Serpentine (22 page)

THIRTY-FOUR

Scott had slept for almost an entire two days straight, recuperating in the little cabin that had eventually become nothing more than a surveillance station. He’d slept soundly through the nights and had stirred awake during the day mainly to eat, use the bathroom, and field phone calls. The calls had come from Susan Lessing and Roger Lowry. Susan was checking in on him and when she spoke, he could hear a sense of distance in her voice. She was in some sort of shock, he supposed.

He was, too. What had happened on the lake had drained him and he figured he would enjoy a stress-induced sleep before the nightmares started to come…which they almost certainly would.

Roger Lowry had calmed considerably after being told that the threat had been neutralized. He’d been grateful in a brazen and abrupt way that only Roger was capable of. He told Scott to get some rest and then report back when he felt up to it. He also suggested that, given the nature of the attack he had endured from the thing, that Scott should maybe see a doctor… preferably one suggested by the bureau when he got back to DC.

Now, after his two days of rest, Scott was doing just that. He had packed up his few things and took them out to the car. He felt refreshed but, at the same time, a little winded. He was finding it a little hard to breathe and felt the beginnings of a migraine stirring in the back of his head. So yes, heading back to DC seemed like a good idea. And after he had settled in, he’d see a doctor if he was still having these breathing issues.

He went through the cabin one final time to make sure he had packed everything and then locked the place up. He went back out to the car and stood by it for a moment, taking his cell phone out. He called Susan Lessing’s number, wanting to let her know that he was headed out. The phone rang several times and then went to her voicemail. Scott considered leaving a message but then killed the call.

What was the point in dragging things out? There was only sentiment in such a thing and considering the horror they had witnessed, sentiment seemed useless. The sooner he could disconnect himself from all of this, the better.

As he backed out of the driveway, he broke into a small coughing fit.

He made his way up Kerr Lane, headed for the main stretch of highway that would take him away from this godforsaken lake. When he stopped at the intersection, seeing glorious black pavement ahead, he coughed again. He brought up a considerable amount of phlegm this time. He rolled the window down and spit it out.

He then pulled out onto the pavement, completely unaware of the tiny black flakes that he had spit out into the dirt.

END

Read on for a free sample of Nine Eyes

Prologue

The scream ripped the night apart. It lashed the small, drab stone houses of the village and whipped out over the hills, echoing over the waters of the loch. On it went, a feral howl that spoke of pain, of fear, and of a deep longing until it was as if it had always been there, a primal thing that had no name yet spoke to every living thing that heard it.

“Come on, girl. Push!”

Another groan started up from deep within her swollen belly. The pain was a crashing symphony, at once both deep and throbbing yet also sharp and tearing. It rolled down, boiling over until it rose into an animalistic yowl.

“Again! Come on, girl. I can see the head!”

By her side, a man stood. He watched through widened eyes, his heart singing in his throat, perfectly caught between elation and terror. They said birth was the most natural thing in the world, but how could it be? Blood and fluid flooded the rug, and he was sure no man could ever withstand the titanic forces that ripped through his wife as she fought to bring their child into the world. She lunged out, gripping his hand as the contraction took her. He winced, for a split second wondering if he could ask her to stop because she was grinding his bones together, but in the face of her bared teeth and bulging eyes, he decided not to. In this state, she looked more like a possessed monster than an imminent mother.

Her belly rippled again as the contraction peaked. It couldn't be much longer, could it? He raised his eyes to the ceiling and dared to mutter a little prayer: Let it be a girl. Please let it be a girl.

The old woman kneeling between his wife's knees gave a triumphant shout. “Yes! That's it... keep pushing. Keep it up. Don't stop now! It's coming... one more... You can do it...”

He felt his wife withdraw, folding in on herself as she sought out the last of her reserves to expel the child she had carried for so long. This time she didn't so much scream as growl, long and loud. No wonder ancient man had seen this and worshipped nature as a mother; in her small frame, she held more power than he could ever dream of. The power of life.

“Yes!” the old woman panted. “Yes... he is here! He is here!”

He?

The heat of the man's instinctive elation turned to ice.

