A Highland Wight

Earlier this year, I was given the green light to advance to the second round of #NYCMidnight's 250 word short story competition after my wee ditty #Tender was selected in the top 10 of its group. Result! I enjoyed writing in the romantic comedy genre, more than expected in all honesty. This time, however, was to be quite different. I was given a 48 hour deadline and a brief to delve back into the murky waters of the macabre. This time, I had to conjure up a Ghost Story. The prompts were the word 'problem' and the verb 'sewing'. I felt my hackles raising at all the gothic possibilities that lay within my fertile imagination. It's a strange disposition I have: I can hardly bear horror films and avoid intense fear at all costs, yet there's something strangely alluring in the realm of all things spooky, ethereal, and uncanny.

For whatever reason, the setting came clear to me almost immediately. It had to be set in the Scottish Highlands. It's a landscape which I love, and for obvious reasons is close to my heart. Many remark the Highlands for their desolate beauty, and they are undoubtedly beautiful. But listen closely to the way that people from those parts, from Scotland, talk about those lost ravines, deep glens and foreboding mountains and you'll pick up on something other than a tourist's passing admiration. There's a reverence, a terrible knowledge of its history, a brutal and unyielding lifestyle and the many tragedies it produced. There's a reason Walter Scott and so many others found bounteous inspiration for their romantic visions of the Highland way of life.

So, I hope you enjoy this very short story. I admit, I'm quite proud of it. Yesterday I was a wee tad chuffed to hear the feedback from the judges. I didn't make it through to the final round this time, but this story has been nominated for an 'honourable mention' in its group. May it take your imaginations away to those desolate lochs, glens and the many secrets that lie within...!

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A Highland Wight

I rock my foot on the iron pedal of the old Singer sewing machine, patching up my wedding dress with absolute precision. White knuckles pin down the fabric. A howling breeze, the scowl of heaven, knocks the wooden window frames. The whir of the treadle wheel and spinning thread a humming backdrop to whispering winds and, occasionally, the slam of a door.

Sometimes I am afraid to turn around for fear of who, or what, I might see.

I have long known the problem with living here: it is alive with the memory of its dead. Most recently, my Peter. Lost, forever, to the loch.

I gaze out the window sometimes, over the water to Ulva. A figure appears on the western shore. The vision is hazy, an impressionist’s blur in the late afternoon light. He is there, only just perceptibly. It is surely him. Flat cap, tweed coat and trousers. He holds his fishing rod that washed up on the shore, bent out of shape. His bending sickle’s compass come. Waving, beckoning.

The sweetness of life has turned foul, fetid.

And I am so tired.

I approach the shore, the vision fainter, ever fainter. Water swirls my ankles, shocking me nearly out of my fevered reverie. I look down at my pale submerged legs, and back towards the solitary grey house.

Wading deeper, my dress balloons and then floats like some ethereal fleur du mal. The vision recedes. I wave as the loch runs down my throat.