1

As my plane flew closer, Scotland emerged from the mist, craggy hill by craggy hill like the bumps of a great turtle shell. I noticed a man perched on the edge of one of the weathered cliffs, wearing a tartan cap and a moss green kilt. He stared out at the ocean and leaned forward like he was waiting forsomeone. I elbowed Harry and asked him what he thought of the man, Scotland’s first ambassador to us. Without looking up from his creased copy of Cujo, he agreed it was fascinating and then gulped down his Bloody Mary. He reminded me that we were landing soon and advised that I kill my drink too, as if it were a beer and the airplane was a steamy fraternity basement. A thread of red tomato juice stained the corner of Harry’s mouth, reminding me of his vampire costume one Halloween. I finished my ginger ale and the bitter bubbles stung my throat. When the plane landed I heard someone in the back retching with airsickness. Harry snickered. He thumbed behind us, in case I hadn’t noticed. I closed my eyes and kept the comforting pressure of the seat belt on until we had in fact come to a complete stop.

2

Scotland had been Harry’s magical idea for spring break, but my efforts to arrange. His concerns – local beer, local women, and drinking local beer with local women – were a part of the itinerary, but I had made sure to include my own interests. I wanted to discover a bit of authentic Scotland between the pints. So, we were visiting a castle that afternoon whose reputation was for grisly thirteenth century murder and the ghosts of the victims sticking around. All the books recommended it. A popular destination meant people; people meant women. It was easy to convinced Harry.

Our tour guide, Angus, had more hair in two hedgerow eyebrows than Harry did in his entire beard. He wore khaki shorts, held up with checkered suspenders, so we could see the pale, gnarled scar tissue bulging on the surface of his right knee. Harry asked Angus about his knee and Angus told him that it was from friendly fire in the Falklands. Harry said it was a shame, and Angus disagreed. It was a shame that his friend had also been under fire but his head was now fertilizer thousands of miles away. Harry chewed his moustache to remain quiet.

3

We saw the castle upon a bare hill as our bus bumped and rolled towards it. The short grass looked like pool table felt and the occasional boulders, tattooed with umber lichen, were its billiards balls. The castle was smaller than I thought, perhaps because the slick stones were cramped and hastily mortared, but it still bristled with turrets and towers. I counted thirteen, which made me smile. I decided not to tell Harry, who was busy arranging his limited edition Cowboys flask in his breast pocket.

Closer, I noticed there was a pale blue tarp stretched across a section of collapsed ceiling. It rippled fiercely when a salt-tinged wind swept off the sea. The castle wasn’t Camelot, but the lord who’d lived there was said to hold court seated behind a round table. The closer you sat to him, the greater he liked you, although once he stabbed his companion in the back of the hand with a dagger because the foolish man told a joke about the lord’s sister. There was a round table in the great hall, but it was a reproduction. There was no gouge in its surface from any dagger. I wondered if the story was false, and hoped it wasn’t.

4

Also on the tour were two Canadian girls who wore matching university sweaters and kept their hair in ponytails. As Angus pointed at chandeliers or stained glass windows, their heads would turn, causing their hair to undulate in delayed reaction. The taller of the two had wheat blond hair, a blushing complexion and wiggled her nose just before she talked. Harry latched on to her – literally placing his hand gently on her elbow to catch her attention when he motioned at a tapestry. He wiggled his nose at her too, either an unconscious mimic or a tease. They were nipping from his flask by the time Angus led us up the northeastern tower. When we got up to the top to see the view of the sea, they were nowhere to be found. Distorted shadows of their laughter reverberated up the stone steps.

5

It was fifty feet from the battlements to the ground, but by virtue of our proximity to the cliffs, and therefore the foamy sea, it seemed much higher. My father once told me he was afraid of heights because the new perspective always tempted him to jump. Yet, I was sure that if I got a good push, I’d sail on a current of wind out over the Atlantic. Instead, I reached into my pocket and tore off the corner of my brochure and then released it while Angus wasn’t looking. The scrap flipped up and up before tumbling somewhere north where a mountain range plunged into the clouds. That’s pretty, the brunette university girl said. I was still tracking its wistful motion, so when I turned to thank her, or to agree, she was already heading back down the steps into the castle, her ponytail mimicking her graceful gait.

