The Ghosts of Tullybrae House (20 page)

“Clara?” she asked again, proceeding warily down the final stretch to the open room. Her voice sounded odd to her own ears. Muted. In fact, everything felt muted, even her own senses.

She came to a halt in the doorway. Inside, there was a table laid out with three cups, three saucers, and a tower of biscuits and sandwiches. Seated in the chair facing the door was a little old lady in a starched black dress.

“Ah, there you are, child.”

Emmie started, not believing what she was seeing. She had been in this room once before. Then, it had held nothing but old steamer trunks with vintage, war-era clothing. It was just one of the many rooms still on her to-do list. But here, now, it was neatly arranged with a serviceable brass bed, not unlike her own upstairs. The single, square window was hung with clean lace curtains, and an armoire and a night table stood at attention on either side.

Inside the room, the air was warm and dry, and smelled distinctly of roses. The light, she realized, was daylight. It streamed in through the closed windows. But it was a strange light, sepia almost. Like the colour was being leached out everything it touched.

Time slowed as Emmie took in the scene. The little old woman waited patiently, giving her the space to adjust to her surroundings.

“Why don’t you come in and have a seat?” she suggested in a thick Scottish tongue. “The countess and I were just having tea.”

“Countess?” Emmie studied the two empty places, confused. Her mind felt like it was stuffed with cotton. Her comprehension, normally so quick, trickled like cold molasses. There was something odd about this, but for the life of her, she couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

“Aye, the countess. She’s been eager to meet you. We both have.”

Unable to identify any sound reason why she should not join in, Emmie moved into the room, feeling oddly disjointed. Tentatively, she took the seat across from the little old lady, keeping the second empty place setting between them.

“Tea?”

Without waiting for her to answer, the woman reached a knotted hand, the skin paper-thin and softly wrinkled, and poured dark, searing hot liquid into the cup in front of her. The steam rose up, unusually fragrant. A splash of milk followed, creating swirls of umber and cream.

“Biscuit?” The woman picked up the tray and offered one of the shortbread cookies on top.

“Lamb,” Emmie said, her voice thick. She cleared her throat. “Those look like Lamb’s cookies.”

“
My
cookies,” the woman corrected fondly. “I’d never tell him so, but that lad does shortbread
almost
as well as I do.”

Emmie took a tentative bite of her cookie, watching the woman as she did. She was familiar. Reminded her of someone. But her senses were competing with her rational mind, drawing her away from logic and reason towards the more primal sensations of taste and touch. The rich, buttery cookie was like a caress on her tongue; the soft crumble of the texture was deeply satisfying.

“Who are you?” she asked when she was done chewing.

“That’s no’ important, Emmeline. What’s important is you. I think it’s high time the three of us had a wee chat, don’t you?”

Emmie glanced at the empty chair between them. “Three?”

“The countess, here, is quite worried. And so am I. Her ladyship says to tell you that she can only do so much to look after your well-being. You need to make sure you’re looking after yourself. And that means eating well.” The woman nudged the tray forward again, urging Emmie to take another cookie.

“The countess is here.” Emmie said, half question, half statement.

The old woman let out a throaty sound, almost a laugh. “Oh, she’s here. When the roses are here, she’s here. More to the point, your Highlander is no’. He’s always around you, you know. I tell you, it’s bloody hard to look after you when he’s always around. But I told him that he’s to stay away now. That this is for your own good, because he’s causing you a lot of undue stress.”

“You told him that?”

The woman nodded, watching Emmie intently. “He’s very curious to know what’s going on, of course. But he is respecting my request, and he’s staying away. To be honest, I don’t think he realized the effect he was having on you. He never imagined that his determination to reach you, to influence you, would be interpreted as you’ve done. You have experienced a very unique set of circumstances that have left you unusually fragile. And who could blame you? We think we’re clever as adults, don’t we? But really, we have no better grip on the events of our childhood now than we did then.”

A warm tear slid down Emmie’s cheek. What was this woman saying? How did she know all that? Self-pity, acute and raw, dug into her. She winced from the sudden surge of pain.

