Something cold slithers down my back.
I step back unsteadily. “Look, sir. I was just?—”
“Easy, lass.” He lifts a hand, patient. “What I’ve been trying to say…the story goes, dead men tell no tales, but that’s wrong, eh? The dead have lots to say. But they cannae leave their tombs to do the telling.”
He takes another step.
“You were at the burying place. You read them markers.”
My fingers curl into my pocket, closing around my hotel key. I let the end jut between my knuckles. A makeshift weapon.
Poppa.He taught me that.
But the man is no longer watching me. He squats beside the tree, using a stick to scrape away a soggy layer of rotting leaves. Slowly, something takes shape beneath the sediment.
A grave marker.
He leans back on his heels, satisfied. “This here soul, on example. This one has much to say, aye? Nae as many words as those Campbells. Not nearly. But this here speaks more, mayhap. Some get their fancy stones and carvings, but nae this poor creature.”
He tosses the stick and rubs away the last layer of sludge with his fingers.
“Look here, lass. You must pay heed. One’s heart lies buried here.”
He lifts his eyes to mine. Daring me to look.
Curiosity wins out. I approach, tentative. He’s calm now. Settled. Like he’s said his piece.
Still, I don’t take my eyes off him as I kneel to read the gravestone.
R MacGregor
1622
Departed this Lyfe
A tremor runs though me, sharp and electric. The words are so stark. So emotionless. Whoever’s buried here, he doesn’t even get a first name.
“Why’d you show me this?” I look up at the man.
He’s gone.
Chapter
Five
Irace away, the woods a blur. Branches slap my face. My foot catches, and I stumble, then stumble again, so hard my neck jerks. My knees slam to the ground. Grit cuts my palms, but I shove myself up, keep running, hurtling toward each bend in the path like it might save my life.
Spirits travel in straight lines.
Is that true? Are there more ghosts here? Are they dangerous? Wasthata ghost? I wasn’t really scared when I saw the ghost in my room. Why is this different?
Lungs burning, mind racing, I force myself to slow down. I replay our exchange. He’d touched things. Swept away dirt. Ghosts can’t do that…can they?
Maybe he wasn’t a ghost. Maybe he didn’t disappear—he just left really quickly.
How long was I staring at that grave, anyway?
I press on, convinced I’m heading back to the inn, until too much time passes and I finally admit it. I’m lost.
