Page 40 of Once Upon A Haunted Castle
Deep Into Darkness
A Medieval Horror/Paranormal Novella
Kathryn Le Veque
Part One
You might not like what you find….
Three Kings Inn
Cullen, Buckie, Scotland
December, Present Day
“Idon’t getit,” a young woman with long dark hair, pulled back into a messy bun, spoke with a hint of disgust. “That guide said he’d meet us here and take us out to the castle but it’s been almost an hour and a half. Where in the hell is he?”
The young woman sat with a friend at the bar of the Three Kings Inn, a quaint, older establishment in the seaside town of Cullen, Scotland. It was December, a good month for travel, but the season had been rather cool. Winds whipped in from the Firth of Moray, bringing dampness and the smell of the sea with them. The entire town smelled of the ocean, that mustiness that only comes from the wet of the sea.
The tavern, too, had that seagoing smell, but it only added to the ambiance. A big fire roared in the hearth in the main room and gave off a good deal of heat, causing the patrons to strip down out of their windbreakers and coats. The two young women at the bar were no exception; coats and purses lay across their laps.
“I have no idea,” the brunette woman’s companion said. She was a tall woman with auburn hair, quite messy and wind-whipped. “All I know is that we’ve been sitting here getting drunk waiting for him to show up. How many beers have I had?”
The brunette friend snorted. “One more than I’ve had.”
“How many haveyouhad?”
“Eighteen.”
They burst into giggles, finishing the last of the Belhaven beer in their glasses, looking up when the door to the tavern opened and a young couple entered. It wasn’t the guide they’d hired, an older man named Tim. Tim was nowhere to be found on this Friday, but the tavern was filling up for the evening rush.
“Well… hell,” the brunette grunted as she motioned the bartender for another beer. “I think we’ve been stood up. You’d think my name would have meant something to Tim. How often does he get to participate in an American television show?”
The auburn-haired companion chuckled. “I can see it now,” she said, pretending to hold a phone to her ear. “Hi. My name is Heather Monroe. I’m a freaking ghostbuster! Take me to that haunted castle!”
Heather burst into laughter, shaking her head at her silly friend. “You’re supposed to be my producer,” she said. She, too, feigned holding a phone to her ear. “Hi. My name is Lynn York. I’m too lazy to call you so I make my host do it.”
They continued to giggle, cracking themselves up over too much ale and the fact that they’d been stood up by a local guide who had promised to take them to Findlater Castle, about four miles to the east.
Heather and Lynn worked for a show called “World’s Best Haunts” and part of that job was going to remote locations, following up on legends of haunted castles, homes, people, cars, buildings, or whatever else happened to sound interesting. In fact, they’d just come from Tennessee in the United States, having recently recorded a show on some allegedly haunted caves in the area. It had been cold, damp, and dreary, and the visit had been a bust, but their graphics guy and editor would make it interesting in post-production. They never worried about giving their viewers a thrill because they always did, whether or not the ghosts cooperated.
That was kind of their song-and-dance routine, finding out of the way places and “talking” to the ghosts. Plus, Heather always made sure she looked incredibly hot, which she didn’t at the moment, but she wasn’t beyond showing cleavage to gain viewers.Maleviewers. Now, she and her producer were on the hunt for Findlater Castle, rumored to house the sad ghost of a Medieval lady who literally wandered the grounds in chains, weeping for her long lost love. Many people claimed to have seen her and many more people claimed to have images of her on film. In fact, Tim the Guide claimed to have some great images of the ghost. But, since he was a no-show, it looked like they weren’t going to get to see them.
But that didn’t matter much now, at least as long as the beer was flowing. It was late afternoon and, soon, the sun would be setting. There wasn’t much point in heading out to a remote location like Findlater Castle in the dark, even if they did want to see ghosts. They wanted to keep their lives more than that, and Findlater was surrounded by treacherous cliffs that could very easily dump an unsuspecting person off into the Firth of Moray. Besides… they could find another guide in the morning. There wasn’t any rush. They did these shows for profit, not for any real love of ghost hunting.
So the two of them sat and giggled, discussing the fact that they’d lost their guide and, at some point, discussing the need to head back to their hotel. Heather was starting to get a significant buzz so she thought they’d better eat something before they tried to leave and ordered two burgers that were topped with pulled pork, apples, and barbeque sauce. It sounded delicious and they backed off on the ale a bit until dinner came. Meanwhile, the inn was filling up with people as Friday night came into full swing.
It was a small place so sitting room was at a premium. Young couples had taken the tables and the spot by the fireplace, while two old men huddled on one end of the bar and another older couple sat on the other side of Heather and Lynn. It was loud because it was such a small place but it was warm and inviting, and when the burgers came, they were delicious.
As they sat and ate their burgers, another older gentleman entered the establishment and planted himself at the bar on Heather’s left side. He had a worn coin purse, which he produced, and counted out all of his change right there on the bar top. No words were even exchanged with the bartender, who simply brought him a beer and took about half of the pile of change in payment. Evidently, he and the old man had been through this routine before. The old man carefully put his change back into his coin purse, counting it out one by one so he remembered how much he had.
Mouth full, Heather couldn’t help but watch the old man with curiosity. He was exceptionally old and must have been bordering on senility the way he was muttering to himself. Glancing at Lynn, Heather lifted her eyebrows at the woman, a silent commentary about the state of the old man, but she couldn’t help but look back at him with his stringy gray hair peering out from beneath his frayed newsboy cap and his stubby, gnarled fingers. There was something intriguing about him in spite of his mad mumbling and dirty appearance.
Finally, the old man counted out the last of his pennies and put them away, catching sight of Heather, who was still watching him. Their eyes met and he winked at her as if knowing her questions before she even asked them.
“The old woman gives me an allowance to come here,” he said in a very heavy Scots brogue. “I have to make sure I have enough for two beers. That’s all I get.”
Those short sentences explained a lot, actually. Heather grinned. “She runs a tight ship, eh?” she asked.
