Chapter 3: Breakfast of Secrets
The silence in the library’s wake was a physical weight. Hamish had herded them out, his movements sharp and efficient, not speaking another word until the heavy oak door was shut with a definitive thud that seemed to seal a tomb. He shot the bolt, a simple, thick iron bar that looked centuries old, into place.
“That’s no’ for keeping things out,” he’d muttered, more to himself than to them. “It’s for keeping things in.”
Now, in the cavernous Great Hall, the world felt different. The high, shadowed ceiling seemed lower, the dancing firelight in the enormous hearth less cheerful and more watchful. The long trestle table where they sat was an island in a sea of cold stone. The air smelled of woodsmoke, frying pork, and the damp that no fire could ever truly conquer.
Hamish moved between the hearth and a small, modern hotplate on a sideboard, his movements a practiced ritual. He set down three heavy earthenware bowls of steaming porridge, a plate of crisp oatcakes, and a smaller dish of dark, crumbly black pudding. A pot of strong tea stewed near the fire, its bitter scent a welcome anchor to normality. Already on the table was some kind of sausage, squares instead of links.
“Eat,” Hamish commanded, not looking at either of them as he poured a generous measure of whisky from a flask into his own coffee cup. He offered the flask to Al, who nodded numbly. The amber liquid splashed into his mug, the peaty smell cutting through the lingering chill in his bones.
Al stirred his porridge, his appetite gone. He could still feel the phantom warmth of the book, the shock of the flying volumes, the sound of that single, whispered word. Mine.
“Ewan,” Al finally said, the name feeling dangerous on his tongue. “The last heir. You said… they took him.”
Hamish stared into the fire, the flames reflecting in his eyes like distant memories. “Aye. Ewan McCullen. He was about your age. Full of life. A laugh that could fill this hall.” He took a long sip of his spiked coffee. “He was due to leave for university in a fortnight. St. Andrews. Had his trunk half-packed upstairs.”
Edith, who had been quietly pushing her food around her bowl, went very still. “St. Andrews?”
Hamish’s eyes flicked to her. “Aye. History, like his father. Why?”
“I… I’m at St. Andrews. I’m doing my post-grad there. That’s how I got the grant to work here.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “It’s why I was so keen to come. The McCullen archives are legendary. I’ve read his great-grandfather’s papers.”
A thick silence settled over the table, broken only by the crackle of the fire. The coincidence hung in the air, too pointed to be ignored, a thread connecting the past to the present in a way that felt less like chance and more like design.
“He brought a girl here,” Hamish continued, his voice low and rough. “Moira MacLennan. Her family’s farm borders the estate. Pretty thing, with hair like midnight. You could hear them laughing, sometimes, echoing in these old stones. It was the last summer of real laughter this place has known.”
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his gaze locked on Al. “They were in the library, just like you. Curled up in one of the window seats, reading some silly romantic poem to each other. The air was thick with it—young love, all that hope, that feeling that the world was made just for them.” Hamish’s jaw tightened. “And the stones drank it in. You could feel it, if you knew what to feel for. A sort of… contentment. A purring.”
“What happened?” Al asked, his voice tight.
“The laughing stopped. There was a sound. Not a crash, not a scream. A… rupture. Like fabric tearing. I was in the courtyard. I felt it in my teeth. I ran in.” He shook his head, the memory a fresh pain on his weathered face. “Moira was alone. She was on the floor, shaking, couldn’t speak for a day. Just pointed at the empty space where he’d been sitting. There was nothing there. No struggle, no sign. Just the book of poems, fallen on the floor. And the smell.”
“The smell?” Edith prompted softly.
“Ozone. Like after a lightning strike. And cold stone. That’s all.” He looked from Al to Edith, his expression grave. “The police came. Search parties. Nothing. Moira eventually said it was like a shadow unwove him from the air beside her. She never set foot in this castle again. Moved to Glasgow the first chance she got.”
The story landed in the quiet hall with the weight of a falling stone. Al’s porridge was a cold, gluey mass in his bowl. The castle wasn’t just haunted; it was predatory. It didn’t just observe passion; it consumed it.
Without thinking, his hand found Edith’s where it rested on the table. Her fingers were ice-cold. He laced his with them, a simple, human gesture against the unimaginable. Her skin was soft. He felt her flinch at the initial contact, then her grip tightened, holding on as if he were a lifeline.
A spark, immediate and electric, passed between their palms. It was comfort, yes, but underneath it was the same dangerous heat from the library, a low thrum of connection that felt both utterly right and terribly foolish.
Across the table, Hamish’s eyes dropped to their joined hands. He didn’t scowl or shout. A profound sadness seemed to settle over him, deepening the lines on his face.
“Aye,” he said, his voice hollow. “I see it. Just like that.”
At that moment, a log shifted in the hearth with a sharp crack, sending a whirl of sparks up into the gloom. From somewhere deep in the castle, a sound echoed—faint, but unmistakable. It was the distant, musical chime of a single bell, though no bell had hung in McCullen Castle for a hundred years.
Hamish froze, his head cocked. The color drained from his face.
“What was that?” Edith whispered, her hand gripping Al’s even tighter.
Hamish stood slowly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. The look he gave them was no longer one of warning, but of resignation. A man seeing a path he’d walked before, and knew there was no stepping off.
“It’s started,” he said. “It’s tasted you now. It knows your scent. And it’s ringing for supper.”