“What’s this all about?” The woman looked at her with sympathy.

Emmie looked back. She was so
familiar
. Why couldn’t she place her?

Resigned, she answered, “I think you already know.”

The woman closed her eyes briefly. “I do, love. But why don’t you tell me in your own words?”

Emmie looked at her hands, holding the delicate china cup. When she spoke, her words felt stiff and uncoordinated.

“I can’t get him out of my head,” she said. “Cael. He won’t leave, and I don’t want him to. He wants me to solve the mystery for him. I think he wants me to find out why he died, and I have to find out…”

She trailed off, afraid to keep going with her thoughts.

“But…” the woman prompted.

“But,” she breathed, “it’s become an obsession. I can’t stop. I know that I’m losing control of myself, of who I am. And I know that I should stop. I should tell Cael to leave me alone and never bother me again. In one part of my head, I know I’m strong enough to do it. But in another… I don’t think I am.”

“And that frightens you most of all,” the woman concluded.

Emmie nodded, defeated. “I led my whole life thinking I wasn’t like her. Determined
not
to be like her. I’m terrified that I was wrong all along. That no matter how hard I try to end up different, I’m still like her. In the end, I’ll lose my way just like she did.”

She stopped then, taken aback by the coherency with which she’d expressed her feelings. Feelings which she’d never before been able to articulate. Just getting her thoughts out like this made her feel a fraction better. She looked at the woman, surprise widening her hazel eyes.

“Your mother. You’re talking about your mother’s substance abuse.”

Emmie closed her eyes, allowing fresh tears to spill freely down her cheeks. “She lost her way. She died because she couldn’t keep a hold of herself.”

“What was it like?” the woman asked gently. “Why don’t you tell me what it was like for you as a child?”

“She was…” Emmie thought briefly. “She was weak. So
weak
. That sounds so horrible of me to say about my own mother, but that’s how I feel. Even as a child I thought that. I tried so hard,
so
hard, to make her do better, to make her
want
to do better. I begged her to bring me to school, to take me herself instead of putting me on the bus, because I knew that she’d go right over to those horrible friends of hers as soon as the bus was gone, and do horrible things to herself. I was four then. Four! And even then I thought that if she just saw the other mothers, just remembered what it was like to be outside and… and normal, that maybe she’d want to try.

“And it wasn’t like she didn’t love me.” She wiped the tears from her face with her sleeve. “It would have been easier if she didn’t care. As young as I was then, I knew that, too. If she never cared about me, if I was just a total mistake that she regretted, I think that would have been better. But she did love me. She loved me so much. She hated what she was doing to me, but still, she was too weak to escape the drugs. To make herself better.”

She fell silent then, feeling surprisingly unburdened. She’d never spoken those thoughts aloud before. Never even thought them from start to finish that way. She’d buried her feelings, convinced herself that they didn’t exist. But they’d been there all along, and had not lost one ounce of potency in all these years.

The woman across from her was looking at her with complete understanding. Not pity, which she feared would happen. Compassion.

“She sent me to live with my grandmother when I was five. My grandmother was in no position to take care of a child, but she tried for my mother’s sake. Not long after, we found out my mom died.”

“An overdose.”

“Died while shooting up in her car. I found out years later that she’d probably been with someone. The police found the passenger side door wide open, but nothing was taken, so it probably wasn’t a robbery. They think whoever was with her bolted as soon as things started to go wrong.”

“That’s a heavy burden for a child to have to bear. Especially for such a sensitive and intuitive child. I can see how something like that could colour your perception as an adult. But Emmeline, there’s something you’re no’ taking into account here. Your mother had far greater problems than you know. Her drug addiction was only a symptom of a larger set of issues.”

“Like what?” Emmie felt small, child-like. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what the woman had to say, just as she wasn’t sure she could handle not hearing it.

“Your mother, child, suffered from mental illness. Were you aware?”

Dumbfounded, Emmie shook her head. Was it true?

