Scare Tactics VI

Scotland October, 1192

A heavy mist had rolled in over the cliffs making the path difficult to traverse. The public road would have been safer, but Ian had opted for the cliffs and less chance of being seen. It wasn't long before he was regretting his decision. The road wouldn’t have been much faster in the fog, but at least there was no worry about getting too close to the edge and pitching to their deaths on the rocks below. The fog would have provided cover for them as well. Surely, they would have heard Eunan McBain long before he’d been able to see them. Ian turned and took a good look at Margaret. She was following closely behind him, carefully putting her feet in his footsteps. Satisfied she was doing as he’d told her, Ian paused and sucked in a deep breath. They should be near the beach and able to hear some movement, at least the creaking of the boat.

Margaret laid a hand on his arm. “What’s wrong?”

He held up a hand in response, straining his ears. There was a faint scraping and soft thud. Immediately, his heart leaped into his throat. Turning he put a finger to his lips and motioned emphatically for Margaret to remain where she was. The answering look in her eyes told him there wasn’t much hope of her doing that. He put a hand to her cheek and whispered in her ear. “What do ye hear?”

She cocked her head and sniffed the air. “I hear horses. Eunan’s there.”

He nodded then bent close to her ear again. “I’ll go ahead. We’re caught. There’s naught to do. Use your gifts to escape.”

Arms snaked around his neck and she turned her head. “I’ll no’ leave ye. We’ll go back up to the top.”

“Nay, he’ll have men there. He’s a monster, but no fool.”

“Then we’ll fight.”

“Nay, obey me this once. I could’na stand to see ye hurt.”

She stared into his face her hands sliding down his arms to lock her fingers through his. “I’m sorry.”

Ian smiled. “I’m not.”

A loud whinny issued from directly below and Eunan’s voice rang out. “Bring me me wife, cousin.”

“Ye must promise she’ll no’ be punished.”

“But I’m so looking forward to it.”

There was a whizzing sound and an arrow struck the cliff not far from Ian’s head. Bits of rock and dirt ricocheted. The arrow fell to the ground by his feet. Horrified, he bent and picked it up twisting it in his fingers. The point was silver. He held it out to Margaret and heard her gasp. Grabbing her arm, he gave her a gentle shove in the direction they’d come. “Go, ye’ll have a better chance that way.”

She shot him a desperate look. “I’ll be back for ye.”

He cupped her chin with a huge gloved hand. “I know ye will,” he smiled warmly, knowing he’d never see her again. “I love ye Maggie McBain and I’ll no’ be sorry for anything between us. Now go while ye still can.” He watched her disappear into the mist and then he started down to the beach.

As his feet touched the sand a shape materialized near his elbow. “Where are me men?” he demanded.

The man at his elbow laughed. More shapes appeared and Ian’s sword was removed from his grasp. Heavy hands latched onto his arms and shoulders, propelling him forward. He was brought before a mounted man in the McBain tartan. “Eunan,” Ian muttered, as though the name was a curse.

“Cousin Ian,” the man returned with a delighted smile. “Wondering about your men?” He waved his hand carelessly through the air. “They’re here,” he paused, “and there.” Ian could barely make out still forms lying on the beach.

“Me brother,” he questioned hoarsely.

Eunan reached behind him and unhooked something from his saddle. “I saved ye a piece,” he said, as he tossed a head onto the sand. It rolled over coming to a stop in front of Ian’s feet. The eyes of his little brother, open, and covered with sand stared unseeingly up at him. Ian swallowed hard and looked away from the gruesome sight.

Eunan leaned forward eyes glittering. “Where’s the little witch, me wife?”

“She dinna come wi’ me.”

Eunan turned to a man standing near him. “He sent her back up the cliff. Follow the trail to the top.” He turned back to Ian. “We loosed the boat. No doubt she’ll founder and break up on the rocks.”

“Maggie will get away.”

