MacGowan's Ghost Read Free Page A

then?”
    Allie met his stare. “Nothing at all, actually. Why?”
    The cabbie smiled and rubbed his hand over his jaw. “It has a reputation, you see. ’Tis cursed.”
    â€œCursed? What do you mean?”
    A mischievous grin tipped the corners of his mouth. “ ’Tis a place for the ghosties, lass. They’re drawn to it.”
    Allie smiled. “Is that so?”
    The cabbie inclined his head to Odin’s Thumb. “Have you met the owner yet?”
    â€œGabe MacGowan?” Allie shook her head. “Not in person. Why?”
    He studied her a bit more. “Damn me, but he’ll no’ be expecting the likes of you.”
    Allie opened the door. “He’s not expecting me at all. I’m a week early. That’s why I just paid you a hundred American bucks to drive me here from Inverness.”
    The driver laughed. “Right. Let’s get your bags, then.”
    Allie shook her head, pulled her knit cap over her ears, and stepped out of the cab. A fierce gust of coastal October wind hit her square in the face and she shivered. So Sealladh na Mara was cursed. Perfect . Slinging her pack over her shoulder, Allie grabbed her overnight bag, the camera bag, and shut the door. At the back of the cab, the driver pulled out her one suitcase.
    â€œI’ll take this in for you,” he said.
    â€œNo, that’s okay. It’s not heavy.” Allie grasped the handle. “Thanks, though.”
    With a shake of his head, the cabbie slid back into the front seat. He glanced at Allie and cocked a brow. “You understand that it’s full of spooks, aye?”
    Allie gave him a big smile. “I sure do.”
    â€œIf you need a ride back to Inverness, you just give me a shout.” With a laugh, the cabbie waved and drove off.
    After a deep breath of crisp, briny air, Allie quickly took in her seaside surroundings. A slender green sign with the name SEALLADH NA MARA stood just at the top of the lane. Gaelic, she supposed, and she’d have to remember to ask Gabe MacGowan what it meant. White, traditional croft-style buildings, and others of weathered stone, lined the single-lane Main Street that rambled down to the wharf. Each establishment had a weather-beaten sign outside noting its business: a baker, a fishmonger, a small grocer, a post office, a few B and Bs. Halfway down the walkway stood one of Britain’s landmarks: a red telephone booth. With the notion to explore later, and to call her mom and sisters to let them know she made it safely now, Allie turned and stared up at the sign hanging high above the single red-painted door of the three-storied, whitewashed inn and pub. ODIN’S THUMB was written in Old English script at the top of the sign, with a colorful picture of an imposing Viking longboat, the sail a deep red with black stripes, the long wooden mast a big ole thumb . The words INN AND PUB, EST. 1741 were at the bottom. She smiled. Perfect .
    After balancing all of her gear onto both shoulders, Allie opened the door to the pub and was all but blown into the dim interior of Odin’s Thumb. She set her suitcase off to the side and plopped her bags down beside it—
    â€œI’m not staying here another moment!” a woman’s voice shrieked.
    Allie jumped, then stood there, against the wall, and took in the scene. Had she been any other woman, she’d probably have run screaming, too.
    It was, after all, quite an interesting scene to behold. She almost had to pinch her lips together to keep from laughing. Instead, Allie simply watched.
    Amidst the muted lamplight of the pub, flickering candles floated overhead in midair. A lady’s old-fashioned parasol opened and closed rapidly, also in midair. Beer mugs and wineglasses zipped—yep, in midair—from one side of the room to the other, coming precariously close to the head of the shrieking woman. A suspicious-looking mist slipped around the bar stools, over