Laura pushed through the heavy door of The Black Hound and stepped back into the cold Edinburgh night. The air bit at her cheeks, sharp and unforgiving, but it was a relief after the suffocating tension inside. She stood there for a moment, clutching the water bottle, the old man's words echoing in her mind.
"Everything, lass. Everything's wrong with that place."
She shook her head, trying to shrug off the unease crawling up her spine. Just superstition. Old stories to scare tourists. But the way he'd looked at her—like she was already dead—stuck with her.
She crossed the narrow street, her footsteps echoing off the cobblestones, and reached the car. Through the window, she could see John slumped in the backseat, head tilted back, mouth slightly open, glasses askew. Fast asleep. Taya sat in the passenger seat, scrolling through her phone, bathed in the cold blue glow of the screen.
Laura opened the driver's door and slid in, the car rocking slightly.
Taya glanced up, eyebrows raised. "Well? Get the directions?"
Laura tossed the water bottle into Taya's lap and buckled her seatbelt. "Yeah. Weird people, though."
"Weird how?" Taya asked, twisting the cap off and taking a sip.
Laura hesitated, hands gripping the wheel. "Just... gave me this look when I mentioned Haceol. Like I'd just walked into a funeral and asked where the party was."
Taya snorted. "Maybe they're just dramatic. It's Scotland—everyone's got a ghost story."
Laura forced a smile, but her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of The Black Hound behind them. The windows were dark now, the figures inside hidden. She started the engine.
Taya glanced back at John, grinning. "Look at him. Out like a light. All that puking really took it out of him."
Laura chuckled softly, the tension easing just a bit. "Poor guy. He's gonna wake up with a crick in his neck."
"Should we draw on his face?" Taya suggested, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Tempting. But let's save that for later," Laura said, pulling away from the curb.
The map on her phone glowed softly, the route highlighted in blue. 1.5 hours to Kirkby. She exhaled, settling into her seat, and merged onto the narrow, winding road leading out of the city center.
The streets grew quieter as they left the heart of Edinburgh behind. The towering gothic buildings gave way to rows of smaller stone houses, their windows glowing warm against the encroaching darkness. Streetlamps flickered to life, casting pools of amber light that barely held back the night.
Taya leaned her head against the window, her breath fogging the glass. "You okay to drive? I can take over if you want."
"I'm good," Laura said, though her voice was softer now, tired. "You should sleep"
Taya hesitated, glancing at her. "You sure?"
"Yeah. Get some rest."
Taya smiled faintly, pulling her jacket tighter around herself. "Wake me if you need me, okay?"
"Promise."
Within minutes, Taya's breathing slowed, her head lolling to the side. Laura was alone now, save for the soft hum of the engine and the rhythmic thump of tires on pavement.
The road stretched ahead, swallowed by the dark. The city lights faded behind them, replaced by the silhouettes of tall pines lining the road, their branches swaying in the wind like skeletal fingers. The buildings they passed were fewer now—stone cottages with chimneys trailing
smoke, their windows glowing orange, warm and distant.
The sky above was a deep, inky black, stars peeking through the clouds in scattered clusters. The car's headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating only a narrow stretch of road, the rest of the world hidden in shadow.
Laura's hands tightened on the wheel. The silence pressed in, heavy and thick, broken only by the low roar of the engine. Her eyes felt gritty, her body aching from the long drive. She yawned, blinking hard to keep her focus.
The trees grew denser, their trunks crowding the roadside, branches arching overhead like a tunnel. The air felt colder here, even inside the car. She turned the heater up, but it didn't help.
Her mind drifted—back to the old man's face, to the crumpled page with Elenor's name, to the myths of Haceol. The Whisper's Maw. Shadows that fed on souls. She shivered, shaking her head. Focus, Laura. Just get to Kirkby. One thing at a time.
The road curved, dipping slightly, and the trees thinned. In the distance, she could see the faint outline of a lake, its surface shimmering under the moonlight, dark and still as glass.
An hour and a half crawled by. Laura's eyelids drooped, her head nodding forward before she jolted herself awake. She rubbed her face, muttering, 'Come on, stay awake.'
