The Ghosts of Tullybrae House (9 page)

He’d found his father, too, and every now and then he’d travel north and stay for a few days. What they had in common other than DNA, Emmie couldn’t imagine. But through his father he found grandparents and cousins and uncles and aunts. They enveloped him in their Aishihik community and culture. And while Chase was not legally able to claim First Nations status, since the lineage did not follow the maternal line, his father’s family were the anchor that kept him connected to his heritage.

Emmie had nothing like that. From what she did know of her mother, it was unlikely she’d find her father or any of his family. Not in this lifetime.

She was lonely. It was overwhelming. And she was desperate for a friend. A kindred spirit that would understand the very depths of her soul.

“Countess?” she called into the empty room, which was dim with only the gentle glow of the bedside lamp. “Countess, are you here?”

Her call went unanswered. If the countess was here, she was not making herself known.

She probably wasn’t here, anyway. Hauntings didn’t work like that.

THE EXCAVATING WAS
starting to become a bit too much for Emmie. In fact, it was damn near doing her head in.

Day after day the team came in from the village, driving their two white-panel Renault Kangoo vans which the studio rented for them. Wherever she was in the house, as soon as she heard the crunch of those tires on the gravel outside, Emmie stopped what she was doing and scurried up to the nursery.

It was not that she didn’t like the team, or didn’t want to see them. She couldn’t explain what it was, really, except that their constant presence out there, digging away at the Scottish soil, made her anxious. Uneasy.

Occasionally, their voices would waft in through the open window. Their friendly conversation, Adam and Dean’s perpetual bickering, a shout of excitement when something of particular significance was unearthed—on these occasions, Emmie would feel the urge to shut the window and retreat to her bedroom. Then she’d stop, rub her face, and ask the question that had become a daily mantra.

“What is
wrong
with me?”

In the few short weeks they’d been at Tullybrae, the team had unearthed a number of utility items, broken pottery, rusted gardening tools and the like. But so far, they’d all been from the last hundred years. It was encouraging, yes, but not the find they were hoping to make. Although, just yesterday, they’d made a breakthrough when Ewan and Sophie uncovered the outline of the old kitchens which went back to the time the house was built.

Emmie’s avoidance of them didn’t seem to bother her new friends much. In fact, it hardly seem to register with them. Ever since their night at The Grigg, they pulled her into their folds. It was no matter that she never came outside to see them, they were perfectly comfortable seeking her out in the house. With every discovery, they ploughed into her sanctuary, full of enthusiasm. And Emmie, not wanting to put a damper on their excitement, would force herself to adopt an air of eagerness, and follow them outside to see what the fuss was about.

Really… what was
wrong
with her?

This particular morning, she woke up feeling very off. The kind of “off” where there was an edge of the surreal to everything, like when a fever first makes itself known. Except that she was not suffering from a fever. On the contrary, she was fighting fit. Physically, at least. Her temperature was fine, she had no aches or chills. Nothing.

She just felt spacy. Unaccountably, inexplicably… off.

An early morning gloom had cleared, and a tentative sunshine struggled through the haze of fresh fog. Cool, dewy moisture pillowed the hills and the house. Emmie threw open the windows of the nursery and pulled in several deep lungsful of the Highland autumn air (an act which went against her curator’s instinct to preserve the house and its artefacts from moisture damage). It not only had a scent, the air, it had a taste, too. It was clean, restorative. Invigorating.

She couldn’t get enough of it.

She was still there at the window, absorbing as much of the Highlands as she possibly could, when Dean’s voice, then Adam’s, brought her back to the nursery. They were in the house, barreling down the corridor.

Good Lord, please let them have wiped their boots this time.

Not wanting to let them find her with her head hanging out the window, Emmie flung herself across the room and into her desk chair. She had just opened her laptop and was pretending to type furiously when they burst through the door.

“Em, we need you.”

