Page 51 of Highlanders for the Holidays
“Hugh FitzSimon,” the apparition shrieked—and now he knew it for what it was, for the light of the room emanated solely from this creature—from the blue sockets of her eyes.
“Eleanore!” The hand over his breast became a desperate claw, nails digging into his flesh, as though to burrow deep inside and snatch out his aching heart.
Eleanore pointed a long shadowy finger at him. “You will diealone,” the apparition proclaimed. “Already it has begun. Can you hear the keening of eternal silence?” The ghost suddenly lurched at him, sliding over the wooden floor.
“Please,” Hugh begged. “I am an auld man!”
The room was brilliant now, the light otherworldly, like the hottest depths of hell—except not red, but blue. The wind outside continued shrieking, but not so loud as the apparition did when she spoke, despite that Hugh sensed she never raised her voice.
“Not old enough to regret your vile deeds,” she screamed, reaching out an upturned hand, as though beckoning him to take it.
Hugh cowered from the ghost and turned to flee. But there she was again, standing behind him, gliding toward him from the hall.
He cried out, pleading for his life. “Eleanore! Nay!” This could not be real. His shoulders scrunched as he backed into the solar, retreating toward the hearth. Behind him, flames exploded at his back. He could feel the heat straight through his cloak.
“Oh, but I am,” she said, as though she’d somehow read his thoughts, her voice ever so sweet—as though, in fact, sweetness could come from such a face with raging orbs for eyes. “As real as those flames beating at your back.”
Behind him, Hugh’s cloak ignited. He shrieked and quickly shrugged it off his back.
Eleanore smiled thinly. “As real as the flames youwillfeel…ifyou do not mend your ways.”
At Hugh’s feet, his cloak continued to burn, the scent of scorched fur unmistakable, like the scent of burning flesh. The entire room grew blistering hot, when only moments before the icy wind had nearly numbed his fingers to the bone.
“Hell awaits you, Hugh, but ’tis one of your own making.”
He would have stepped away from her, but now he was trapped. There was no way out. His voice trembled as he spoke. “What can you mean?”
“I needst not say, ye already know. But, my dearest Hugh, if ye must see, then take my hand…”
Hugh fervently shook his head. “Nay!”
Silently, insistently, the ghostly Eleanore held her hand out, a flickering blue extension of herself that wavered between flesh and bone. The thought of touching that hand horrified Hugh to his very soul.
But, nay, this could not be real,he reassured himself.It was only a dream—a terrible, horrible dream.
“Come with me,” Eleanore beseeched, her voice a singsong plea.
“Nay,” Hugh refused. And yet his feet, theydidmove, as though summoned by her will. He slid the distance to where she stood, so close that her burning hand remained easily within reach. “Please,” he begged, afeared now in earnest.
“Come with me,” she demanded again, her voice as dulcet as her song had been.
Despite himself, Hugh gave his wife a quivering hand, half expecting to be dragged down into the depths of Hell.
But she did not take him there; instead, she took him somewhere else… where Hugh stood half-dressed against a bitter wind. He made to pinch his cloak together against the weather, but it was no longer hanging upon his shoulders and the wind forced its way past his flesh, straight to his bones.
He recognized this place.
It was Aldergh’s cemetery, but the chapel that had once stood beside it was now demolished. All that remained were bricks stained with black ash. In the distance, Aldergh Castle was no more.
And there, at his feet, lay a solitary tombstone, overturned, evidently forgotten amidst the weeds. He couldn’t quite read the inscription. But behind that tomb lay row upon row of his ancestors’ graves, none lay next to it, and none in advance of it. Beyond that lone gravestone were only wicked looking briars.
“Tis cold,” he complained, giving the ghost a sideways glance.
Eleanore smiled a knowing smile. “Colder yet ye’ll find ye be, Hugh FitzSimon, though I shall give ye sunshine if ’tis what ye please.”
Without ever moving Hugh found himself in a place he’d not visited in many years:Chreagach Mhor. It was springtime now—but how could that be?
Children laughed along the bluff-side, racing through rows and rows of dancing blue bonnets.One. Two. Three. Four.They came running past—and through him. One little boy ran directly through Hugh, laughing as he ran.
