Was she afraid to step out?
No. No, she wasn’t.
Carefully locking the door behind her, Aileen braved the weather, calling out again.
This time, the response was pelting raindrops that crashed over her in a flurry, their wet earthy taste leaving her mouth bitter.
She muttered a curse and shuffled backwards when the light in the distance stopped, flickered, and stilled.
Was someone playing games? Trying to scare her? Or were they young lads, out on a night like this undoubtedly not in their senses?
What day was it? It didn’t take her mind long to answer: Saturday.
Saturday night and young lads not in their senses, those two were strongly correlated.
This time she huffed, anger quickly replacing fear. As a young adult, Aileen never had the urge to spend her time “socialising.” She’d rather be with her books: fiction, non-fiction, or old ledgers.
That’s the reason you’re all alone with less than adequate social skills.
Dismissing the usual back and forth between her inner critique and her head, she trudged towards the light.
She was confident, Aileen reassured herself.
Thank goodness for the plastic torch clutched tightly in her grasp. She’d learnt this important lesson since coming down to Loch Fuar: nights were dark with no streetlights. Using the torch on your phone meant the phone could die.
Thus, a physical torch it was.
The downpour miffed Aileen, knowing what a mess her boots would be, but she slogged on. After a while of questioning if she was being a fool, Aileen surveyed the treacherous landscape in this blasphemous weather. At least she wasn’t tipsy like the lads in the distance undeniably were. And she was well-equipped too. There seemed to be no ditches that could hurt her… Severely, anyway.
Aileen hunched, drawing her jacket tighter around herself to retain what little warmth she had. Her jeans were completely soaked!
After dragging her feet through the dirt for a while, Aileen lost track of time. She tried her best to walk faster, but the damp earth and exertion made her footsteps sloppy, especially when the wind joined in with the vicious dance of the rain.
What kept her pushing forward was the light. It had flickered again. She was irrefutably curious.
Aileen desperately tried not to swallow the rainwater that assaulted her mouth. The taste reminding her of iron, bitter and metallic. Her only reprieve was the light, which blazed brighter as she approached it.
After a while, Aileen cleared the bushes—or what she thought were bushes—pushing past them only to emerge on a landing of sorts.
An unnatural guttural cry from above made Aileen’s knees go weak and her heart raced.
Golly!
She clasped her wet wrinkled fingers together, as if in prayer. Squinting, Aileen flicked the dripping moisture from her tired eyes. Right in front of her was a small cottage!
That’s where the light was coming from!
She let out a soft chuckle. Aileen had never noticed this cottage before. And judging by the crack in its roof, the place seemed neglected. It was a surprise it had any electricity at all. Surely it housed stranded people. The cottage could crumble at any moment on a good day. It certainly couldn’t withstand this storm.
With best wishes in her heart, Aileen walked up to the door and called out. But her voice was lost to the otherworldly calls which assaulted her ears.
Aileen frowned at the slightly ajar door.
Who’d leave the door hanging open in this blasted weather? Perhaps it wouldn’t close…
She let it go; she was overthinking. As usual. Using all the breath in her lungs she called out again, Aileen’s fear was long forgotten, hoping to help someone. Despite her shouts, she was met with silence.
Once again Aileen wiped the rainwater from her eyes. Her hands had gone pale and shivered. She licked her lips. What if this was some elaborate scheme to harm her?
This is Loch Fuar, Aileen! Adventurous, Courageous!
With one hand on the slippery torch, Aileen steeled herself. A moment later, she pulled the rough wooden door open. ‘Hell-’
Her words died in her mouth and what came out was a terrifying scream. Her pruney hands shook, and legs trembled. Her throat burned with bile and she couldn’t breathe.
Right in the centre of the room, just above where a wooden beam ran across the ceiling, a rope dangled.
And on that rope hung a ghost. White limbs attached to a blonde head tumbled over onto a shoulder, clad in a dirty milky dress.
Lightning struck, illuminating the dangling body.
A freezing breeze tickled Aileen’s clenched fists and played with the murky hem of the corpse’s dress.
The swaying feet were almost blue…
Aileen's shaky hands pressed the soft fabric of her coat that kept her warm… Alive. A repulsive, rancid reek tugged at her gut.
Dead. The dangling woman was surely dead.
