Tales from the H(ebrides)ood

Drawing islands #notebooks #sketchbookproject #drawing

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Guess what I’m a famous writer now. Forget the bloody art, videos, games, vans, history blogs, podcasts, Let’s plays, notebooks in fact just FORGET IT ALL: I’m now legitimately Stephen bloody King. What’s more amazing is how I’m so humble and modest and also a genius.

Nah, but seriously I’ve written stories in the past, some of which have made it here. I always fancied writing a full-blown book, and I’ve been writing this plan/concept for a horror story set on a fictional Scottish Island. I’ve talked in the past how one of my favourite games in recent years was Dear Esther, and in a similar vein how books such as The Wasp Factory and films like the original Wicker Man have been making me want to write and create the history of a fictional island that I can explore and develop through an actual short story or novel. I’ve been sitting on concepts for a while, and I’ve written histories and locations, diary entries and fake Wikipedia pages all about the place. All that was left was to try and form a  story around it.

And so we come to the Post I made in reddit’s NoSleep community. It’s a subreddit where people post creepy stories and possible “Supernatural” goings on. All stories are (often obviously) works of fiction but the conceit of the subreddit is that all stories must be taken at face value. It makes for a fun role play experience when comments posit theories and ideas and the poster/writer can respond “in character”. I had this idea to post my story in the form of a journal, found on a flash drive, and recounting the bizarre experiences on the island. What amazed me though is the incredible reaction I got towards it- people loved it! Somehow, through my awful spelling and grammar people picked up the thread of the story and it’s been read thousands of times! Last night I posted a part 2 which was similarly well received. Is it the perfect version of the story? Definitely not, my intention has always been to do it as a third/first person story told periodically with diary entries, but as a test to see how people enjoy the concept, it’s been really awesome. I’ve never been very confident in my writing so to see such a  great reaction has been a bit of a shock.

In the future, I hope to turn this into a full-blown novel, but for now you can follow the story at nosleep, or carry on below to find part 1 & 2 together (hopefully with some corrected formatting and spelling).

Enjoy!

 

Okay first things first this isn’t about me.

Look I’m not good at writing shit so excuse me if it’s a bit rushed- my friend is an amateur historian, he writes and makes podcasts and documentaries freelance about interesting places around Scotland. I dont know any of the details, I’m not really an internet person like. Apparently it’s pretty popular.

Anyway few weeks ago he tells me he’s going off to an island way off the west coast of Scotland, like outer outer Hebrides. Take it from me- fucking shite places. Those are the backwards islands where everyone’s still an alcoholic because the harder drugs a haven’t reached them yet. Really fucking depressing places. I’ve worked fishing boats out on that coast for years and I’d barely even heard of the place, but apparently it’s a fuckin goldmine of history or something. Anyway, there’s no internet or phone signal out there so he tells me to keep an eye on the post- he’s going to send back his articles and podcasts episodes bit by bit on old flash drives, and I can upload them for him. I’ve no clue how fucking podcast stuff works but he tells me it’s really easy, he’ll include instructions and all that shit. So I wait, and I wait but… Nothing? He said I could expect a flash drive at least every week, but it’s been a month now and I’ve heard nothing.

Then this flash drive arrives. It’s in this scuffed old envelope written in worse handwriting than mine (thats sayin something) and there’s no letter inside or instructions, just a note written on the back of the envelope:

tha a h-uile duine gu math. bidh mi ann ceealadeug. thig a cheilidh uaireign

So it’s gaelic right? Scottish gaelic. It was my first language but I’ve forgotten most of it by now, my gran says it reads-

“everybody’s fine. I’ll be here for a fortnight. come visit some time”

Now that’s just fucking weird. One, my gran says it’s old gaelic. Like not fucking ancient egypt writing but from the 20s and 30s, gaelic isn’t written that way any more. Second, my friend doesn’t speak Gaelic. Never has, he’s useless with languages other than English (well, scottish english i guess). Sure maybe he wrote it as a joke or something but it’s all scrawled and badly written. There’s no names, no mention of the flash drive. Plus he’s on his own, who everybody? Why’s he fuckin telling me he’s alright? And asking me to visit? That gave me this weird feeling. Like honest fucking goosebumps. Why would he be asking me to visit? He’s meant to be home in a few days?