She looked up into the flushed, beaming face of Dean. “What’s up, guys?”

“We’ve found something,” exclaimed Adam, shoving Dean out of the way, even though the latter was a head taller and substantially less scrawny. “We need your opinion. None of us are sure what it is.”

“Um… yeah, sure. I’ll be down in a bit. Give me a half hour?”

“Nuh-uh. We need you now.” Adam grabbed her hand across the desk and gave her arm a tug.

They ushered her out, pulling her along the narrow hallway nearly three abreast. Adam held tight to her hand, and Dean kept his hand on her lower back. Neither of them wanted to give an inch to the other in the battle for her attentions. She tolerated their overtures with humour. Adam was more overt than Dean. To hear Sophie tell it, the man was a hopeless flirt by nature.

“It drives Kim nuts,” she said, referring to Adam’s girlfriend. “She’s so insecure and clingy. It drives her crazy to let him go off by himself like this, not knowing what he’s getting up to.”

“That’s… sad,” Emmie commented. “Do you think I should put a stop to it with me? I never bothered before because I thought he wasn’t serious.”

“He’s not serious. You could try putting him in his place, but you’d be wasting your time. Adam flirting is like dogs pissing on trees. He can’t help himself.”

“I feel bad for his girlfriend, though.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Sophie pursed her lips. “She’s really nice, too. Not quite sure how those two ever got together in the first place, though. Don’t tell him I said so.”

As for Dean’s overtures, they were more disconcerting to Emmie than Adam’s. For the most part they, too, were innocuous. But every now and again, she detected in them the underlying hope that she’d return his subtle advances. He was a nice enough guy, but not her type. Too down-home redneck… in a charming way, of course. Besides, it wasn’t the right time for her. She dreaded the day she would have to come out and say it for certain. She’d regret having to disappoint him.

Adam and Dean led her out to the east field. Their original trenches had expanded and deepened. A truck from the University of Edinburgh came out daily to cart away their finds for examination and storage. Laid out on a long, plastic workbench that was set up beneath the tent were today’s artefacts, those that had been found since morning.

There were only four small pieces. Emmie gave them a cursory glance, but they were so encrusted with dirt, she couldn’t tell what they were.

A heavy churning had begun in her belly at some point after leaving the nursery. It had started off slow, like a huge turbine struggling to pick up speed. Now that she was out at the dig site, it was turning steadily, and had spread to her legs, weighing them down.

It was as though her body instinctively knew that, whatever it was they’d found, she did not want to confront it.

“Emmie.” Famke waved enthusiastically. Emmie waved feebly back.

Ewan was farther beneath the tent. He came to the edge of the table when Adam and Dean ushered her by the elbows to the things they’d pulled from the ground.

“Sorry to disturb you,” he said, “and I say that on behalf of Thing One and Thing Two, here, because I know they didn’t bother to apologize for strong-arming you away from you work.”

“I was going to,” Dean insisted, letting go of his grip on her.

“Not me, mate,” Adam countered, throwing an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close for a cheeky kiss on the temple. “Didn’t even occur to me. Sorry to bother you, Em. Shoulda said.”

Ewan shot Adam a disapproving look. “If you’re willing, we’d love to get your opinion. We’re not sure what it is, exactly, but it’s intriguing.”

Emmie hadn’t noticed that Ewan was holding something in his hands. When he thrust his palm forward, the object on it made her wince.

It was small, only the size of her index finger. A slender, silver protrusion was topped by a dirt-crusted ornament the size of a dime. They were right to be excited about it. The moulded design was elaborate. She couldn’t quite tell what it was, but it was Celtic. Probably dated to before the time of the Jacobite rising in the early seventeen hundreds, if she had to guess.

“Have you ever seen anything like it?”

Emmie swallowed thickly. “It’s a kilt pin.”

Famke, who had drifted closer, peered over Emmie’s shoulder. “A kilt pin? What’s that?”

