A HIGHLAND HAUNTING
A chilling ghost story told by the fire is enough to convince Guy Grieve that it might be more than just Scotland’s history that haunts its wilderness
Guy Grieve's latest column is a ghost story that's not for the faint-hearted
Ilive remotely on Mull, beside a loch with good friends a mile or so to my east and a few miles to the north and nothing in between but hills the colour of whisky. It’s a special place that revives me between bouts of dive fishing. My water comes from a clear running burn that has watered the inhabitants of this little house for nearly 200 years and my heating and hot water relies on the fire.
I live simply here: no television, minimal dodgy wi-fi and surrounded by books. I enjoy the serenity of this place when contrasted with the daily struggle of trying to keep our fishing business going. Sometimes, when the wind blows hard from the west and eddies round the corners of my thick-walled little home, it feels as if the place has become like a rock within a fast flowing river. At other times memories return of my rough-hewn cabin in Alaska as I sit beside the fire, captivated by the sublime sight and scent of wood burning.
A few weeks ago a dear friend and his son came to stay for a couple of days. He is an accomplished and well-known owner of a highly respected business and leads an exceptionally hectic life, so I imagine finding himself out in the boonies must have been a tonic. Over dinner we spoke about Scotland and the strangeness of its remote places.
I remarked that the Scottish wilderness is a haunted one – the past living on and hinting at its presence through ancient marks that the discerning eye can always spot on the land. My friend (who shall remain nameless as my relating this story would embarrass him) nodded in agreement and remarked, in a matter-of-fact way, that it was indeed a haunted wilderness. Something about his tone stopped his son and I in our tracks. He had a story to relate. Later, as the fire burned bright on a few perfumed cuts of birch, all of us armed with a dram, he told it.
I should say before I repeat his story that this man is a paragon of rationality and logic and not the type to exaggerate or invent. He told us how as a lad he had been travelling around Scotland one summer with his two brothers, fishing remote lochans and burns and camping as they went.
One afternoon they set their tent up amongst the ruins of some kind of settlement beside a small forestry block of sitka spruce. Beside a smoky fire, which they were grateful for as the midges were out in force, they quickly scoffed their grub then escaped to their tents for an early night. My friend was sharing a tent with his younger brother, the eldest in a separate tent on his own.
It was a warm still night and they fell into deep sleep as only the young can. At around one o’clock in the morning my friend and his brother woke up. The tent was absolutely freezing. Frost had gathered inside. Outside, something heavy was walking around the tent. They could feel the vibrations of each step as it moved ponderously around them. They knew it wasn’t a cow or a stag, but something else, something non-animal.
There was an extreme and almost sickinducing sense of evil about it and they could feel it looming over the tent, looking down on them. They were utterly terrified. From the next tent, they could hear their brother saying the Lord’s prayer over and over. And then the cold passed and it was gone. At first light they found no tracks, no sign on the ground around the tents. They left immediately.
I asked my friend what he thought it was, and he shrugged. ‘I have no idea, but it was real. I’ve never been more afraid in my life – ever.’
We said nothing for a while. The fire made a sighing sound as a passing gust sucked at the chimney. I saw an opportunity to spook out the poor teenager with us: ‘You know, a young girl died of scarlet fever in this house. It was a long time ago…’
“
There was an extreme and almost sickinducing sense of evil about it