Anyway, I open the flash drive and it’s fucking full of stuff. Thrown in and really badly organized, really unlike him. There’s folders in folders and pictures of random places, loads of word documents and stuff, even more audio files with weird names. I can’t open the files on my computer though, they’re like this weird .pkf file? iTunes wont open it anyway. I’ll try and sort though it all later. But eventually my mate tells me to sort the stuff by date so I can see the oldest to the newest. Earliest photo is a drawing he did of the island island before he left(you can tell he’s a wannabe writer eh? Shitty Instagram filters and a coffeeshop). There’s this one folder hes edited almost the whole time he’s there, must be a journal or something. Either way it’s called POST THIS. I figured this would be the best place to put it- he puts a lot of his shit on reddit and he’s still logged on on his home PC. Here’s the first entry-

November 1- 04/12/15

Lochaidh From https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lochaidh[3] Lochaidh Island (Scottish Gaelic: An t-Eilean Lochaidh) is a small, Scottish island lying approximately 4 kilometres off the coast of South Uist in the Outer Hebrides. The island was made dangerous for all mammals by experiments with the anthrax bacterium during World War 2 as part of the larger SENEX Experiments[4] conducted on a number of small Scottish island communities. Evidence of human habitation on the island has been dated as far back as the early iron age, and the island is the site of numerous brochs and archaeological sites. In recent times, It was the scene of the Gimms Disaster[5] and later Dubh’s Revolt[6] , where almost half the community

We’re away! Weather is pretty poor but the boat got out fine- it’s a local ferry run by the islanders so it’s basically a really old fishing boat fitted with some old pews to sit on near the bow. £12 to get across, which is pretty reasonable but in this weather and with no roof over your head it doesn’t seem like the best deal. Gotta take a photo for Billy though, reminds me of some of the hell hole boats he used to fish on.

3G disappeared in Skye and the free wifi left me in Uist, now the phone signals gone. The other guy travelling with me on the ferry says he has a way to access internet on the island, but I doubt it. There’s no signal anywhere here. The guy is really strange, too. He looks like a minister and lets face it they can be odd at the best of times, but his clothes don’t look like they’ve been washed in years. Black robes with mud splattered all up the sides, a wide brim hat and tiny wee circular specs. Some of the worst teeth I’ve ever seen in my life. Honestly I don’t like being mean but he’s not setting the best example for us island folks. Guy looks like he walked off the set of The Exorcist in the 70s and didn’t stop walking until he got on this boat. Driver didn’t seem to pay any notice, but they nodded at each other when he came on board and spoke in Gaelic. Guess it was to be expected, Western Isles and all. Very strange accent though, it’s not really Gaelic I recognised.

We’re approaching the island. Oh my god it is grim- I see now why the call it The Spit. Pointing out west is the huge cliff faces, topped with the lighthouse and markings in the land of centuries of crofting and farming. Snaking down east back towards the mainland is the tail of the island, breaking up into the reefs and wee islands that they call the teeth. With the white bird-stained cliff faces and white surf surrounding the place, it does look unflatteringly like a big glob of phlegm sitting on the water. Grey clouds hang over the place, as does the smoke from the tiny village and scattered houses. The skeleton of the old estate house stands stark on the spine of the island. Be there in an hour. Weird guy update- he’s been singing an old Gaelic song. He’s got a bag of letters with him, so I guess he acts as a local postman. He handed me an old envelope and told me to keep it for “When I write home”. Okay thanks Kevin Costner.