“Maggie is it.” He reached out and struck Ian across the face. “Me father would have given anything had ye been his son. All me life I’ve hated ye for that. Ye canno’ imagine what I feel for the thief, whose stolen me wife. As to Margaret, the entrance to the path is strung with silver cord. She’s trapped.” There was a sudden out-raged squeal and several curses. A loud scuffling ensued and then the determined sound of heavy booted feet slipping and sliding down the path was heard.

The crunching of shoes on sand heralded the arrival of the guard. Margaret was carried, struggling and shrieking invective, into view. She was set down not far from Ian. Her eyes fell on the head and immediately she became silent.

Eunan reined his horse around behind Ian where he could look his wife squarely in the face. “Margaret, me love,” he waited until she’d raised her eyes to him. “I’ve decided to let ye have Ian since ye want him so much.” He leaned down pulling a dirk from his sleeve. Drawing it swiftly across Ian’s throat, he continued, “That is, if ye can love a dead man.”

Ian felt a sting, saw the horror in Margaret’s face, and held out a hand to show her it was all right. The hand was covered in blood along with his plaid and kilt. He suddenly felt light-headed and heard Margaret’s voice from seemingly far away, screaming his name. He realized then what was happening. The thought flitted through his mind that he’d expected it to be more painful. He focused in on Margaret trying to tell her it was not so bad. He opened his mouth to speak but only a strange gurgling sound came out. He fell to his knees. Margaret was on her knees too, clutching at him and whispering over and over that she loved him. He slipped sideways onto the sand eyes staring up into the fog. Eunan’s face was suddenly there above him. The dirk flashed out and cut off a lock of hair. It flashed again and came away with a piece of bloody plaid. Eunan wrapped the hair inside the cloth and thrust it at Margaret. “Here, me love, a souvenir.” He turned away, laughing. The last thing Ian heard as everything went black was Margaret’s voice praying for his soul.




Dallas, Texas October 2000


“Tim, be careful with that box. I think it has some of Great Gran’s things.” Tim’s mother went back to counting the old coin collection. “I’m shocked that Mom was able to hold on to all this stuff. There’s enough for a museum exhibit. These coins alone must be worth a fortune. Some of them are several hundred years old.”

“Really,” Tim exclaimed. “Let’s trade. I’ll count coins and you can pick through this cloth,” he said pulling out a length of faded wool plaid.

His mother looked up. “That’s the McBain tartan. Probably Great Granddad’s. I doubt it’s worth anything but it’s certainly important family history.”

“Maybe the coins are replicas,” Tim glanced around the living room where they’d brought the boxes after collecting them from the attic. The carpets were threadbare and the furniture worn. There was an old style TV for which there had never been a remote. “It’s hard to believe Gran had anything worth real money.”

“Mom and Dad were frugal people. I would have thought they’d have sold these coins though. The last few years were really rough for Mom, getting sick and all.” She finished counting and slid the coins into a plastic bag and laid them back in the bag she’d found them in. “This bag is interesting, too. I think it’s …oh I can’t remember what they’re called now.” She closed up the box and taped it shut. “What else do you have?”

Tim drew out a heavy mesh made of tiny metal links. “Look, chain mail, I saw some at the Renaissance Festival.” He dug down deeper in the box and pulled out a wicked looking dagger.

“Watch out,” his mother warned, “the edge is still pretty sharp. I wonder how old it is.”

“Looks pretty old,” Tim murmured already reaching for the last item. He lifted out a large wad of silk that had faded and yellowed over the years so the original color was unidentifiable. He slowly unwound the cloth to disclose a brilliant green bottle of very coarse thick glass. There was a stopper in the top and a wax seal covering the cork.

“Oh my gosh,” his mother gasped. “I’d forgotten all about that.”

“What is it.” Tim held it up and saw the faint shadow of something inside. “There’s something in here.”

“Be very careful, Tim. That bottle is immensely old, at least according to my grandmother. She brought it with her from Scotland. Her mother gave it to her. Apparently it’s been passed down in the family for generations. I think she said it was more than seven hundred years old.”

“Cool,” Tim gently laid the bottle on top of the silk.

