re the heir. He’s on the loose because you’re here. If you don’t leave you’re going to die miss. He’ll pluck your eyes out.”

  Catherine sucked in air between her teeth. “Where is the key to the tower? What have you got hidden up there you don’t want me to see?”

  “Nothing miss. There’s nothing up there and there’s no key.” Wanetta answered.

  Catherine’s thoughts were spinning she was finding it more difficult than ever to think straight. What the hell was going on?

  “We’re going to find every key in this place and try them one by one. We’re going to open that lock. I’m putting an end to this nonsense.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Catherine took the towel to her bedroom and changed clothes. As soon as she was dry and warm again, she started opening drawers and checking shelves. She wanted keys, and she was going to find them.

  For two hours, Catherine scoured every room of Hi
ghcliff Hall, and she found any number of keys which she brought to the entry. There, she found Wanetta with a box of keys.

  “All of them?” Catherine asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Let’s begin.”

  It was simple to separate possible keys from impossible keys. One key intrigued Catherine as it was larger and older than the others. But it was far too big for the padlock, and it was laid aside. Then, one by one, Catherine tried the keys on the padlock.

  In minutes, she discovered that none of the keys fit. The lock wouldn’t open. She rattled it, but she knew it would do no good. She couldn’t open the door.

  “That’s it?”

  Wanetta nodded.

  “Thank you,” Catherine said. “I wanted to be sure.” If the old woman had it, she wasn’t giving it to her.

  Defeated, Catherine walked to the parlour and sat down in front of the computer that she had neglected, the story she so wanted to tell. She tapped several keys and her email popped up. Among the messages was one from Holland. Did she want to go to dinner?

  She did, but she should stay in tonight and keep an eye on things. Catherine rubbed her temples, not knowing what was what anymore, or what to think.

  With Wanetta’s knowledge of herbs, it was obvious Wanetta could have killed her by now, if she’d wanted to. And even though she didn’t completely trust Wanetta with the food, what if the old woman was telling the truth, and the herb was just for calming.

  Getting rid of her and Brainerd would be premature and she’d be no better off, maybe worse, totally alone with the ghosts. She was more than a little afraid of what would happen when dark arrived. But if it was Wanetta or Brainerd she’d be ready for them.

  Moving to her bedroom she checked the wardrobe, the bathroom and the window. Sitting down on her bed, an overwhelming loneliness filled her. She would be anywhere, anywhere else but here. There’d always been a friend or two before. She breathed in deeply, just in time for a terrible stench to fill her nostrils.

  Catherine clamped her hands over her nose and stood from the bed. There were no vents in this old place, she had found no holes for piping anything in… how could this be. Gagging, she ran from the room, back to the parlour. She wrote a quick ‘meet you at the pub’ email and ran from the room.

  Brainerd met Catherine at the door as she threw her jacket on. “Leavin’?” Brainerd asked.

  “Going out to the village,” she replied.

  “Bike?”

  She shook her head. “I think Holland will bring me home. So, I’ll walk down. You said there’s a path down the cliff.”

  “Aye, but it’s not safe.” Catherine shot him a weather eye.

  “Have you walked it?” He nodded.

  “Then, so can I. Show me where the path starts.” She pushed past him.

  Catherine followed Brainerd across the grass to a spot off to one side. There, they found a narrow path that slipped below the cliff edge. While steep, it cut across the cliff face, and to Catherine, it didn’t seem all that difficult. She had walked mountain paths that were more intimidating.

  “I wish ye would think again,” Brainerd said.

  “Tell Wanetta, I’m eating in the village,” Catherine answered. She stepped onto the rocky dirt path and started down. The first third of the hike was ordinary. Catherine navigated past the bigger rocks and avoided spots that looked slippery. The sinking sun provided plenty of light, and she was certain she had enough daylight to finish.

  As the trail made a hairpin turn and started back across the cliff, she looked out over the village to the ocean thinking that her feet were stepping over the very same stones the Laird walked long ago. She watched shore birds soaring over Kilmaran and wondered if their ancestors had witnessed the carnage of her ancestor. Turning away from the view she concentrated on the path as the rain came in hard.

  Chapter Eleven

  The squall transformed the trail into a slippery thrill ride. Her shoes failed to grip the wet rocks, and the packed earth became as slick as ice. She found herself using her hands and arms to hug the rocks, to keep from sliding down the trail and off the path. Her fingers searched for crevices and holds as she moved, and while she found a few, she didn’t find enough. The speed of her descent terrified her.

  Her feet skipped over rocks and slid around. She dug them in now and again in a doomed effort to slow down. Glancing to the side she discovered she was closer to the edge than she knew. The path had turned outward toward the sea and narrowed precariously. The rain stung her face, she willed herself to keep her eyes open, she could not, for a moment, look away.