The main harbour is called Acairsaid Mhór (Big Harbour). It’s odd though, there’s houses on all sides of the bay and as the boat passed, I see people get out of there houses and start to walk along the path to the harbour. They must have been meeting the boat, but it was so uniform and almost rehearsed it unnerved me. I hadn’t seen the worst of it yet though. About 5 minutes later we were coming in and I hang near the side of the boat, my recorder near the water to capture some atmospheric sounds for the podcast. The sea is grey but it starts to clear quite quickly. We’re in shallower waters as we pass over the reef at the entrance to Acairsaid Mhor, but as we reach the inlet itself the depth suddenly plunges, the water gets deep and deeper, the seabed falls away. I can still see so clearly through the water though- rocks, fish curling between weeds then suddenly, shapes between the rocks. There’s things under the water- cages and junk, old engines, scraps of wood, creals and what I’m certain is a car. But I can also see things reaching up towards us, long fingers that look like thick strands of kelp. They’re been held down with concrete blocks, anchors and chain, anything that will sink. I try to focus on the long cigars shaped objects, leaning further over the side. Loose tarpaulin and canvas, originally wrapped tight drift and flap in the current around whatever is reaching up towards the me. The boat is moving slow but I find it hard to make out details. Then I see it.

It was fucking people.

There were bodies tied down there, chained by the feet, wrapped up, blue. They’re all blue- blue carrier bags over each head, stained blue canvas and cloth. I can see they’re heads clearly now, whisps of hair moving with the current, the vacuum outline of a mouth as they gasped a last breath through the carrier bag over their faces. One of them started writhing. I fell back on the deck with a shout, jumping back, scrabbling on the wood to get back on my feet. I clambered back to look but it had gone, we had passed whatever I had seen. I looked behind me. The minister was fucking staring at me. He was smiling, he fucking knew what I saw but what could I say? “Hey, hey stop the oat! Hey, was there bodies down there?!”. It must have been my imagination, or at least some bizarre some prank. Honestly I’ve seen islanders do weirder. Either way he turned and leaned over the other side of the boat. His stiff, muddied robes cracked and whipped about in the gusts. I looked back. The islanders on the shoreline were watching me. We’ll be in soon.

I’m sitting at the harbour, I’m going to go and find the bothy I’m bunking at in a bit

Holy shit

Holy fucking shit.

I don’t even know how to describe what I saw. Holy shit what the fuck is wrong with this place. The Minister got off the boat with me, starts laughing and joking in Gaelic with these locals, all grim-faced, all ignoring me. He’s talking about god knows what but either way it’s a pretty one-sided conversation. He starts handing out the letters he has and one by one they walk off. The harbour is pretty empty at this point, but there’s a dingy next to us that’s got these two guys in it, they’re getting the boat ready to go out. It’s this ancient old engine, smoke belching out of the exhaust, deck covered in old ropes and bags and shit. That’s a good point by the way, everything here is fucking manky. The boats are a mess, the clothes everyone wears are holey and grimy, it’s really weird. All the houses I can see on the coast are full of holes and falling apart. Anyway, these two scruffy guys are untying the boat when suddenly whoever they were waiting for turns up. She’s in her 20 or 30s, this freakishly thin, long haired girl carrying an old coal sack, writhing with… Something. I know what your thinking and I almost freaked out too, but it’s not a body, it wasn’t nearly big enough. No, she steps into the boat without a word and when she turns I see what’s in there- it’s fucking puppies. Like tiny collie dogs, maybe 12 or something. They look not even a day old. One guy kicks off the pier and they slowly pull out, smoke belching everywhere. The girl is staring at me and honestly, she looks on the brink of death, cheekbones punching out of her head and patch hair hanging down by her side. Either way, they get out about 30 or 40 meters into the bay and the guy at the outboard turns in a wide circle and slows the boat right down. At this point the girl has staggered to her feet, the bag is writhing like crazy now and I feel my stomach is about to go, I know what’s happening here. I’m staring slack-jawed, in shock watching this girl balance on the gunnel of the boat. I want to shout or scream out but I can’t, I’m just watching it happen like a sick horror film. I suddenly realise what’s wrong, I feel like I’ve gone back in time- everything is old and broken, decrepit and backwards and what I’m watching is fucking… wrong. This place is wrong.