“Of course you weren’t. She didn’t know herself. She was never diagnosed, you see. And on our side of the line, we don’t attach clinical terms to a soul’s suffering in life. You might call it depression, perhaps even bipolar disorder. There is no way for us to know now. But she was an unhappy soul for reasons that were beyond her control. And her struggles, love, are something which you will never understand, because you do no’ suffer the same afflictions.”

“I didn’t know that,” Emmie repeated, somewhat apologetically. “How do
you
know all this?”

The woman flipped a hand. “How do we know anything over here? We just do. In the end, though, you triumphed from this experience.”

“Triumphed.” Emmie’s brows drew together.

“You did,” the woman insisted. “Because you were such an intuitive child, you were able to take what you perceived to be her weakness and make it your strength. In a way, her struggle was a gift, because it forged your character.”

“I want to believe that. But I can’t. I feel like I’m falling to pieces. Ever since… ever since him. Cael.”

The woman eyed her speculatively. “The countess wants her turn with you, and she’s quite annoyed with me for having taken so long. But I’ll say one last thing: Perhaps the Emmeline that you were trying so hard to construct is no’ the Emmeline that you’re meant to be. Perhaps becoming who you’re meant to be will be a difficult transition for you. You may no’ realize it, but this place, and Cael himself, are very much a part of what you’re destined for. We’re led to places, my dear. No one ever ends up anywhere by accident. You were led here. You’re meant to be here.”

“Why? What am I destined for?”

“If only I knew,” the woman said ruefully. “That’s for you to learn. But while you’re trying to figure it out, don’t fight it. Don’t try so hard to be someone you’ve mapped out in your head. Live your life and the answer will come to you.

“And
don’t
cancel your plans with that nice young man that wants to take you out,” she added. “You’ll dash his spirits something terrible.”

“Who—Dean?”

“Dean, yes. Go out with him. Have a meal. Have
fun
, for the good Lord’s mercy.”

Emmie
had
been contemplating cancelling her plans with Dean. She was thinking hard over the woman’s words, when the woman pressed her wrinkled hands to the table.

“And now, I’m afraid I cannot withhold the countess any longer. She’s determined to have her turn.”

“Turn?” Emmie asked, slightly nervous. But the lady just smiled. And faded away to nothing.

“Wait.” Emmie shot her hand forth, but the woman was gone.

Then the table began to fade, and was gone. Then the strange, sepia coloured daylight, and then the room itself, until she was left in total darkness.

“COUNTESS?” EMMIE CALLED
into the black void. There was no response.

Wherever she was, it was deathly silent. Her breathing and hear heartbeat were thunderous in her ears. She was afraid to move, afraid to make any other sound. Her fingers gripped the edge of her chair, nails digging into the painted wood of the seat. Panic crept over her, bringing on the threat of new tears.

Keep calm, Em
, she told herself.
You won’t do yourself any good by freaking out.
If the countess wanted to show her something, Emmie had to trust that she was in good hands. She had to; she had no choice.

Taking a few deep breaths for courage, she stood. The legs of the chair made a strange scraping sound. Muffled. Shuffling her feet in place, she realized that she was standing on a dirt surface.

To her right, voices sounded. They were faint at first, but grew louder, taking on a tinny quality. They were low and urgent, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. She strained, listening.

“Go,” came a whisper from behind her.

Emmie jumped, and whirled around. There was still nothing but blackness in all directions. But the air had become infused with the heady, stifling fragrance of roses.

When the roses are here, she’s here,
the old woman had said of the countess. The roses were definitely here now. In fact, they were stronger than Emmie had ever smelled before. The countess must be very close.

As if to confirm her suspicion, the whisper came again. This time, it was right next to her ear.

“Go!”

“Go where?” Emmie reached through the dark, fingers groping for anything that might be out there. But there was nothing.

“Countess?”

Still nothing.

“Go where, for frig’s sake?” she muttered to herself. “Does anyone ever think that I don’t want to see what they have to show me?”

But even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true. If this had anything to do with Cael, then of course she wanted to know. Needed to know.