  Nausea swirled in her stomach, the fear of slipping and falling over the edge causing her usual level-headed nature to give way to moments of panic. Slowly she went, inching forward. Soon the path would turn away from the edge; there would be a turn up ahead. Please let there be a turn soon.

  She kept moving, fingers seeking. And then she found something, a crevice, a grip. She held on and swung into the rock, managing to sink the fingers of her other hand into the crevice. With both hands, she held on as the wind slashed her.

  A long loud screech rang through the air close by. Squinting her eyes and peering through the sheeting rain, a form came hurtling through. In an instant she saw it, flapping wildly.

  A large gull was headed for her face, its legs were out-stretched as if to grab for a landing area. Letting go of the crevice to duck, she covered her head just before it hurtled into her. Instinctively she pressed her back into the rock-face and flailed out with her arms.

  The bird swerved hitting the outcrop and falling silent. It lay panting, dazed but uninjured. Its long sharp talons splayed out. For a moment, she couldn’t take her eyes off them and Wanetta’s warning entered into her mind. Catherine began to feel dizzy. She HAD to get off this cliff face.

  Leaving the gull alone, before it woke up any more, she slid down the path half on her butt half on her feet. And made her way quickly down the trail hanging on where she could. The squall had disoriented the bird. That must’ve been it. She didn’t want to think anything else.

  She walked into the pub, water dripping from her hair. Holland rushed over with a towel, semi horror showing on his face at the state of her covered in mud.

  “What happened to you? You slid down from Highcliff?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I took the cliff path.”

  “You what? In the rain? That’s insane.”

  “Now you tell me!”

  He laughed and led her to a booth. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  “Buy me a pint.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  As she dried her hair, and rubbed at her jeans she saw Brainerd enter—at least she thought it was Brainerd. It WAS Brainerd without the eye patch.

  What the HELL? The old bastard doesn’t need the patch? Not understanding, she rose and walked to the bar containing her irritation.

  “Brainerd - nice to see you.” She leaned over to face him and peered directly into the old brown eyes.

  “Aye and good to see ye made it down.”

  “It wasn’t easy. The gulls were out tonight in the squall. Left one dazed on the trail. Brainerd turned, his face paled, his eye flicked wide, just for a moment. Turning away he peered in to his lager.

  “I thought you wore an eye patch.”

  “Aye, I do when I’m working.”

  “Why?”

  His face turned red, and he looked off into space.

  “Because he’s scared of the ghost,” a man at the bar said. “Tell her, Brainerd, tell her about the ghost that plucks out eyes.”

  “Mind your own business,” Brainerd said. “What I do, I do.”

  The man laughed. “Brainerd thinks that if the ghost sees him with a patch, the ghost will think he’s already taken one eye.”

  “Hush! Your mind has gone soft.”

  Catherine grabbed Brainerd’s arm. “Is that true? You’re scared the ghost will take your eyes?”
<
br />   “I found her,” Brainerd answered. “Me, I found her, and it was the worst thing I ever saw.”

  “Who? Found who?”

  “Your grand aunt. I found her on the rocks. And her eyes had been plucked right out.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “She went over like the rest of ‘em, blind because that…thing had taken her eyes.” Catherine stepped back. She hadn’t asked, but she thought her grand aunt passed away naturally, in her sleep maybe. But over the cliff? Catherine backed away and almost ran to the booth where Holland waited. She slid onto the seat and grabbed her glass.

  “What is it?” Holland asked as she sat.

  “What do you know about the death of my grand aunt?”

  “Only what was in the paper. A thick fog disoriented her, and she fell off the cliff. Her body was found when the fog lifted.”

  “And her eyes?” Catherine asked. “What about her eyes?”

  “They were gone, but that’s expected. Birds, crabs, they go for the eyes first.” Catherine shivered and gulped beer.

  “I thought you knew about her death,” Holland said.

  “I did, and I didn’t. But I know what I have to do. Buy me another pint.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded. “What must be done, must be done.”

  Chapter Twelve

  But it wasn’t done quickly. The second pint led to a third, and by the time Catherine returned home, she was in no condition to do what needed to be done. Instead, she locked herself in her bedroom, left the lights on, and slept with her poker. If the spirits made a noise, she didn’t hear it. The next morning, she paid for her indulgence. She felt the worse for the ale.

  She found Wanetta and Brainerd sipping tea in the kitchen.

  “Where do you keep your tools?” Catherine asked.

  “Tools? Why ya askin?” Brainerd answered, his eye patch firmly in place.

  “If I have to go to the village, I will. Now, where are they?”