She drops the bag in the water. I can hear the yelping and screaming, water splashing, paws struggling in the water. Suddenly I hear barking behind me from somewhere in the village, howling and howling. The boat is churning up the water already as it heads back to shore and I can just see this fucking bag slowly sink, the yelps get swallowed up. I’m fucking crying. I don’t understand what’s going on. I got my bag and just fucking ran for it, straight up the hill towards where the bothy is meant to be. I’m sitting on a rock overlooking the village now. I can see that fucking boat tied up at the pier. The dogs in the village are still howling.

  • The document finishes here. There’s a lot more, and it gets… worse. Is my bud playing a prank on me or something? I’m trying to sort though the rest, but it’ll take time.

Part 2

 

Hey guys, last night I posted about my buddy who’s missing on a Scottish island. I got a letter in the mail yesterday with a flash drive. The entire thing is a mess, but I’ve found his journal in a folder named POST THIS. He also has drawings and notes of the island, fucking hundreds of photos and audio files but so far I can’t seem to get much of it to open properly. Like I’ve said, computers isn’t my thing.

Anyway, I got the next document from his journal. A few people have been telling me his wiki articles lead nowhere, I can’t tell you what that’s about to tell you the truth, I’ve just copy and pasted everything here you know? He has a book called “A history of Lochaidh” on here but it’s in some weird format. I’ll try and open it. Someone said it could be encrypted or some shit, but I’m not a hacker I dunno how that works. Few other people have been talking about cults, possessions and all this crazy stuff but like, I don’t believe it. I mean this is Scotland- people can be a bit backwards but this isn’t deliverance or some shit! I dunno, this is getting a bit too fucked up for me. I mean just look at what he’s writing now-

November 1- 1030PM 

Tips for Travel Writing-

  1. Have a clear storyline A trip is not a story in itself, it’s just a series of events. Some of these events will be interesting (you made it up Kilimanjaro!) and some will not (you arrived back at the airport on time). As a writer, your first job is to decide on the particular story you want to tell, and the events which make up that story. 

2-      Quotes from people you met can bring the piece to life, give the locals a voice and make a    point it would take longer to explain yourself. Quote people accurately and identify them, who are they, where did you meet them? http://www.theguardian.com/travel/2011/sep/23/travel-writing-tips-expert-advice (Send to Sean?) 

NOTE- Remember to clear out PKF files from SD card – Copy Flash drives for Billy & for Sarah

1883 Storm
The Great Storm of 1883 arrived from the West on the 24th of August. Over 2000 sailors on the west coast of Scotland alone were drowned over the course of the storm, with many communities being severely damaged by the hurricane-like conditions. Relief efforts by boat couldn’t be brought to Lochaidh until a week after the storm had dissipated. Many of the islanders, already suffering the effects of a poor harvest that year and a tuberculosis outbreak, were killed in the storm and devastation afterwards. It’s said some 20 families from the community of Point and Fhiacaill at the eastern side of the island sought refuge in the labyrinths of caves on Lochaidhs southern shore. They were never found. -James MacDonald A History Remote of Scottish Islands (1978).

I’ve calmed down somewhat. Looking back on yesterday is… Weird. It feels almost like a dream and obviously it wasn’t, it just I think threw me off a bit. I was hungover, I was tired and I’ve been on edge about this place since I got the book, I was just ready to snap and get set off on some weird delusion. This isn’t The Wicker Man, it’s an island like any other. We’re not in a Scottish version of IT, this isn’t somewhere beyond the mountains of madness, this is real life. I’m here to write about one of the last isolated island communities in Britain, not get caught up in some stupid conspiracy about cults or demons or something.