The old woman cradled the squirming babe and smiled. She held it up to him, still covered in bloody mucus, its umbilical cord snaking out from in between his wife's legs.

“Yes,” she beamed. “Look. A boy. A boy, John. You have a son!”

He took the child with leaden arms. His wife looked over and let out a keening wail that bore no resemblance to the cries of her birthing. This was borne of an anguish so deep, he thought he might drown.

A boy.

The curse lived on.

Chapter One

Is it a mirror? A reflection? A memory, buried for so long that it feels more like something he'd dreamt? He doesn't know, not yet. It sits, just out of reach, waiting for the day when he finally plucks up the courage to take that leap of faith and grab it, turn it over in his hands and fathom it out once and for all. But until then, the speculation continues. Maybe forever. Maybe tomorrow. For who knows what tomorrow may bring?

o0o

[.REC]

“Okay- is it on?”

[The camera focuses on a tall woman standing stiffly to attention]

“Yeah. Try to relax. Right... in three... two...”

“Hello, I'm Yolanda Ndiaye, and welcome to the Highlands of Scotland. In this episode, we are investigating the legend of the Bees... uh, Beiyust...”

“Bèist an t-Sluic.”

[The woman fidgets and works her mouth]

“Okay. I'll start again. Right. Hello, I'm Yolanda Ndiaye, and welcome to the Highlands of Scotland. In this episode, we are investigating the legend of the [she pauses, preparing herself to copy the cameraman's pronunciation] Bayst an Tlooeek, also known as the Beast of the Hollow. Many people think the only loch worth mentioning in Scotland when it comes to lake monsters is the infamous Loch Ness, but they'd be wrong. Locals have long shared stories of a demon that is said to inhabit this lonely stretch of water, with tales of occult activity and even human sacrifice, but they never made the mainstream... until now, that is. We're here to uncover the truth behind the Beast and find out if there really is a monster haunting these waters. I'm Yolanda Ndaiye, and you're watching Hunting Monsters.”

“Okay – cut.”

Yolanda visibly relaxed. “How was that?”

From the sidelines, Paul gave her a nod. “Yeah, not bad for a first try. What do you think, Decker?”

The man behind the camera looked up and shrugged. “Camera seems to like her. Need to tighten the pronunciations. Plus, you said who you were twice.”

Yolanda winced. “I know. I'm sorry. I realised when I said it. You want to go again?”

“Yeah, okay. Right. And... three... two...”

Paul grinned to himself and wandered away to find the other two members of his crew. It didn't take long.

One of them turned to him as he approached and smiled at him. “Wow. It's beautiful here.” Mags inhaled deeply, her eyes closed. “Smell that clean air. You know, legend or not, it was worth coming here just to get London out of my lungs.”

Paul couldn't help but agree with her. It might have been a pain in the neck to get here, but it had been worth it. The loch stretched out before them, a vast, glittering expanse of blue bordered by a green ribbon of pine trees. Behind them, hills dotted with heather rolled and beyond that rose ancient outcrops of dark, grey stone that pierced the clouds with jagged teeth. The scenery alone would bring in the punters, and once they'd factored in the local legends that had brought them there... Paul smiled to himself. Yeah. Things were going to be okay. He could feel it.

His crew – himself, Decker, Mags and Piers – had filmed the Great Lakes, been down to the Bayou, explored the icy wastes of Alaska. They'd only come home because their money ran out. Despondent, Paul had thought that was the end of their adventures and that this could very well be their last hurrah. He'd worried it might be somewhat anticlimactic after a year of chasing the legendary monsters that haunted the lakes of America. He'd fretted that outside of Nessie, the Highlands wouldn't have much to give, which just went to show what he knew. Turned out, Scotland did more than hold its own; it was a serious contender to the crown, which was typical, really. You went halfway around the world looking for something special when, in truth, it had been near enough on your front doorstep all along.

“So – where is it?” The question broke through Paul's musing. He bit back a retort. Typical Piers. Here they were, in one of the most gorgeous spots they'd visited yet, and he sounded bored.

“I don't know. Just wait. Decker won't be long.”