6

The gift shop was built to imitate the castle. The architects, however, chose to do this in the cheapest possible way. Rather than stone, the walls were made of plaster and the floors were linoleum. It reminded me of Medieval Times. A space heater rumbled in the corner, adding much needed bass to the tinny Golden Oldies coming from the shop’s speakers. I flicked through a glossy coffee table book which captured the castle in dramatic moments: during a thunderstorm, daybreak, dusted with snow. Then I glanced through the window at the real version, the version I saw today. It seemed tired, but triumphant. An athlete playing their final home game.

“Do you want to buy the book?” a clerk asked me. I shook my head.

“What the hell are you doing?” Angus barked across the room, interrupting Elvis as he shared his heartbreak.

Harry was holding up to his mouth a replica of a Scotsman in traditional garb. His tongue was out as he mimed licking between its legs, to the delight of his new blonde friend. Rather than apologize or explain, he started to place it down on its display. Angus snatched it from his hand and shoved it in Harry’s face.

“I think ya best be purchasin’ this, after what you’ve done wid it,” he said, much quieter.

Harry nodded and took the toy. He muttered an apology and went straight for the counter. By the time he’d managed to pull his wallet from his skinny jeans, the tension was gone. The Canadians talked, Angus leaned near the door, and the space heater rumbled.

7

The bus headed back towards town and Angus lit a thick cigar while rubbing his bad knee. It was cold, but a bead of sweat wormed down his temple and plopped on his shoulder. Harry sat in back with the blond Canadian. I sat with her friend because there was no one else to sit with. We didn’t talk until the bus was about to make the turn onto the main road and I made a final glance towards the castle. Near the edge of the cliffs was the same man I’d seen from the plane. Yes, I recognized his tartan cap and the kilt; it was his posture, however, that convinced me. He stared out at the ocean, not as if he was waiting for anyone – or greeting tourists for that matter – but as if the edge of Scotland was his prison and he could never ride a gust of wind out over the ocean. I asked the girl if he she saw him and if she thought he was a ghost. She said yes, and I thought she might be serious, but then she chuckled and he disappeared from view.

7

The Canadians were named Bethany and Katie. Bethany was blonde. Katie wanted to visit Scotland because her grandmother was Scottish. Harry bought them a round of drinks at the hotel bar to celebrate the arrival 5 o’clock. I excused myself from the table.

I ambled over to the concierge desk. The attendant was a girl my own age, with hair like clay and a smattering of freckles. Her name was Fiona. She looked up from, of all things, an Archie comic, and gave me an attentive look.

“Pardon me. I’m looking for a good restaurant for me and my friends. Something authentic, y’know? Like a pub maybe.”

“We’ve got lots of pubs here. I love the Pit – no, that’s closed. Well, while you’re visiting Scotland, have you been to McGrady’s?”

“I think I saw that in the airport. Isn’t that fast food?” I asked.

“They prefer ‘quick service.’ It’s a bit more downscale than some places, but fish n’ chips are excellent.” Fiona played with the edge of her comic book and nodded at the memory of the fried fish. “Tartar sauce,” she mumbled.

“Ah. Y’know, I think I’m going to take a walk down the main drag and see what catches my eye.” I thanked Fiona and went back to the bar to grab my coat from the rack. My travel mate was busy regaling his new guests with the story of our landing, specifically the air sick passenger behind us. When I stepped outside, it started to rain.

8

The streets swelled with adults on their way home from work. The cars were small and darkly painted, so that the odd patch of rust stood out like metallic moss. The multitude of wipers combined into a constant swish which battled the rain for control of the background noise. The sidewalks were busy, but wide enough to accommodate foot traffic and avoid water sliding off the steep umber roofs. In the distance, I saw the castle. Through the rain it was indistinct, as if it was slowly melting.

I reached a wide square, with shops on the sides and a fountain in the center. Near the fountain, two teenagers laughed while staring at their respective iPhones. Behind the fountain, I glimpsed a restaurant which seemed popular. A rumble of conversation and the bass part of a jazz standard bled out into the plaza. I walked around the fountain to get a better look. Now I saw above the window a banner: Grand Opening! Umberto’s Italian Grill. The new owners had yet to replace the wooden sign above the door which read: The Pit. I left the square.

9

Two hundred yards from the castle, my bike rolled over a pot-hole, lodged, and flipped over. I stuck my hands out as I fell. They hit the pitted road first, absorbing the brunt of the fall. My body flopped to the sludge a moment later. Save for a cut on my palm and my wounded pride, I’d survived uninjured. The bike however, would need a new front tire and I needed a change of clothes. The front of my body was uniform in its shade of mud brown. I didn’t bother to think about what the repair would cost at the rental shop, let alone the scolding I’d get from Harry for having rented a bike in the first place when I could have been drinking indoors. I picked up the bike and trudged onwards.