First, there’s a weird guy on the boat. Half the people I know in Scotland are weird, and what? Dirty clothes and a strange Gaelic accent make us weird now? That sounds more like the foreign language students at the Gaelic college than anything else.

Then, these.. ‘bodies’. Looking back on that I’m just cringing- obviously there wasn’t bodies tied to the seabed. I’ve always been freaked out looking underwater, and seeing the underside of the boat coasting through the water, the trash on the seabed made my imagination kick in. It was probably mooring, that either sunk or got pulled down by the build up of kelp and are now lying just below the surface. But it was those feet (maybe wooden blocks?), the whisps of hair (seaweed?) and that outline of the face on the bag… No. Come on, be real. What’s more likely, that’s there’s some old ropes and mooring caught in an old harbour or the locals are killing and disposing of people in the most public part of the island? Get with it.

Lastly, the dogs. That happened. It was sick, it was real and it was wrong but… it happens. I’ve heard stories, back in the 50s and 60s, crofters and farmers having to kill of litters of dogs that they couldn’t look after or care for. This is an isolated island community, these are working dogs and sometimes I guess this happens. Still though, I couldn’t shake it off. That disheveled girl, the uncaring nature of it all. The dogs howling. Christ they howled all night. There seems to be dogs everywhere, but I never see them.

Either way after a bit of walking I found the Bothy. It’s in a nice place, facing the harbour and village, the lighthouse and tall cliffs to the North. Going out of the back door, the hills fall away towards the shoreline on the south side. I’m all on my own here. It’s a bit run down but it keeps the heat in and the rain out, and there’s a few pieces of furniture and paraffin lamps. The floor is raised somewhat at one side for sleeping on and the fire has been used quite recently, I would guess from the few hikers and visitors who came during the summer. Overall not a bad place to set down as a base. I cooked up some food on my gas stove and laid out my gear for tomorrow. No power of course but I have a few power packs with me and I’m hoping I can ask around in the village to borrow a plug. I’m looking out of the window now, it’s almost pitch black outside. Up on the hillside is the lighthouse, illuminating through the thick haze that seems to cling to the island. A few lights are on in the village but aside from that, nothing. Occasionally I feel as if I see someone walking out on the hillside near me, but I think it’s just my imagination. I still hear the occasional dog bark, but still haven’t spotted any. Going to go to bed. It’s been a long day.

November 2- 6:45AM

It’s been a weird night. I’ve got to stop saying weird but that’s what it was. It was weird. I woke up at about 1AM and I noticed light. Light dancing off the ceiling, coming through the window from the south side of the island. I got up and almost instantly and I knew someone was there. There was this feeling of a weight being lifted from my back, the kind of feeling you only know after someone has stopped staring at you. A shiver ran through me and I turned around but no one was there, the windows were dark, the door untouched, closed tight. I carried on and looked out towards the source of the light. There was a ship out at sea. I strained to make out what it was but I couldn’t, the light was too bright, the darkness around it too obscuring. But it wasn’t moving, and it’s light seemed to flicker and rotate in the sea. I suddenly realised- it was a lighthouse lamp. There was a lighthouse ship out there. But why? Lighthouse ships barely exist around here anymore, and there isn’t any need for one so close to the actual lighthouse. That boat shouldn’t be there, and what’s more I had a feeling that boat somehow shouldn’t exist. Was that a dingy I saw beside it? Was someone coming ashore?