“A pin to keep your kilt together,” Adam scoffed. “You know what a kilt is. Them funny skirts blokes wear in Scotland?”

“Oh, yes. A
kilt
. I thought she said a
killed
pin.”

“Look at that detail,” Dean pressed. “Is that a clan ensign, do you think?”

Before she could say anything, he had snatched the pin from Ewan’s palm and tossed it at her. Emmie reacted without thinking, catching the pin in both hands. She barely heard Ewan say, “She should be wearing gloves, Deano,” before she was hammered by a wave of emotion.

It was the strongest rush she’d ever experienced. Rage. Pain. Grief. Anguish. It all rolled over and through her, constricting her lungs, her heart, her throat.

Sophie was the first to notice something was wrong. “Hey, Em. You okay? Your hands are shaking.”

“Emmie?” Famke repeated when she didn’t answer.

“Yes—I… I just haven’t been feeling well lately,” she forced herself to choke out. Her voice was strained, hoarse. “I think I need to go back inside.”

“I’ll help you,” Dean, insisted. Ewan stopped him.

“No, Deano. You stay here. Emmie, let
me
help you.”

He took the pin from her trembling hand, and put it back on the table. Taking her gently by the elbow, he led her back to the house. He was patient, letting her walk at her own pace, and Emmie was immensely grateful that he didn’t try and talk to her. What would she say?

He stopped at the front door, and looked into her face. His eyes, which Emmie hadn’t before noticed were a clear green with gold flecks, searched her face beneath that full, brown beard.

“Do you need help inside? Or can I get Lamb for you?”

Emmie shook her head. “I—I just need to sit down, I think.”

“You’re not diabetic, are you? A low blood sugar? You look as pale as a sheet and you’re sweating.”

“No, it’s nothing like that. I don’t know what happened, really.”

Ewan breathed deeply, and glanced up at the sky. “Sometimes it just happens. You’re fine one minute, then the next you feel like you’ve been hit by a lorry. If you haven’t bounced back in an hour or so, make sure you tell Lamb. I’d feel better if he knew you were poorly.”

“I will. I promise. Tell the others I’m sorry.”

Ewan snorted. “Adam and Deano? They don’t deserve it.”

He waited while she went inside. She thanked him once again before closing the door. His concern for her well-being caused the corners of his eyes to crinkle, but he raised a hand in farewell and let her go.

Safe behind the walls of Tullybrae House, Emmie climbed the main staircase on heavy legs, and hauled herself to the servants’ stairs. But once she reached them, her legs would climb no further. Instead, she sank pitifully onto the first stair, leaned back against the wall, and pulled her knees to her chest.

Burying her face in her arms, she lost the fight against a torrent of tears—tears which she could not account for. They consumed her. The anguish she’d first felt upon touching that kilt pin squeezed her heart until she thought it would stop. Great, heaving sobs poured out of her into the empty air. She tried to staunch them; she didn’t want Lamb to hear. But it was no use. Her nose ran, her mascara tracked down her cheeks, and her face turned a bright shade of crimson. It was ugly, angry crying. Helpless grief.

The more she cried, the more her sobs echoed back to her. They bounced off the walls in stereo, coming back in unsynchronized rhythm. Her own voice…

Wait…
not
her own voice.

Not an echo.

Emmie sniffled, and quieted. The sobbing quieted, too.

Rubbing her eyes into focus, she scanned the second floor landing. There was no one there. Yet, she felt certain that someone
was
there, in the stairwell with her. Closer to the door.

She peered. Squinted. Strained. Tried to make sense of the discrepancy between what she saw, and what she felt. The longer she stared, the more the air by the door began to shift. To shimmer, like heat rising from pavement.

Then slowly, the shifting, shimmering air took on the vague outline of a person.

It was not a definite outline. She could not see a face, or even discern if it was man or woman. It felt like a man, though. The same male presence she’d felt that day when the camera crew had come for the first time.