They continued to admire the scenery until Decker and Yolanda finished filming. The question duly repeated,  Decker pointed out over the water. “Look over there. From here it’s a bit hard to spot, but it's there.”

They all squinted, following his finger. Paul was the first to let out a low whistle. Mags looked stunned, mouthing another 'wow'. Even Piers looked impressed. After a few seconds, Yolanda shook her head and fished her glasses out of her pocket. He allowed the camera to linger on her, to see how she fared. She was the new girl, brought in more as a favour to a friend than anything else, and Paul still had his reservations about her presence. She said she wanted to be a news anchor (didn't they all?) and being allowed to host their little adventure vlog would look good on her CV. Thank God she wasn't expecting to get paid; the work experience alone was enough.

“My God, Decker. You weren’t kidding, were you?” Mags said.

“Why? You think I was lying?” Decker said.

“No… just over exaggerating.” She smiled. “Glad to see you weren't.”

The angle of the late-afternoon sun made it difficult to pick out against the glittering backdrop of the water, but once you got your eye in, it stood out, as clear as day.

A church spire.

“No one knows the exact date the church was first built, but judging by its structure, they reckon it was around the fifteenth or early sixteenth century,” Decker said, answering their unspoken question. “As far as I know, by the time the valley was earmarked for the reservoir, it was half-flooded already following an earlier landslide further up the valley. Still, it’s pretty amazing, huh?”

“God, yeah,” Mags said. “And we have permission to dive down there?”

“Of course we have,” Paul said, a little too quickly. He tried not to wince as Mags' attention flickered from the spire and over to him. He contrived to look the picture of innocence, but Decker ratted him out with a single, incredulous glance. Mags frowned, and Yolanda's eyes widened. 

“Excellent.” Piers rubbed his hands together. Whether he was truly oblivious or chose to ignore the others silent reservation, Paul wasn't sure. “So, what's the plan, chief? Set up now, scope it out?”

“We’re going up to the town first,” said Paul. “I thought we might interview a few locals, get the whole legend down from their point of view. Deck says there’s a guesthouse, so we can check in and make ourselves comfortable.” His gaze slid towards Decker, who resolutely refused to meet it. Paul held in the desire to roll his eyes at him. Not this again. “Anyway,” he continued, “we’ll go there, savour the local colour, see what we can dig up. Then we can set up some cameras to see what we can see.”

“So… you really think there’s something in there?” Mags asked. “In the loch?”

Paul nudged Decker, who shrugged.

“I dunno,” he said. “I mean, whether there’s anything in it all. I grew up with tales of the loch… nothing too detailed, just that the church was haunted by something. Mam didn’t like us talking about it and I haven’t been here since I was a kid.” He folded his arms over his chest and turned away, making it clear he didn't want to answer any more questions. Paul sighed inwardly. He hated it when he did this.

“That's why I figured it best to ask the locals,” Paul said. “Get their versions. Plus, no one can call bullshit on us if it’s townsfolk doing the telling.”

That was the truth. It had taken a hell of a lot of defending their corner the last time they'd forgone the interviews. People liked local colour. Without local colour, people were quick to shout ‘fix’. No point going to a lake or a reservoir or whatever and trying to pin some kind of legend on it – people wanted proof in the form of seventy year old town patriarchs declarin’ that yup, this is the place where the monster lives, my grandpappy knew, he’d see’d it once, and that kid Billy got too close to the water and he weren’t never seen again…

Well, they weren't going to make the same mistake twice. Revenue had fallen off a cliff after their last broadcast, and all talk of getting them their own cable series had dried up. This was their last chance to show that they were serious – and that they knew what they were doing.

Paul was a little ticked off that Decker hadn't told him about this place before things had become this desperate, but that didn't mean he didn't understand. He knew his father had died a long time ago and maybe he didn’t want this particular circus to somehow sully that memory, but times were tough and audiences were fickle… Paul just hoped that sullying the memory of Decker’s dearly departed Dad was going to be worth it in the end.