Then there was that feeling again, the weight on my back. I was being watched. I didn’t turn, I let the feeling wash over me. I felt sweat on my brow but I was cold, colder than ever. Tense as a spring, I turned quite suddenly, pulling my neck painfully. My eyes swung wildly from window to window and my swiftness paid off- I saw the darkness shift. There was no noise, but my eyes hadn’t lied. Blue on black, dark blue against the night sky suddenly dashing from the window. I ran to the door and swung it open. My eyes were still adjusting from the light of the ship but it was enough to see movement, low against the ground. Something was moving out there, but not getting away, not moving towards me, just shifting, waiting, judging. Seeing what I was going to do. My whole body was swimming in goosebumps, they came over me in waves, urging me to act. All I could do was stare and stare, until the features became clearer. Low to the ground, like a dog but I could make out arms, human arms. A man on all fours? But so blue, dark blue still against the night sky. Like those objects under the water I tried to focus and make out details, was that a mouth? Were those eyes? If I was to rush back for the door, could I close it in time? I felt my legs twitch, my body was deciding for me. Suddenly it was dashing towards me-

The noise hit me like a thunderclap, cutting through everything. I jumped backwards, my arms wind milling to catch the door frame. The shape in front of me was gone, my head suddenly clear, a weight lifted. A foghorn was sounding. It stopped, the air still. Then, once again it rang out. Long and low, like a low moan of a dying animal. I rushed back to the window and looked out. The ship was already further away, I couldn’t see the dingy I thought I had spotted before. It’s light still slowly rotated round and around, and the boat shifting in the swell, the tall light illuminated dirty smoke pouring from the funnel. My brain was wired and awake but my mind was still trying to catch up. What was that ship? What the hell is going on? Was there someone at my window? Trying to Reach my door?

The door.

I had left the door open.

I turned around once again, and there it was in the doorway. Blue on black. Swaying, waiting just on the doorstep. Watching me. Almost like light pouring into darkness, it was as if ink spilled through the door, the darkness was that absolute. I saw an arm reach forward, still so blue it was almost opaque in the dark. The door closed. I stood there for a while just watching the rounded handle. Was it the wind that blew it closed? A draft? Was that a person I saw at the door, a creature outside? Already the details were fading in my mind. Had I seen anything except what my exhausted brain had dreamt up? I returned to my sleeping bag, now being careful to lock that damned door. I kept my knife in my hand that night, and when I woke I had to prize it out of a white clenched fist.

Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman — But who is that on the other side of you?

  • TS Elliot- The Waste Land

“We have been here 3 weeks now, they say a boat wont come until spring. So we wait. The people are friendly, but aloof. They allow us to worship with them at church (merely a cave with long stones that serve as pews), but they have no bibles. They pray to a cross, the only metal I have seen so far on this desolate island. It is, to them, the only link to God or civilized religion. I am told it was brought my a missionary many years ago, but his mission house was lost during a great storm. I sometimes fear their reverence towards this cross borders on the sinful. The crew now stay together in the “old house” as they call it, we told them we did not want to intrude upon their hospitality any longer. The real reason however was to get away from those terrible blackhouses. Family and cattle share the home alike. As much as they have shown us care, we count the days until we can leave.”

  • – The Diary of H. Rynsburger, Shipwrecked on Lochaidh in 1799

November 2 – 1PM

This island is pretty beautiful. Long moors, gulls heeling about in the sky. Sheep pockmark almost every spot of land from the shoreline to the cliff-faces. It’s barren, but much like the western isles there’s a beauty in the bleakness of the land. This morning I headed down into the village to see what was there. Honestly I feel bad about my first impressions of the people here. I stopped by the local store (the only one on the island) and the lady there was honestly pretty friendly. She was in her 50s and spoke very little English, but when I told her about where I was from and why I was here she seemed pretty friendly. A few others came in and nodded hello, talked in Gaelic. They all seem to work the land, there’s no tourism here to speak off and I’ve seen a single local who dressed for working the hill or some sort of crofting. The shopkeeper, Margret told me I could use the shop to recharge my things. The looks so old I was surprised she knew what a plug was. Shelves are half empty, dusty or filled with old tins or cardboard boxes of dry food. No frills shopping. It would have been a only in Margret’s lifetime that half the shops in the Highlands looked like this. Now it’s a museum.

