The People in The Fogby
Ever since she was made Head of Spanish, Maria had managed to avoid the annual school trip to Longacre House in the Scottish Highlands. Her colleagues, Matt (Deputy Head Teacher) and Eliot (Head of History), had always gone, along with a group of parents, but this year Matt was getting married over the half-term break and was heading off to Greece for his honeymoon. So Maria found herself on the train with 30 squealing Year 10s and Eliot, who had arranged the trip to introduce the pupils to a slice of history that was part of the GCSE curriculum.
Set on the Scottish coast, Longacre House overlooked a dramatic shipwreck that artists had flocked to paint since the 1800s – the remains of a wooden hull against black rocks, white-tipped waves crashing up the beach. The wreck was part of the Spanish Armada that had tried to invade England in 1588, while Mary Queens of Scots spent her childhood summers at Longacre House.
The grounds sprawled across 1,200 acres of gardens and woodlands, a lake, a maze, a waterfall, and lawns that had been transformed into camp grounds with basic cabins set up for tourists and school groups.
But it was October in the Scottish Highlands, where temperatures rarely rose above five degrees. Eliot was as dull as an Ofsted meeting, and the very last person Maria wanted to spend a whole weekend with.
Shipwreck or no, she was bracing herself for a weekend in a damp cabin, breaking up fights and getting little to no sleep. They set off from Durham at seven in the morning, arriving at Fort William at half past three. From there, a coach took them to Longacre House, where they arrived just in time for a tour.
“House” was an understatement – Longacre was a sprawling castle, with turrets and dungeons and a listed dovecot that resembled a beehive made of stone. Inside, narrow corridors led the pupils to cavernous rooms with secret doors and paintings that seemed to watch you wherever you went. The guides showed the children Mary Queen of Scots’ childhood bed and her toys, as well as a pearl necklace that belonged to Mary Queen of Scots’ mother, Mary of Guise. And then there was the cliff, and the shipwreck below. Against dark storm clouds, the scene was breathtaking.
Eliot handed out an information leaflet about the Spanish Armada, but they were all busy taking videos and photographs on their phones. The visitor restaurant had stayed open for their arrival, where they enjoyed a supper of hot soup and rolls. Afterwards, Maria and Eliot led the children and parents to the cabins, where they dropped off their bags. After that, they set off for a walk around the grounds, with plans to rejoin later for a campfire.
In spite of being so far north, it grew dark earlier than expected, not helped by the lack of street lights. Maria checked that her group of five students had working head torches and dry footwear before taking the path that led to the coast. They had to make their way through dense forest, but the path was marked with red arrows. As long as they stuck to it, they were fine.
One of Maria’s group, a shy boy named Luca, straggled behind.
“Come on, Luca!” she called to him, silently pushing him when the path through the trees grew steep. Eventually, he caught up, but as they reached the waterfall, the mist that had settled across the woods thickened until she could barely see the others.
“Hang on, everyone!” she called, but the waterfall drowned out her voice. “Luca?”
The beam of her head torch bounced off the wall of fog that closed in, and Luca’s outline faded. Above, a canopy of trees swayed like veins against the dark sky. Maria stopped and looked around to get her bearings. It was useless – the forest was erased by the gathering fog. It must have come off the sea. What was it called? Sea fret? It even smelled briny. She pulled out her phone and hit Eliot’s number, but the call failed to connect – she had no signal.
She decided to press on, worried that she would lose her group if she hesitated any longer. As long as she didn’t stray from the path she should catch up with them. But the waterfall was no longer as thunderous as it had been a moment ago, and the treeline was darkening. Where was she? How had a few steps led her off the track?
A few minutes later, she heard voices, and her breathing became easier.
Finally, she thought, I’ve managed to catch up with the rest of the group. The last thing she needed was to spend the night consoling frightened teenagers. Or, worse, injured ones.
“Luca?” she called, using the light from her phone as a second torch. “Naomi? Elsie? Are you there?”
The voices grew closer. Maria stood stock still, realising with horror that these weren’t the voices of her pupils. They were deep, adult voices, and there was another sound she couldn’t place. A bark. They had a dog.
“Hello?” she called, a little anxious. “Who’s there?”
Through the gloom, five shadows emerged. One of them held up a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of her torch, and she apologised quickly and lowered it. Standing not 20 feet away were three men, a boy of about 10, and a black lurcher.
“Hi,” she said, relieved to see that they looked as unnerved as she was. “Have you seen some children? About 13 years old? I can’t find the path.”
The men shared looks. “Español?” one said, and she realised – they only spoke Spanish, not English. She was fluent, and so she repeated her question quickly in Spanish. The men looked relieved, and she noticed their clothes – they were shabbily dressed, one of them wearing what looked like a battered shacket and tatty trousers held up by an old belt.
“The children went that way,” one of them said, in Spanish, pointing to the right. “You’ll go down a hill towards a large oak tree. The children are there.”
Maria felt relieved that she’d bumped into the men, and that they’d seen where her group went. But she noticed that the dog was trembling and the child’s clothing was wet.
“Are you alright?’ she said.
The men shared looks. “We are trying to get home,” one of them said.
She told them that Longacre House was behind the lake, and that if they followed the markers along the path, they’d spy the turrets of the house beyond the trees. She assumed they’d parked their car at the visitors’ car park.
With smiles and a nod of thanks, they headed towards the path.
Maria followed the path down the hill and spotted the oak tree. A moment later, she heard the voices of her pupils, and rushed towards them. Luca, Elsie, Naomi, Teddy, and Freya – they were all there.
“We couldn’t find you,” Naomi whimpered. “We thought you’d turned back.”
“It’s alright now,” Maria said. “But let’s not risk losing anyone.”
The fog was beginning to dissipate, but the children looked scared. She made them hold hands, forming a chain, and headed back to the campsite, where hot chocolate and a campfire restored their spirits.
The next day, when she told Eliot about the men she had encountered in the woods the night before, he grew pale. There had been stories of ghosts roaming the grounds of Longacre House for years, and even a painting in the drawing room depicting a frightened man encountering what looked like the spectres of sailors who had arrived on Spanish ships. He showed her a brass plaque with an old Scots proverb, warning against telling “fog folk” how to reach Longacre House. The soldiers had sworn to the king that, once they invaded, they would never leave. It seemed this promise held fast whether they were living or dead.
Maria didn’t mention it to the pupils. She didn’t believe in ghosts. The men were probably camping illegally in the grounds. But on the last night of their stay, she swore she saw a dog at the window of Longacre House, a black lurcher, just for a moment.