“Oh I’m sure it’s old, but Gran probably exaggerated a bit. There’s a story that goes with it.”

“Spill it Mom. What’s the bottle for and what’s in it?”

“The story goes that in the twelfth century the laird of the McBain clan heard about a young woman with magical powers. He rode north and stole her away from her father, brought her home and married her. He planned to use her powers to strengthen the clan and defeat their enemies. He would have taken her no matter what she looked like, but she was a beautiful woman and he fell deeply in love with her. Unfortunately, she didn’t return his feelings. She fell in love with another, a distant cousin, who was devoted to her. The two tried to run away together but the laird discovered their plans and put a stop to it. They fought over her and the cousin was killed. The laird brought his wife back, but three nights later he was found torn apart in his own bed. His wife disappeared never to be heard from again. His brother became the new laird. The new laird took some part or remembrance of his brother and had it placed in the bottle and sealed with magic spells. The bottle has been passed down through the family without ever being opened. If it’s ever opened it will bring disaster to the family.”

Tim picked up the bottle and turned it thoughtfully. “Parts, you mean like fingers or toes or something.”

His mother laughed. “It’s just a story. I’m sure whatever is in there it’s not that dramatic.”

“Can I keep it?”

His mother considered. “Actually, I think Mom would’ve liked for you to have it.”

“Thanks.”

His mother checked her watch. “Well, let’s put all this back in the box and load the last of it in the car. It’s nearly eleven and we have to start home tomorrow. You have that test on Friday and I want to be home before nine tomorrow night.”

They spent the next fifteen minutes packing and re-packing the car. When they had everything just the way they wanted Tim decided he wanted the bottle with him. “It’ll be safer if it rides up front with me.”

“I don’t care,” his mother declared in an exhausted voice, “so long as I’m in bed in the next twenty minutes.”

Tim retrieved the bottle and they went upstairs to their respective rooms. He shucked off his pants and shirt planning to sleep in his boxers. Removing his watch and silver neck chain given to him by his current girlfriend, he stretched and climbed under the covers. He sat in the bed thinking about the bottle. The more he thought about it, the more determined he was to find out what was inside.

After what seemed like hours, he eased off the bed and with trembling hands used a letter opener on the dresser to pry up the seal. Slowly and carefully he twisted the cork until with a loud pop it was free. He took a deep breath and upended the bottle. A wedge of rusty looking plaid fell onto the dresser. Tim frowned. He poked at the cloth with one finger. It was stiff and hard. He picked it up and turned it around. It had obviously been cut from a McBain tartan. Under the stains the pattern matched the one he’d seen downstairs. He picked up the letter opener and worried the cloth apart. Little brown flecks broke off from the material and the cloth parted to reveal a wound partially braided piece of hair.

“That’s it,” Tim muttered to himself. “That’s sorry.” Putting the hair back in the cloth, he stuffed it back in the bottle. He replaced the cork, lining everything up so that only if it was examined closely would anyone know it had been opened. Deeply disappointed, he crawled into bed and slipped quickly into a deep sleep.



A woman with long red hair glared at him through eyes the color of the sea on a pleasant afternoon. She was exquisite. There was stone behind her and beneath her bare feet. She was dressed in very strange clothes and she was obviously furious. She struck out with a fist at the same time rattling a chain attached to the other wrist. The chain was looped through a ring set in the stone wall. “Ye canna hold me with this Eunan,” she shouted. “I’ll avenge his death and nothing ye do can prevent it.” Then her face changed from rage to shock and then fear. “Nay, you canna do this. What of his soul? Return it to me, I beg ye. I’ll do what ye ask. I’ll do whate’er ye ask. Please.” Her voice rose in anguish as she faded away. “Ye canna do it. Ye must no’ do it.”