Then, up ahead, she saw it—a weathered wooden sign, barely visible in the gloom:
OLD MARKET SQUARE
Her heart leapt. "Yes!" she whispered, sitting up straighter. The old man's directions were spot-on. She followed the road as it curved left, the landscape opening up slightly. More signs appeared—arrows pointing toward narrow side streets, names she didn't recognize.
And then, finally:
KIRKBY
Laura grinned, relief flooding through her. "We made it."
She reached over and shook Taya's shoulder. "Hey, wake up. We're almost there."
Taya stirred, blinking groggily. "Wha—already?"
"Not quite, but close. Wake John up."
Taya turned, poking John in the ribs. "Oi, sleepyhead. Rise and shine."
John groaned, his glasses sliding down his nose. "Are we dead yet?"
"Not yet," Taya said with a grin. "But we're in Kirkby."
John sat up, rubbing his eyes, and peered out the window. "It's so dark."
"Welcome to Scotland," Laura said.
Taya took laura's phone squinting at the screen. "Okay, so according to the booking details, the lady said once we get to Kirkby, we take the main road down toward the lakeshore, then turn left at the old clock tower. The place should be on the right."
"Got it," Laura said, following the narrow road as it sloped downward.
The landscape shifted. On their left, the lake stretched out—dark, vast, its surface rippling gently, reflecting the scattered streetlights like broken stars. On their right, a row of small shops lined the street, their shutters pulled down, windows dark. Everything was closed, silent, abandoned for the night.
The car descended further, the road hugging the edge of the lake. The air felt heavier here, damp and cold, clinging to the windows.
"There," Taya said, pointing. "The clock tower."
A tall stone structure loomed ahead, its clock face dark and unmoving, hands frozen at some forgotten hour. Laura turned left, the car rumbling over uneven cobblestones.
And then, finally, she saw it—a small wooden sign hanging from a wrought-iron post, swaying slightly in the wind:
THE KIRKBY INN
Laura exhaled, her shoulders sagging with relief. "Finally."
She pulled the car to a stop in front of a modest stone building, two stories tall, its windows glowing faintly with warm light. Ivy crawled up one side, and a narrow wooden door sat beneath a small awning. It looked old, worn, but welcoming—like it had been standing there for centuries, quietly waiting.
"We made it," Taya said, a tired smile on her face.
John leaned forward, peering at the inn. "This is it? Looks... cozy."
"It looks haunted," Taya corrected, but she was grinning.
Laura killed the engine the sudden silence almost deafening. She glanced at the inn, then at her friends. "Alright. Let's get inside before I pass out."
They climbed out of the car, the cold air hitting them like a slap. The sound of the lake lapping against the shore drifted through the night, soft and rhythmic, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.
Laura grabbed her bag from the boot, slinging it over her shoulder. John reached for the heavy camera equipment, but she stopped him with a hand.
"Leave it. We'll grab it tomorrow."
"You sure?" John asked, yawning.
"Yeah. Let's just get inside before I collapse."
They trudged toward the inn, their footsteps crunching on the gravel path. The walkway leading to the front door was unexpectedly charming—lined on either side with terracotta pots overflowing with late-blooming flowers. Lavender, roses, and wildflowers spilled over the edges, their colors muted in the dim light but their scent sharp and sweet in the cold air.
John muttered under his breath, "This is nice, actually. Maybe it won't be so bad—"
"Shh!" Laura hissed, elbowing him.
"What? I'm just saying—"
"John, shut up," Taya whispered, stifling a laugh.
They reached the door—a heavy wooden thing with iron hinges that looked older than time itself. Laura pressed the doorbell. A faint chime echoed inside.
Silence.
She waited, then pressed it again.
Still nothing.
She tried a third time, holding it down a bit longer.
"COMING!"
A voice boomed from inside—strong, sharp, and decidedly not amused. It was the kind of voice that could stop a charging bull in its tracks.
Laura, John, and Taya exchanged wide-eyed glances.
The door swung open with a creak, revealing a middle-aged Black woman in a faded floral nightgown and fuzzy slippers. Her hair was wrapped in a silk scarf, and her arms were crossed over her chest. Beside her stood a small, ancient-looking dog—some kind of terrier mix with patchy fur and milky eyes—panting wheezily.
