Tormentor (6 page)

And so it went for a while—almost like a game of cat and mouse, although I wasn’t yet sure which I was meant to be. Summer came to an end and the autumn brought with it a changeover to biting winds and heavy rain. My morning coffee got moved indoors to the dining table where I’d mostly sit and watch the rain lash against the windows or the fog creeping up the loch. Most days the stoat peeked out of the woodpile and scurried away again, as if he too had to change his ritual with the changing season. The sparrows, only four now, seemed to admonish me, finding the ball of fat and seeds I hung up outside poor fare in comparison to the digestive biscuits I’d been feeding them in the sunshine. The loch was mostly too choppy for me to see any seals but I imagined them out on the water, watching the house, wondering where I’d gone.

The others who would be wondering where I’d got to would be the folks at the Dunvegan Arms—September was too wet and windy for me to even consider a walk along the loch to the village bar. I could of course have phoned for a cab, but in truth I felt cozy and settled where I was. There was also a nagging feeling that if I left for too long, something else—whatever was leaving me the messages—might decide to take full residence, although that was a thought I would not fully admit to myself.

My relative wellbeing was completely shattered on a Saturday in early October.

* * *

I woke, lying on my back, staring at the ceiling that had gained a six-inch streak of soot overnight, just off center about two feet from the light socket. I had to stand on the bed to reach it, and it was only when I was up close to the surface that I saw, under the old lining paper that had been painted over, the faint outline denoting there was a hatchway underneath.

Neither Alan, nor any of the particulars I’d had for the house, had mentioned an attic, and I knew just from the dimensions and slope of the roof that any space up there was going to be small and cramped. But now I knew about it, I had to look.

It took half an hour of cursing to tear the paper off the ceiling—and was going to take twice as long to clear up the mess I made in doing so—but finally I had the hatchway cleared. It took almost all of my strength to force it open, and when I did, I got a blast of dust in my face that almost choked me. I spluttered and spat, and reached up into the open space. I was able to pull myself up easily enough and sat on the edge of the hatch, legs dangling down into the room below. A small skylight I hadn’t even noticed from the outside let in enough light to see by.

The space was, as I had expected, cramped—my head brushed the main beam running the length of the house, and there was hardly enough room to crawl, even if I had wanted to.

It was also empty—or almost so. The only thing in view apart from undisturbed sawdust and motes dancing in the light from the window was a yellowed notebook. A dust-free hollow between it and the hatch made me think it had been hidden here to keep it away from prying eyes, pushed inside by someone standing on a bed below.

I took the notebook back down with me when I went. I closed the hatch and, leaving the mess for later, showered, shaved and made some coffee. I only got round to looking at the book when I was once more sitting in the dining room. It looked to be a fine clear morning on the loch, but I was more interested in what I had found than the view.

It was a lined workbook, the kind I remember from my own schooldays. The cover was yellowed and faded but the lion rampant on the front was still clearly visible despite a growth of slime or mold on the surface. Above the lion was written—in a heavy, childish hand and gone over two or three times for impact—
Annie’s Diary, August 1955.

When I opened it, the writing was clearly legible, and the first sentence ensured I was gripped from the start.

* * *

Monday 3rd
—Something got into the barn and spooked the cows last night. I woke up in the dark and heard them, bellowing as if they were being slaughtered. Dad said it must have been a fox—there’s nothing else round here that would set them off like that. Whatever it was, it ruined the milk too, which was thin and gray and looked like it had soot in it. Dad was not a bit pleased—he was told when we took this place that the grass around here was perfect for milkers. We’ve hardly had a decent gallon since we got here.

Not like back at the old farm—we had foxes there too, and squirrels and all sorts of beasties in and out of the barn day and night—but we never had any problem with the milk. I wish we were back there now.

I miss Kinross—the school in Dunvegan is going to be nice enough, but it’s a month yet before I start, and all my friends are far away. It seems like a long time since I had anyone to talk to. Mum says I’ll get used to it, but there’s something not right here. Maybe it’s because I’m alone most of the time, but I was alone a lot back at the farm, so that’s not it. Old Mr. Thomas who has the small cottage on the shore says I’m away with the fey folk, but I’m too old now to believe that nonsense.

Maybe keeping this diary will help me with the boredom. In any case, I’ve decided it will at least make the long nights pass faster—at least until next year when I can get out of here to the big school in Oban. I aim to write something every day, although I can’t say as there will ever be much to write about.

Tuesday 4th
— Bored. It’s raining outside, and it’s too cold. I thought August was supposed to be summertime? Well it’s not around here. Dad’s been muttering about the milk being bad again, and Mum’s too busy cleaning the house to talk to me. Bored.

Wednesday 5th
— Got told off by Mum for trailing dirt into the house. It wasn’t me! She showed me the mark, just by the kitchen door—long, black and streaky. I told her it looked like something old man Thomas would do, for I’ve seen him drawing his matchstick men on the walls down in the crofter’s cottage, but Mum was having none of it. She told me I should be ashamed of myself for trying to blame a poor old man. I’ve been sent to bed early. It’s just not fair.

Thursday 6th
— There’s been more dirty marks in the house—lots of them. Mum’s really angry, and Dad and I don’t know what we can do. We’ve told her over and over again that it’s not us that’s doing it, but she just keeps shouting. She’s been crying too, although she got angry again when Dad mentioned it. He’s gone out to the barn for a bit to see to the cows and things are quiet—for now.

It didn’t help that old man Thomas laughed like a madman when I told him about the soot. He says the fey folk have found their way into the house, and that’s the end of it—we’ll never be rid of them now.

