Part VIII That should have ended it. I'd never found her in the dreams, after all. This was the resolution that I'd been pushed to since I was about the age she was. Or had been. Who knows what tense to use when you're dealing with ghosts? If she was a ghost. She was solid, [...]
I’m Willie, I’m a Scotsman, and I like horror fiction.
A lot of my work, long and short form, has been set in Scotland, and a lot of it uses the history and folklore. There’s just something about the misty landscapes and old buildings that speaks straight to my soul. (Bloody Celts… we get all sentimental at the least wee thing).
Scottish history goes deep. You can’t swing a cat without hitting a castle or a historic monument or, from further back, a burial mound or standing stone. Five thousand years of living in mist and dampness, wind and snow, lashing rain and high seas leads to the telling of many tales of eldritch beings abroad in the dark nights. Add in the constant risk of invasion and war from Romans, Danes, Irishmen, Vikings and English and you can see that there’s plenty of fertile ground for both fact and…
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Heat and sweat.
That was the sum total of summers at Gravestone Hill.
Thankfully, Kevin had no shortage of cars, and trucks, and trains to keep him busy. Video games were fun, too. But most days he stayed inside, cooling off while books transported him to a universe of dragons and fairies and knights in shining armour.
It was a pity people didn’t need knights anymore. He had a good feeling he would have grown up to be a dashing young lad, on his fine black steed. He would have named him Midnight, and brushed him so he shone when the sun was high and the moon was bright.
Mother was always good for distraction as well. She was a library on legs with lips to share her tales. There was no bit of history she didn’t know – or couldn’t fabricate.
Still, it wasn’t enough. “When can we get…
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