They all spent a little while longer admiring the scenery before they clambered up the track back to their vehicles: one beat-up Astra and a VW Camper in dire need of a tune-up that towed their small motor boat. The road up to Dùisg a' Pheacaich was winding and more pot holes than tarmac, and Paul was convinced it was only their collective will that kept both vehicles from crapping out on them completely.

Paul allowed Decker to drive in silence, sensing his trepidation. Of course he had known about Decker’s childhood: that his father had died when he was a young boy and had subsequently been raised by his mother, but he’d never really offered any more detail – and Paul had never pushed him. After he'd told him about the Beast, though, he hadn't really had a choice. It had taken Decker a full day to summon the courage to tell him. Even then, he hadn't said much about it: his father had told him about the Beast of the Hollow when he was a boy whilst they watched the water together, and it hadn’t been so much a story as a warning, which is why he hadn’t said anything.

Until now.

He said his father had told him never to swim in the loch on account of the Beast, which kind of sounded more like something a good father might tell his inquisitive son in an attempt at keeping him out of trouble, at least for a few years. But he insisted the legend was true, that it wasn’t just his father’s invention – everyone in the village knew about the Beast, knew about the shadow in the water and the rumours of its taste for human flesh, and that despite their close proximity to a large body of water and potential to make money from fishing, no one in town owned a fishing rod, let alone a boat. Paul had pressed him, hoping for more details as a plan formed in his mind, but Decker said he couldn't remember anything else. As bad as it made him feel, Paul couldn't help but wonder if what he actually meant was 'wouldn't'.

Paul swiped his thumb across the screen of his mobile phone. It sparked to life, greeting him with pictures of happier times: of them smiling by the Grand Canyon, of them sipping cocktails together in Florida, of Decker kissing his cheek whilst he laughed in New Orleans. He sighed. Not that he was unhappy now… no… not that…never that, but... He let his attention slide again to Decker. His jaw was tight, his hands on the wheel, rigid.

Maybe they shouldn’t do this. Maybe they should just cut their losses and leave. He couldn’t stand what all of this was doing to Decker now, let alone once they actually arrived. But they were here, ready to go. This was their last chance. Giving this up meant giving up the dream, their dream, and surely that was worse than Decker potentially bumping into family members he hadn’t seen in twenty-five years?

Damn. No reception. Paul cranked the window open in the vain hope it might coax a signal out of thin air. There was a tantalising moment when it looked like it might have picked up something resembling a wifi connection, but it didn't hold. His mobile reverted back to an expensive plastic Filofax, stuffed full of memories Paul treasured more than anything else.

Well, nearly anything else.

“Brandon…”

Decker’s eyes flickered towards him. Paul caught his look of concern and knew why. No one called him Brandon apart from his mother, and Paul knew this. It was his way of warning him the following conversation might be considered... difficult.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Decker paused, his knuckles momentarily bleaching white as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

“Yeah. Of course I do. This is what it’s all about, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know… I mean, usually, yes, but this is a big thing for you.”

“Look, I wouldn’t have told you if I didn’t want us to look into it,” Decker all but snapped. Paul recoiled a little, surprised. Decker never snapped. He was the laid back one, the nice one, the one everyone warmed to. He supposed that was what upset him the most about all of this. That it was doing this to him. That he was doing this to him. Before he could arrange a suitable response, Decker let out a long sigh and reached out with one hand to pat his knee, an endearing old-biddyish gesture that made Paul crack a smile.

“Seriously – I’m fine. It’s sweet that you’re bothered, but this is something I probably should have done a long time ago. Okay, so doing it with a camera crew in tow probably isn’t the best way of going about it… but hey, beggars, choosers and all that jazz. Chances are, no one will remember me and we’ll all just have a nice few days enjoying some good old fashioned Highland hospitality, get shitfaced on single malt and have fun scaring ourselves stupid with tales of boggins and beasties. If I’m honest, I wish I'd told you about this place before. Y'know, got it out of my system earlier. But Mam was always so...” He stopped and gave a little shake of his head. “Doesn't matter. Thing is, we're here now. I'm sorry I kept it from you. Whatever happens, the documentary and my family problems are two separate things. I won’t let them affect the shoot. I promise.”