Friday 7th
— Mum and Dad are having a huge argument—I can hear them through the walls. Mum got all weepy today and told Dad she wanted to go back to Kinross. Dad says that’s impossible, even if we wanted to, as there’s no money to pay for a move. Mum said she’ll take me and go and stay with Gran in Cupar, and Dad started shouting, and now they’re both at it.

I think it’s got to do with the soot marks—they’re driving Mum mad. I’m sure old man Thomas is doing it, so I’m going to sit up tonight and watch at the window. I’ll catch him, and Mum and Dad will stop shouting at each other, and everything will go back to normal.

Saturday 8th
— I fell asleep. I tried to stay up, but I just got too tired. More soot marks this morning. Mum and Dad aren’t talking, and old man Thomas just laughs. I went out to the cows to get away for a bit, but the milk is spoiled again and when I told Dad he had a face like thunder. He went down to Mr. Thomas’ cottage and I heard him shouting and cursing at the old man to stop playing silly beggars. I hope that’s the end of it.

Sunday 9th
— Disaster. We all went to church this morning—old man Thomas stayed behind as usual. We saw the smoke from all the way down in Dunvegan, and although Dad got the Post Office man to get the van out and get us back here right quick, we were too late to save the barn. The poor cows—all burned away.

Monday 10th
— Dad called the bobbies to talk to the old man—he’s sure it was him that lit the fire in the barn—but they went away again and Mr. Thomas is still out there laughing and cackling. I walked down to the shore earlier and looked in his door—he’s got the wall covered now with his wee stick men, all black and thin and nasty looking. I don’t like them. I don’t like them one bit.

Tuesday 11th
— We’re going home! Well, to Gran’s anyway. I’ll leave this diary here in case we come back, but with the old man killing himself like that just next door, I can’t see Mum wanting to have anything to do with the place ever again. Hurrah!

8

That was it—the rest of the notebook was just slightly damp, empty pages. There was no clue as to what had finally driven them away—but I guessed it was the old man dying in the cottage on the shore. And I had a pretty good idea of how he’d gone—I could almost see the flames in my mind. My decision to raze the old ruin to the ground was feeling more right by the minute.

The girl’s diary left more questions than answers—of course it did—but in my mind it was all tied to the old cottage, and I’d already got rid of that. So what if I kept getting soot marks? That’s all they were—marks, and they weren’t doing me any harm.

I had a sentimental moment while cleaning up the mess in my room, and put the notebook back where I had found it—it was obvious the girl wasn’t going to come back for it, but somehow it just felt right.

It took most of the morning to clear up the flaked paint, tattered paper and dust I’d dislodged in my attempt to get to the attic. There was a bare patch on the ceiling now that I was going to have to look at until I got into Portree to buy some paint and brushes, but that couldn’t be helped.

I went through and opened the patio doors wide despite the chill outside, and stood there for a while, letting my mind drift, letting the quiet fill me up and drive out any thoughts of burning barns and matchstick men.

That afternoon I put my landscape painting away—the light wasn’t going to be right again for it until next summer anyway. I started on something new, an abstract that was a style completely new for me but one I could see clear as day in my mind’s eye. It was going to work well—if I could only transfer it onto paper. I was so lost in it I jumped several inches when my phone rang. As it happens, I was working on a dark area, and I left a thin black streak, six inches long, on the canvas.

The call was a wrong number, but when I went back to the painting, my enthusiasm for the task had drained away so I left it where I’d stopped, black streak and all.

I looked out the window to see clear blue sky. It being Saturday, I decided it was well past time I had a few beers down in Dunvegan. I put on a heavy jacket and my walking boots, put the flashlight in the deep inside pocket, and headed down the shore.

* * *

Tourist season was long finished. Dunvegan Castle sat, squat, solid and quiet on its rocky promontory with only the mildest of lapping waves and the squawk of gulls high above to disturb it. The girl’s diary and its talk of the fey folk reminded me of the castle’s most famous exhibit—the Am Bratach Sìth, the fairy flag of the MacLeods. I knew there were many legends associated with the ancestral heirloom, and wondered if any of them were linked to my house. After all, it was the nearest dwelling to the northeast of the old castle.

As I got settled in the Dunvegan Arms twenty minutes later, I started my attempt to steer the conversation towards the subject, knowing it might take all night—indeed we might never get round to it.

The locals were in talkative moods—old George in particular. George was probably the oldest man in town—certainly the oldest still active enough to get out to the bar for an evening.

“I was glad to see you got rid of the cottage,” were his opening words to me as I joined him and his cronies at their corner table.

“At least I’ve improved the view,” I replied, a noncommittal gambit to start with.

“Improved more than that, I’d bet,” Sandy Johnston added. Sandy was George’s straight man, and together they made a double act that kept the bar entertained for hours at a time.

Over the evening I learned many things. Farmer Donnie Fraser lost his whole potato crop that year to a blight; the back road was shut again due to “bloody council incompetence,” it had been a good year for tourism in the town—and still nobody was going to tell me anything about my house or its history. It seems my inclusion into their ranks only went so far. The company was good though, and I thoroughly enjoyed all their stories and banter. I had a most pleasant evening, and even considered staying past my normal leaving time, but as soon as the band started up at nine—a sixties tribute band, badly out of tune and with voices like strangled cats—I made my excuses and went out into the night.

Fog had rolled in—candy floss thick and wet against my cheeks, with visibility ten yards and less. I wasn’t too worried—I knew the track well, and I had my flashlight.