The face of an ancient woman took shape out of the gloom. She was standing behind a rough wooden table. There was a fire and shelves with rows of frightening looking items behind her. She was holding a bit of cloth in her hand. “Tis no small matter, what ye ask, but I ken how to do it.” She turned and shuffled over to the shelf and selected a box. Lifting it reverently, she brought it over and set it on the table. As the lid lifted, the firelight gleamed off an emerald colored glass bottle nestled within. “They’ll be no heaven for him nor anywhere else either,” the old crone chortled. “Here his soul will stay with the right spell. But it must ne’er be opened,” she warned. “If it is she’ll find him and restore him. Her powers are said to be very great.” She looked up suddenly and a sly smile spread slowly across her yellowed face. “As ye say, perhaps her powers are only said to be great. Still it would be unwise to tempt fate.” The old woman faded away and Tim rolled over. In a few seconds he was fully awake.

He sat up rubbing his eyes. “What a dream.” He caught sight of the bottle perched on the dresser and groaned. He now felt it had been wrong to tamper with the bottle. Getting up he opened one of the drawers and dropped the bottle in on top of a bunch of socks. Then he staggered down the hall to the bathroom. He turned on the light and splashed cold water on his face. Immediately he felt better. The dream had seemed so real, as though he’d been really talking with the two women. He could remember clearly what they’d said and he could remember speaking himself but for some reason he couldn’t recall his words. He put some more water on his face, got a drink and checked himself casually in the mirror. He froze. The hair on the back of his neck rose. Turning slowly, he found himself staring at the red-haired woman from his dream.

She took a quick aggressive step toward him. “Give it to me,” she demanded. “Now!”

“Give you what?” Tim squeaked in absolute terror. He could see right through her to the tiles in the shower.

She moved another step closer. “Your souvenir. Give it to me Eunan or I swear I’ll tear ye apart so they’ll be no’ enough left to bury.”

Tim’s tenuous control broke and he bolted. He paused once he was in the hall and looked back. She’d followed him. She was oddly changed and she continued to shift until suddenly a new form began to take shape. Tim stared mesmerized. Another moment passed and a wolf stood in the hall. It focused radiant green eyes on him and lunged. Tim ran, yelling as he went. He slipped on the carpet runner and fell to his knees. Flipping over, he saw the wolf gather itself and leap straight for his throat. Instinctively, Tim threw up his hands, but the wolf vanished right before its fangs could close on his neck.

He sat up, staring at the place the wolf had been, trying to make sense of what had happened. His name being called loudly, finally drew him out of the stupor he'd fallen into. He looked around feeling as though he’d just awakened. “What’s going on?” his mother asked anxiously.

“There was a woman chasing me. I mean she was in the bathroom and then she turned into a wolf and tried to kill me.”

“Oh,” his mother nodded, “it was a bad dream. I’m not surprised with everything that’s happened lately.” She pulled her robe tighter around her. “You should go back to bed, we have to leave early.” She retreated to her room and shut the door leaving Tim sitting in the hall.

“Right Mom,” he muttered. “I’m gonna go back to sleep after this.” He sat on the floor a few more minutes and then crept to his door and eased it open. He took a good look around before setting foot inside. When he finally did he went straight to the dresser and picked up his chain slipping it around his neck and fastening it in place. “Okay you werewolf ghost let’s see you bite through this.” He got into bed but remained wide-awake. Every sound got his attention and stirred his imagination. Bits of movies kept coming to mind. Parts that he’d thought cool before now bothered him. One in particular kept playing in his head. In that movie, the killer had hidden under the bed and stabbed the victims through the mattress. “You’re being stupid,” he told himself, but he got up anyway and knelt by the bed. Heart pounding he leaned over and looked under it. There was a lot of dust and a missing sandal, but no werewolf ghost. He chuckled to himself and sat up coming face to face with her. She was sitting on the other side of the bed. He gasped and fell backwards against the dresser.

“Ye’ll be giving me what I came for now, Eunan.”

“Gladly, what do you want?”

“Ian’s plait and tartan.”

Tim glanced right and left before the meaning of what she’d said clicked. “You mean that stuff in the bottle?”

“Aye, that I do.”