“What was that lighthouse ship doing out there last night?” I ask.

“Lighthouse ship? Oh no dear I don’t know about that.” She seems genuine.

“You didn’t hear the foghorn last night? After midnight?”

“No, no I don’t think so.” She talks like my grandmother. The long drawn out ‘no’ and ‘so’. But I dont really understand how she couldn’t have heard the foghorn, it was loud and in such a clear night I’m surprised it wasn’t heard on the mainland.

“Yeah it was odd, she was moored on the south side, haven’t seen a lighthouse boat in years. Surprised the dogs around the island didn’t start howling” I said, half joking. Her face suddenly changed though. She spoke in Gaelic first but then in English.

“No, no there’s no dogs about here. Certainly not.” She was dead serious. I almost wanted to laugh and tell her about my more than memorable encounter with them yesterday but it was still a bit raw in my mind, I didn’t want to bring it up. I just nodded and made my goodbyes. As I walked out the door I looked back, she was standing at the counter still, looking at me. Same serious look. The shop was dimly lit, the only windows being dusty panes hidden behind the various shelves, but I suddenly noticed something I hadn’t seen before. There were two cats looking at me. Both black, both sitting at the door to the back room, staring quite intently at me. I walked out the door. I hop my battery lasts, I dont fancy going back unless I need to.

November 2- 5PM

It’s getting dark, I just got back to the Bothy. As I came up the pathway I stood standing where I saw the shape last night, looking at the doorway to the house. The ground beneath me was undisturbed, the thin grass kept short by grazing sheep. Between the sheep shit and hoof marks though I did notice something. I lent down look closer. It looked like a jelly, a small grey-ish blob only the size of a penny sitting on the grass. more was smeared around in tracks. It reminded me of the stuff from old folk tales, strange substances farmers sometimes found in fields- Star Rot they called it. I thought nothing of it, probably frog spawn or some kind of algae.

I went down to the shoreline today, opposite the bay where I saw the ship. Nothing looked disturbed, no tracks or marks of a boat. Various pieces of junk and driftwood lay on the shore, old oars, bits of rope. The odd dead sheep. The path up to the road again is tough, having fallen into the sea and broken away in erosive tides. An old concrete stair marks where the path once was, now it sits on it’s own on the shore like a strange piece of artwork. I sat on it as I wrote more notes in my journal. The weight again. I was being watched.

I looked behind me and there it was. On the hill a figure watched me. It’s shape seemed to move, sway in the breeze. I could see loose rags flutter around it. Silhouetted against the sky it’s shape should have been clear but again my eyes struggled to pick out details. Blueness though. I saw it blue once again. It was the middle of the day but I felt the creeping approach of night. I knew now what I saw had been real. I shouted out, waved in an act of friendliness and fake calm, but I knew I’d get no response. Someone doesn’t want me on this island.

And as I sit writing this I know he’s out there. The windows have no curtains, and I don’t wish to get to close. I don’t want to stare out there. I know it’s probably some bored local trying to freak me out, but something about it puts me on edge. The constant blurring and indefinability of it. Hold on.

He’s out there.

I can’t see anything. But I can hear something. There’s this sound, almost animistic. It’s not a dog howl or a cat whine or… It’s like, it’s like a gibbering. A crazed spewing of sounds. It’s not that loud, but it’s close. It’s making me feel sick.

I think I feel him watching from the windows. I don’t want to move my eyes from this screen though, in case he’s there, in case he’s watching. That featureless face, the blue on black. My eyes are wide, unblinking, peripherals burning trying to sense any movement while I focus on this damn computer. I can’t look up. I can’t look up. I think I saw it move. Hold on.

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One thought on “Tales from the H(ebrides)ood

  1. I see your blog needs some fresh articles.
    Writing manually is time consuming, but there is solution for this hard task.
    Just search for – Miftolo’s tools rewriter

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