If the countess wanted her to “go,” then her only two choices were to disobey and stay put, or to walk blindly forward. Or backwards. Or, just… walk. Which is what she did. Hands waving back and forth in front of her, Emmie shuffled blindly along the dirt ground towards the distant voices.

She hadn’t gone far before the blackness began to shift and transform. Colour danced and blurred, then sharpened into distinct shapes.

Stunned, Emmie took an instinctive step back. She was outside, and it was night. She was standing in front of a primitive dwelling that might have come right off the set of Braveheart or Rob Roy. Two men stood off to the side of the squat stone building, holding the reins to three horses. It was too dark for Emmie to make out their faces well, but they were as rough and dangerous-looking as the men inside the castle of Cael’s memory.

She wasn’t afraid of them, though. She knew without having to be told that she was not really here. That this had all happened long ago, and she was only a voyeur in this picture. Indeed, when she approached the dwelling’s front door, the two men did not see her. The horses did not whicker at her approach. Nobody batted an eyelash when she pulled open the rough plank door and stepped through to the dimly lit, smoky interior.

Inside, in the centre of the room, two men sat together on a split log bench. A rock fire pit contained a low-burning peat fire, and both men were leaning towards it for warmth. They were deep in conversation.

Emmie approached them cautiously.

“He’s telling us we must resist them on our own,” one man was saying. He was short, but solid, like a boulder with arms and legs. Strands of stringy, greasy hair hung around his face and fell down his back. The man looked like he hadn’t bathed in a year. “On our own! We dinna have the men to do it.”

“Och, I dinna ken,” said the other man, taller, and softer around the middle, with ginger hair that looked like it had seen water and soap far more recently than his friend. “We’ve no guarantee that they’ll even attack again. We drove them off well enough the first time, d’ye no’ think?”

“Are ye daft, man? Drive them off once, they’ll only come back stronger. The MacIntoshes have the Crown on their side, dinna forget. They’ll no’ be giving up this land so easily.”

Emmie gasped silently. So she had been right! It
was
the conflict between the MacIntoshes and the MacDonalds of Keppoch that was central to Cael’s mystery. The conflict that destroyed Clan MacDonald of Keppoch. It had to be. The countess was providing her with a clue, with a direction.

Would she provide Emmie with the answer?

Emmie doubted she would be that lucky, but listened eagerly for more clues she might be able to pick up from these men.

“And why are ye so certain we’ll no’ be able to withstand them if they do attack again?” asked the second man. “We’ve a fine force. Young Cael and Master Lawren have seen to that.”

“Boys,” the first man spat. “Nobbut lads, the pair of them. What do they ken of war?”

The men both looked up at Emmie then. Her entire body froze, every muscle taught and ready to spring and flee. When a shape brushed past her, she nearly cackled with relief. A woman came towards the men from behind where she was standing. She was dressed in a linen shift and holding two cups. They’d been looking at her, not at Emmie.

“Ah, thank ye,
mo cridhe
,” said the taller, softer man.

He accepted the cup which the woman held out for him, as did his companion. They both drank deeply as the woman moved back towards Emmie, passed her effortlessly, and crawled into a bed on the other side of the dwelling. As she tucked herself under the covers, two small shapes moved to absorb her into the sleeping tangle of flesh and blankets and warmth.

Children. There must be children in there. Emmie’s heart ached for these innocents, who had no idea of the devastation that would (if she’d guessed correctly about the time period) tear their world apart and put an end to their clan.

“Lads, just lads,” the smaller man repeated once he’d drained his cup.

“That as may be, but there’s half the clan that agrees wi’ them. And those are grown men. They believe we’ve a chance of wi’standing the MacIntoshes. What makes ye think they’re wrong?”

“They dinna believe we’ve a chance,” the first man argued. “They’re wi’ that bastard Cael because he’s got the ear of Himself.”

“Aye, so what can be done about it? If Himself is behind the lads, we must do as Himself bids.”

“That’s just the problem. The bastard has the ear of Himself because half the clan is behind him and Master Lawren. And the reason for that is because the bastard and Master Lawren have the ear of Himself.”