Tim struggled up and reached behind him sliding open the drawer. “You want it, you got it.”

She rose and walked toward him right through the bed. “No tricks Eunan, I warn ye. That bit of silver about your neck won’t save ye, I’ll just start a bit lower.”

Tim swallowed. “No tricks.” His hand closed on the bottle and he drew it out slowly. He held it out to her. “Here take it.”

She stepped back quickly. “I canna an’ ye ken it well.”

“What?”

“There’s quicksilver used in making the glass. It’s what gives it its color. I canna touch it.”

“Really,” Tim removed the stopper and turned the bottle upside down. There was a fluttering sound from inside but nothing came out. He shook it but somehow the plaid had come unwrapped and was now stuck in the neck of the bottle. “It’s stuck.”

She snarled menacingly and Tim looked up. “I swear, it’s stuck,” he gasped, desperately pounding the bottle like it was a reluctant ketchup container. She’d moved away from him and was changing rapidly. “Mom,” he shrieked as he raised the bottle. His mother opened his door as he let the bottle fly right at the wolf growling on the bed. The wolf vanished. His mother screamed and the bottle crashed into the wall. It shattered into hundreds of tiny glittering pieces.

“What was that?” his mother gasped.

“She’s some kind of ghost or werewolf or something.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before she was back. She turned a triumphant face in their direction. “I’ve decided to show my gratitude by letting ye live.”

“Living’s good, glad I could help.”

She started a slow hum that rose to a strange wailing. There were words, but Tim couldn’t understand them. The shards of glass melted into the floor. The scrap of plaid began to grow and unfold as something formed beneath it. Both Tim and his mother stood spellbound watching as a man materialized on the carpet. The wailing stopped. The man began to breathe. His eyelids fluttered and opened. Sitting up and gazing about he took stock of his surroundings. His interest settled on the red-haired woman. Recognition and a smile transformed his rugged features. He stood. “Maggie,” he breathed softly.

“Aye,” she answered her expression troubled. “I promised I’d return for ye Ian.”

He held his hand out to her. “Aye, an’ ye have.”

She stayed where she was. His expression changed to concern and he started toward her. She held up her hands. “Nay.”

“What’s wrong? Ye’ve done as promised though I’d no’ have held ye to it.”

“I’ve been a long time keeping it, a verra long time.”

Ian glanced around again. He gave Tim and his mother a curious and troubled perusal. “Aye, I see. It doesna matter, Maggie.” He strode forward ignoring her as she tried to push him back. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her to him. She relaxed against him a moment and then drew away.

“Do ye still love me Ian McBain?”

Ian laughed with a full rich sound. He picked her up in his arms. “Aye, Maggie my love, that I do.” He turned and carried her straight through the wall. The sound of his laughter lingered a moment and then all evidence of their having been was gone.

Tim and his mother stood still in shock for a moment afterwards. Tim’s mother recovered first. She sank down on the bed and held her hand over her madly pounding heart. “Well, at least part of the story was true. That’s so strange. I just can’t believe it.”

Tim snapped out of his reverie. “Amazing,” he said all his fear forgotten. “I wonder if there’s anything unusual about those coins. I think I’ll get a better look at them tomorrow.”

His mother stared up at him in horror. “You don’t really think so! Oh my gosh! I don’t think I can take something else.”

Tim took a good look at his mother. “You’re tired Mom. Come on,” he prompted pulling her to her feet. “You need to sleep. We’re leaving early remember.”

“Sleep! After this? Are you crazy?”

“Mom,” Tim said soothingly, “nobody was hurt and the problem’s solved. I’m sure they won’t be back.” He walked her down the hall and into her room.

She plopped down on the bed and took off her robe. “You didn’t really mean that about the coins did you?”

“Of course not, get some sleep Mom.” Tim trailed back to his own room feeling oddly elated and pleasantly tired. He crawled under the covers and turned over on his side. “No,” he said softly, “I don’t think there’s anything special about those coins. But I wouldn’t mind if there were. No, I wouldn’t mind at all.”