By the time I reached gift shop I had two new problems: the establishment was closed, and the rainstorm was now a thunderstorm. Tendrils of pale blue lightning flew towards the earth, trailing thunder only seconds behind. Worse, a freezing wind raced off the ocean and battered me. My muddy coat was of no use and my wet jeans clung to my legs like an enamored puppy.

I banged on the door of the gift shop hoping that a janitor might be present and let me in. The door – recycled plastic made to look like wood – produced only a weak tapping sound. I dropped the bike so I could press my face to the window and shield it with two hands. Inside was dark and empty. I ran to the castle door, which had a real iron knocker. Unlike the gift shop, each knock made a sonorous declaration of my presence. I waited for an answer.

One came, much quicker than I’d expected, and in a curious form. I heard a call from behind me, out in the rain. There was a figure approaching. Underneath a wide umbrella, I saw a tall man. He wore a traditional kilt. I knew that he was the man I’d seen on the edge of the cliff. The ghost, in the flesh. I struggled to reply.

“Why’d you bang on that!” he yelled. “It’s old.”

10

His name was Graham and he was the caretaker of the castle. He gave me a change of clothes (no kilt though), a blanket, and a cup of tea. He had a small shack adjacent to the castle. I sat on his bed and he leaned against the partition between the kitchen and the bedroom. His phone was on a dresser close by.

“Should I be calling the police?” Graham asked, gesturing to the phone. He smiled, but his even tone did not suggest a joke.

“What?”

“It’s unusual to be out biking during a thunderstorm towards a destination that is closed. But sometimes the kids come up here to deface the ground. Drawing penises, and such. Maybe the tourists and equally impolite.”

“No – I would never do that. And it wasn’t a thunderstorm when I started,” I said. I realized my response wasn’t an explanation per se.

“Ok.” Graham drank his tea.

“I’m surprised that you’re real,” I said.

“Did you hit your head when you fell?” he asked.

“No, I didn’t. I saw you earlier today when I took a tour this afternoon. And before that, from an airplane, if you can believe it. I thought you might be a ghost or something. A spirit of the castle.”

“And it was just old Graham, the caretaker.”

“I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved to know that.”

Graham grabbed his raincoat. “Let me show you something.”

11

Other than the beam of Graham’s flashlight, the castle was a stifling black. I could only sense the stairs in front of my feet. Graham climbed at an even, plodding pace, making it easier to follow. He paused on the second floor and then directed me towards a room that was blocked off by a velvet rope.

“Go on,” he encouraged. I undid the rope and stepped inside. When Graham moved his flashlight it illuminated tools and canvas tarps on the floor. The room smelt like plaster and stone. It was being renovated. I couldn’t tell how long it was.

Graham strode to a wall and disappeared into a recessed doorway. I struggled to follow. I pressed my hand along the stone until it found the edge of the doorway. I crept through it, instinctively bending low.

Graham had found a small chamber. His flashlight lit it entirely and there was nothing in it but the cold stone walls. When he saw me arrive, he nodded and then turned off the flashlight. Black fingers pressed over my eyes.

“You hear that?” he whispered.

I took a breath and listened. At first I only heard the high pitched whine of silence. My hearing adjusted to capture Graham’s nasal breathing, and my own shallow intake. Then, unfolded the rainstorm outside, the howling wind, and something else – an echo.

I turned my head and the sound sharpened. I heard a soft murmur of Gaellic, many voices overlapping. And English too. A multitude of voices, each just a speck, but overlapping together. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I sensed the emotions. There was joy interwoven with sadness, hate and fear, love and boredom. There was centuries to be heard.

My phone began to vibrate. The noise was obscene. Each blast was a bomb detonating inside the tiny room. I pulled out my phone and the diminutive light from the screen was enough to make me squint. It was a number I didn’t recognize.

“Hello?” I said. My voice sounded foreign.

“It’s Katie! Harry asked that I call you to make sure you’re alright. It’s been a while.”

Graham turned on his flashlight and made for the doorway.

“You ok?”

I cleared my throat. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Where’d you go?”

“To Scotland,” I said. For the first time that day, I laughed.