The second man shook his head, laughing. “I dinna ken what ye expect of me, then. It sounds like a hopeless situation.”

The first man glowered, and leaned closer. “We canna withstand a sustained war against the MacIntoshes. I ken ye think so, too.” When the taller man looked as though he thought this to be true, the smaller man continued. “Think of yer lads. Think of yer wife. D’ye want to leave them to the mercy of those bloody MacIntoshes? The men listen to ye. They follow what ye say. And if ye tell them they must no’ follow the bastard, they’ll listen.”

“I dinna ken.”

“Ye
must
ken! Cael MacDonald must be removed!”

The fair-haired man straightened, and looked at his companion in shock. “What—are we talking about killing him?”

The smaller man did not answer, simply stared at his host.

“This is madness,” the taller man objected. “I’ll no’ be killing young Cael. I’ll be having no part in this.”

“I’m no’ saying
ye
have to kill him. All ye have to do is get the men on our side.”

“But ye mean to have someone kill the lad.”

The first man nodded slowly. “Aye, I do. We do. All the men. The bastard must no’ be given the chance to change back the mind of Himself once we’ve convinced him no’ to stand against the MacIntoshes. The laird must be made to see that to fight is folly, and Cael must no’ be there to persuade him again.”

This weighed heavily on the mind of the second man. Emmie’s heart beat frantically as she listened to the conversation. This man, the taller, fair-haired man who looked like he bathed more regularly, obviously was a respected member of the clan. Was he the one that wronged Cael? Would he agree that Cael needed to be killed?

Emmie was nearly certain he would. So it came as a surprise when his answer suggested otherwise.

“I’ll no’ go against my laird. I’ll no’ defy Himself. Convincing the men that we must make the laird change his mind is one thing, but killing Cael is another. I’ll
no’
defy my laird!”

They grew still then, and conversation ceased. Emmie waited, her frustration mounting as they continued to sit and watch the fire.

“What does this mean?” she shouted.

That’s when she realized that the flames of the fire weren’t moving. The men weren’t breathing.

The entire scene had frozen.

Emmie spun around, looking frantically about the unearthly still dwelling.

“What does this mean?” she shouted again, this time to the countess.

There was no response. Instead, the images in front of her disappeared as suddenly as if someone had turned out the lights. Emmie was plunged back into the darkness.

No, wait. Come back…

Filming of the
ghost hunt had completed
.
While the cast of Haunted Britain bickered amongst themselves, the crew and technicians dismantled their equipment and shut the house back up. The main wing of Tullybrae had been returned to its usual state (though Lamb would disagree), and only a few stationary cameras and thermal monitors needed to be retrieved from the outlying areas.

Camera Man A was sent by the producer to take down the camera that had been set up in the last room of the upstairs corridor. He fumed as he stalked down the darkened hallway. Louise was threatening to take out a restraining order on him if he didn’t back off. How was that fair? He hadn’t done anything other than demand an explanation from her. Perhaps he should confront her husband, tell him how she’d used him, broken his heart, then treated him like dirt.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that when he walked through the open door of the small bedroom, he jumped at the sight of the girl sitting on a dusty box in the middle of the room with her back to the door.

It was the curator. The cute blonde girl that, for whatever reason, really didn’t want to be on camera.

“Dear God, love, you gave me a fright,” he declared. “I thought you was a ghost.”

Emmie twisted around, and looked at him. Her eyes held the slightly stunned look of someone who had just walked out of a movie theatre.

“You okay?” the camera man asked.

She looked around the room, as if looking for someone. Then her eyes landed on the camera tripod set up in the corner, and she grimaced.

“Ohhhh, God. That wasn’t there the whole time, was it?”

The man chuckled and flipped the light switch. Stark yellow light flooded the room from a single uncovered bulb. Emmie squinted at the sudden assault on her eyes.

“You’re awright,” he said. He crossed the room, stepping over boxes and piles of junk. “This camera went dead about an hour after we flipped the lights. Unless you’ve been in here all night, we probably missed you.”