Tormentor Read Free Page A

beer.
    “Another time,” I said. “When neither of us are driving—we’ll sink a few and bring me up to speed on the stories—all of them—it’ll be nice to know the full history of the place.”
    Once again a strange look passed across Alan’s face, but I scarcely noticed, for the smile replaced it as quickly as before.
    “We have a date then,” he said.
    We shook hands as we parted in the car park. As I turned back to my car, I saw the old lady and her son standing in the far corner—this time both of them were staring at me, but thankfully there was no more shouting.
    * * *
    The first thing I did on getting back to the cottage was to put up the curtains—I felt faintly ridiculous—preparing myself for a siege against the shadows was how I thought of it, until the thought itself caused me to laugh out loud. I did, however, immediately feel less nervous about the coming night, so I counted it as a good result once the curtains were hanging in place. I made myself a coffee and took it out to the patio—I had a feeling this was going to become a ritual.
    I was still slightly on edge—the old lady’s outburst was hard to ignore, despite Alan’s measured denial of anything untoward. I’ve never paid much attention to stories of spooks and haunts—that was one of Beth’s things I didn’t share—but I didn’t really fancy being the incoming tenant that got shunned by the locals purely because of where I lived.
    Once again a combination of coffee and the view did its job of calming me down, and I resolved I’d get myself down to Dunvegan soon and begin introducing myself to my neighbors—distant though they may be.
    There was a different feel to the view again—clear skies and not even a flicker of a breeze, the loch sitting flat calm, like a piece of glass topped with the thinnest of thin layers of water. The friendly sparrows came and checked me out—I made a mental note to add some bird feeders to my shopping list—and down by the firewood the stoat showed me its tail as it fled when I spotted it.
    I went inside to rustle up some early supper, all thoughts of the old lady’s warnings driven away.
    * * *
    In the early evening I checked my e-mail. I had three requests from my old job that could safely be ignored and two notes from pals back in the city wondering if I’d gone native yet. There was also a heap of spam—and one very peculiar item that looked like it might have been in English at one time but was now mangled and corrupted. I put it down to a fault at the sender’s end and deleted it.
    I spent an hour or so doing more unpacking—I got as far as getting my easel and paints out, which meant I was as close to doing any actual painting as I’d been for several years—but that was as far as it went. I fully intended for the painting to be my main thing—something I’d always aspired to but hadn’t done anything about since playing at it in the Med before meeting Beth. I was hoping the solitude and quiet—not to mention the views—would inspire me into action. But for now, everything was just too new, too exciting. I made another coffee and went outside to watch the sun go down over the far side of the loch. I only went back in as the stars came out and the chill got too much to bear.

 
     
     
    4
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    That first week passed quickly.
    I finished unpacking and set about getting the house the way I wanted it. My desk and chair arrived the same morning as the new washing machine, in the same van. The driver was rather taciturn, and when he did speak, his accent was so thick as to be almost impenetrable. He refused a tip, and seemed rather too eager to be off and away, to the extent that I was left to plumb in the washing machine myself.
    After that first night, the darkness and shifting shadows had ceased to worry me, and I even took to opening my bedroom curtains just so I could watch the interplay on the ceiling while dozing off—like a kid with a night-light.