The woman looked them up and down, her expression a perfect blend of irritation and resigned patience, like a headmistress confronting students who'd just set off fireworks in the library.
Laura plastered on her brightest smile. "Hi! I am laura.. yesterday? Booking remember ?"
John, ever the optimist, waved weakly. "...Hi."
The woman's eyes flicked to him, then back to Laura. She said nothing, just stepped aside and gestured for them to enter with a sharp jerk of her head.
Laura scurried inside first,
her eyes widening as she took in the interior.
The entryway opened into a cozy sitting room that felt like stepping back in time. The walls were papered in a faded floral pattern, lined with vintage oil paintings—landscapes of misty Scottish highlands, portraits of stern-looking ancestors in gilded frames. A grandfather clock stood in the corner, its pendulum swinging with a slow, hypnotic tick-tock.
An old wooden table sat near the entrance, its surface worn smooth by decades of use, adorned with a ceramic bowl filled with dried flowers and a brass candelabra. The floorboards creaked underfoot, dark wood polished to a soft sheen. A threadbare Persian rug stretched across the floor, and in the corner, a stone fireplace held the dying embers of an earlier fire, casting a warm orange glow.
The air smelled of lavender and old books, with a faint hint of wood smoke. It was vintage, homey, and strangely beautiful—like walking into someone's well-loved memory.
John and Taya trailed behind, equally mesmerized. As John passed the threshold, he leaned toward Taya and whispered, "This old lady looks scary..."
Without missing a beat, the woman turned her head slightly, eyes narrowing. "I can hear you, baby boy. And I ain't that old."
John froze, his face going pale. He quickly hid behind Taya, who bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud.
The woman shut the door with a solid thunk and turned to face them, hands on her hips. "Name's Martha. I own this place. And before you get too comfortable, let me lay down some ground rules."
She pointed a finger at John, who flinched.
"Rule number one: No noise after 10 p.m. And I mean none. No stomping, no laughing, no late-night snack raids. I got ears like a hawk and patience like a saint—don't test me."
John nodded frantically.
"Rule number two," Martha continued, her gaze sweeping over all three of them. "You break it, you buy it. That includes furniture, dishes, and my peace of mind."
Taya stifled a snort.
"Rule number three: Don't feed the dog. He's on a strict diet, and he will lie to you. His name's Mr. Pickles, and he's a con artist."
Mr. Pickles wheezed innocently at their feet.
"Rule number four," Martha said, her tone softening just a fraction. "Breakfast is at 8 a.m. sharp. You miss it, you starve. I don't do room service."
Laura nodded quickly. "Got it. 8 a.m. No problem."
"And rule number five," Martha added, her eyes glinting with something that might've been humor. "Don't go poking around places you ain't supposed to. Edinburgh's got enough ghosts without you stirring up more."
A chill ran down Laura's spine, but she forced another smile. "Understood."
Martha studied them for a moment longer, then sighed, the irritation melting into something closer to weary acceptance. "Alright. Let me show you to your rooms. And for the record, if y'all had gotten here before 11 p.m., you could've had dinner. But no—here you are, rolling in like you got all the time in the world."
"Sorry," Laura said sheepishly.
Martha waved her off, already heading toward the stairs. "Save it. Come on."
She led John to a small room on the ground floor, just down the hall from her own. The door creaked open to reveal a cozy space with a single bed, a wooden dresser, and a window overlooking the side garden.
John peered inside, his expression somewhere between relieved and terrified. "This is... nice. Close to you, huh?"
Martha raised an eyebrow. "That a problem?"
"No! No, not at all. Just... close. Very close."
"Good. Means I can hear if you start making trouble." She patted his shoulder—hard enough to make him stumble slightly—and turned back to the others. "Up you go."
Laura and Taya exchanged grins as they climbed the narrow staircase, calling back, "Goodnight, John!"
"Sleep tight, Johnny boy!" Taya added with a laugh.
"Don't let the bedbugs bite!" Laura chimed in.
From below, John's muffled voice replied, "I hate you both."
