My Pa warned me, “Ye shoudna buy ocht ye havenna seen yersel.”
This was supposed to be my grand reclamation of peace. A place where I could create a secure, perfectly organised retreat from the panic attacks that eventually made it impossible to look at my inbox without my chest tightening. I had managed the calendars of three global operations directors simultaneously without dropping a single ball, yet I’d let my own mind unravel until a quiet glen in Achenloch seemed like the only place left to hide. Somewhere my old life couldn’t touch me, where I would be isolated from my work colleagues and contacts. The clamour for attention, the concerns of others stealing away any time for my own needs, would be no more.
Now, the silence of the place feels like a heavy weight pressing against my ribs. I look around the glen, then back at the house, wondering Have I made the right decision? This isn’t the peace I was expecting, or hoping to find.
I push at the oaken door, again, the blasted door refuses to co-operate. I would expect it to ease with use, not become more stubborn with each passing of the threshold. Something else I will need to add to my To Do List for improvements. I set the box down on the flagstone porch, the stone slick beneath my soles. The air out here is freezing, pluming into white clouds every time I exhale. Reaching into my pocket, my fingers wrap around the ancient oak door’s key—a heavy, rusted piece of iron that feels entirely too large for modern hands. The next item on the ever-growing list is to clean the rust off this thing. Each time I touch the key, it feels like it’s biting me as the encrusting brown layers chip off and stab into my skin. I’ll likely need a tetanus jab too.
I attempt to slide the key into the lock. It resists immediately. The iron mechanism inside is still stiff, no matter how much I have oiled and greased it since I arrived, frozen by decades of damp lakeside air. I brace my shoulder against the thick timber, twisting the key with everything I have. Nothing. The metal doesn’t budge a millimetre.
A wave of hot, suffocating frustration rises up my throat, threatening to break the fragile calm I’ve spent the morning cultivating.
“Come on, for feck’s sake, give!” I slam my full weight into the door, my boot slipping slightly on the wet stone. It is deeply humiliating to realise that I am failing at the very first hurdle of my new, self-reliant life. I couldn’t even manage the simple mechanics of opening the damn door. If I can’t negotiate a standard lock without my hands shaking and my chest tight with panic, how am I supposed to survive the winter out here alone? What if the Edinburgh doctors were right? What if I am completely broken?
I take a sharp breath and try one more time, pouring every ounce of leverage into my wrist. A sharp, grinding protest echoes out, a harsh metallic scrape that cuts through the absolute silence of the loch. Then the bolt gives, clicking home, the satisfaction is instantly cut short.
The air changes.
A prickling heat starts at the base of my neck, an unexpected, heavy oppression that makes the small hairs on my arms stand up. It isn’t the standard chill of an autumn afternoon. I have the distinct, unmistakable sensation of eyes staring at my back; it feels as if someone is standing a mere inch behind my right shoulder, watching me struggle. I can’t stop myself, as I slowly turn my head to look behind me. Is that a shadow within the mist?
My breath catches in my throat. I drop my hand from the key and my body swiftly pivots to catch up. I loose my footing and stumble as I turn, my back hitting the rough timber of the door as I scan the garden.
“Hello?” I call out. My voice sounds as scared as I feel, which is unfortunate, although my embarrassment is covered by the fog. It cracks on the second syllable, thin and swallowed away by the damp air. The shadow in the white doesn’t shift.
“Is… is somebody there? I can see you.”
There is no reply. The overgrown lawn is empty. As I prepare to turn back to the lock, a shift in the mountain breeze slices through the heavy curtain of fog, cutting a brief, clear path down to the water’s edge.
At the lip of the dark, still loch stands a horse.
It is a ragged black stallion standing motionless in the shallows, its coat matted with lake-weed and silt. The beast is visibly emaciated—ribs pressing sharply against dark hide, flanks quivering with exhaustion. Yet as it moves its head, its dark eyes lock directly onto mine with an unsettling, intense focus that feels entirely too knowing to be natural.
My heart aches unexpectedly. Poor beastie, I think, my fear dissolving into a deep, reflexive pity for something so clearly abandoned to the cold.