The first floor was quieter, dimly lit by wall sconces that cast flickering shadows on the floral wallpaper. Two doors faced each other across a narrow hallway.
Martha pointed to the left. "That's yours," she said to Taya. Then she pointed right. "And that's yours," she said to Laura.
She handed them each a brass key. "If you'd gotten here earlier, I would've fed you proper. But since you didn't, you're on your own till breakfast."
"Understood," Laura said. "Thanks, Martha."
Martha grunted, already turning back toward the stairs. "Don't make me regret letting you in," she called over her shoulder, Mr. Pickles waddling after her.
Taya unlocked her door and peeked inside, then grinned at Laura. "Not bad. See you in the morning?"
"Yeah. Goodnight, Taya."
"Night!"
Laura pushed open her door and stepped inside, flicking on the light. Her eyebrows shot up.
Wait... do people here go to sleep at 7 p.m. or something? she thought, remembering Martha's pointed comment about dinner being long over. Laura was a night owl—her best ideas came at 2 a.m. with cold coffee and conspiracy podcasts playing in the background. The idea of an entire household shutting down before the sun even properly set felt... alien.
But as she looked around, her mild bemusement gave way to genuine surprise.
The room was... actually beautiful.
It was larger than she'd expected, with high ceilings and vintage furnishings—a four-poster bed draped in white linens, a wooden wardrobe with intricate carvings, a small writing desk by the window. But it wasn't stuffy or old-fashioned. There were modern touches too: a sleek reading lamp, a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, a plush armchair in the corner.
And then there was the balcony.
The cold hit her immediately—sharp and biting, carrying the scent of water and pine. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering, but she didn't go back inside.
The view was breathtaking.
The lake stretched out before her, dark and endless, its surface rippling under the pale moonlight. The streetlamps along the shore cast faint golden reflections on the water, and in the distance, she could see the silhouette of the hills rising against the night sky. Everything was quiet, still, like the world was holding its breath.
Laura exhaled slowly, watching her breath mist in the air. For a moment, the exhaustion lifted, replaced by something close to awe.
This is why we came, she thought. This is worth it.
She stepped back inside, shutting the doors but leaving the curtains open. The moonlight spilled across the floor, soft and silvery.
Laura dragged her suitcase onto the bed and started unpacking—clothes into the wardrobe, toiletries into the small ensuite bathroom. The bathroom was simple but clean, with white tiles and a clawfoot tub that looked like it had seen a century of use.
She turned on the shower, letting the water heat up, and peeled off her clothes. The hot water was a blessing, washing away the grime of the road, the tension in her shoulders. She stood under the spray for longer than she should have, eyes closed, letting her mind go blank.
When she finally emerged, wrapped in her pajamas and a towel around her damp hair, she felt almost human again.
Laura collapsed onto the bed, grabbing her phone. The signal was weak—one bar, flickering in and out—but she managed to send a quick text to Robert: We arrived. All good. Talk tomorrow.
It took a full minute to send.The signal was bit slow.
She tried opening her laptop next, pulling up the research she'd saved earlier. Articles about Haceol, forum posts, archived news stories. Her eyes scanned the text—names of the missing, dates, vague descriptions of their last known locations. A teenager named Elenor. A man in his thirties. An elderly woman who'd wandered into the woods and never came back.
The photos were grainy, haunting. Faces frozen in time, smiling for cameras they'd never see again.
Laura rubbed her temples, her head throbbing. She'd been driving for hours, her eyes were burning, and the words on the screen were starting to blur together.
Just a little more, she told herself.
But her body had other ideas. Her eyelids drooped, her head nodding forward. She blinked hard, trying to focus, but it was no use.
With a defeated sigh, she shut the laptop and set it aside. She pulled off her glasses, setting them on the nightstand, and reached for the lamp.
The room plunged into darkness, save for the pale glow of the moon spilling through the balcony doors.
Laura sank into the pillows, pulling the blankets up to her chin. The bed was soft, the room was quiet, and for the first time in days, she felt safe.
Her last thought, before sleep pulled her under, was simple:
'Tomorrow. We start tomorrow'
TO BE CONTINUED-