This post was inspired by this month's Scholar and Scribe Invitational writing prompt. In keeping with the time of year, it's all about horror and the paranormal ! You can read all about it HERE.
Enjoy !
Image created by AI in NightCafe Studio
The reception area was thoroughly dated, but clearly cared for and tidy. John tapped the bell on the reception desk and they waited for someone to check them in. It didn't take long. A man came through from a back room. He was tall and slim, looking to be in his mid thirties or early forties, dressed in a brown suit. He saw the couple and their cases, and opened the black book sitting behind the counter.
"Welcome to the Loch House, I'm Mr McTavish. Ye'll be the couple with a reservation, I take it ?" he asked the question more like it was a statement, in a broad Scottish accent.
John nodded. Before he could give a name, the man carried on "Mr and Mrs Belmont, aye ?"
"Um, I think there might be a mistake. It's Mr and Mrs Fairfield. We called two days ago, just to stay the night passing through on our way to Thurso."
The man just nodded, glancing at them both and then glancing back at Susan a second time. "We've put you in the Lochview Room, top o'the stairs on the right. Come down once you've unpacked, Mrs McTavish will have supper served up when you're ready."
Once they were in their room they saw that it, too, was dated in terms of decor. Wallpaper with broad cream and pale green stripes separated by borders of feint golden leaves and wreaths. A clay green carpet and curtains, and dark polished wooden chests of drawers and dressing table. But the view from the window was breath-taking. It looked out over the waters of Loch Brora and at the hillside opposite; granite cliffs worn to smooth softness by millions of years, separated from the loch itself by tree-shrouded scree slopes.
But in the privacy of the room, Susan spoke to John. "I didn't like the way that Mr McTavish looked at me. It's like he already knew me. A bit too intense. Creepy."
"Don't worry about it, dear. We've had a long drive, it's only natural to be a bit on edge." John hadn't noticed the look, and was relaxed as he put their clothes away in the chest of drawers, tucking his cuff-links under the shirts. He called them his lucky cuff-links, worn on special occasions, a wedding present from his mother.
But Susan's unease was banished when they went down to the dining room. The aroma of whatever Mrs McTavish was cooking up wafted up to them even before they went in. It smelled rich, meaty and thoroughly traditional.
As they sat down at a table set perfectly with bone china plates with blue and golden borders, Mrs McTavish wheeled out a trolley with dinner on it. A large silver lidded pot with a ladle sticking out of the top.
Mrs McTavish was, younger than her husband, very neatly dressed with a warm open smile on her face.
"Here we are, my dears. A good hearty casserole. Very, very hearty; cooked it up myself. Perfect after a long drive or a strenuous evening."
She said it with a smile, but John felt there was a slight tension in her voice.
The casserole looked and smelled delicious, and tasted even better. Filled with meat and vegetables with a rich, peppery flavour.
"I wonder where everyone else is ?" Susan asked her husband. "It's a lovely little hotel in a place that is idyllic in early autumn. But we seem to be the only guests. Mrs McTavish is sitting over there with some of her casserole. I can't see Mr McTavish, I guess he's off cleaning rooms or something."
"Well, they don't know what they're missing. Best dinner I've had in ages. But after that drive, all I want is a hot bath and to get to bed. We've still got quite a way to go tomorrow."
Which is exactly what they did. The big old enamelled iron bath in the en-suite bathroom took an age to fill, but the water was hot and wonderfully soft, making huge amounts of soap suds.
Soon, John was fast asleep. But Susan found she was drifting in that place between wakefulness and sleep. Perhaps she was more on edge than she admitted, or maybe the casserole had been a bit too rich for her.
She was jerked into wakefulness by movement. A slight creaking of floor boards. A sense of not being alone. A slight smell of burning.
Her eyes blinked open. It was pitch dark, the only hint of light being from the new moon outside creeping around the edges of the closed curtains.
Something flashed. A knife !
Behind it, a face. Black as coal, red as blood, white teeth in a grimace of hate lit by the moonlight.
She did the only thing that was a natural response; she screamed.
The light went on. John was looking at her with concern, his hand on the bedside light switch. There was no-one else in the room.
"I'm... I'm sorry.... I thought I was awake. It must have been a nightmare. But it was so real."
"What was it, Susan ? What did you dream about ?"
"It was... Mrs McTavish. All burned up, with a great carving knife in her hand. Please, I don't want to stay here. We've paid, we're supposed to be going in the morning. Can't we just pack up and leave now ?"
John knew when his wife was being serious. She definitely was right now. She looked pale and terrified. He packed their cases in a hurry and they crept downstairs as quietly as they could. There was no-one in the darkened reception, and they reached the car outside as quickly as they could.
In less than fifteen minutes, they were in the town of Brora. Most of the town was in darkness, but it had plenty of small hotels and boarding houses for the tourist trade. John pulled in at the first one they found with lights on.
Walking into reception, they could hear chatter from the adjacent bar; it was still well before midnight.
There was a young girl manning the desk; she looked up with a smile as soon as she saw them.
"I'm sorry to trouble you so late," John asked, "But do you have a room for the night ? We were staying up at the Loch House, but my wife had trouble sleeping there, she just felt really uneasy."
The smile vanished. "The Loch House ? Aye, I'll bet your wife felt uneasy, if you really did try to sleep there."
The girl looked at them, doubt on her face, and some confusion.
"Twas a terrible, terrible sad story. Twenty or more years ago now. Poor Mrs McTavish found her man was having an affair with one of their regulars. She killed him and served his heart up in a stew for his lover. That night, she murdered the girl and set Loch House ablaze and herself inside it. No-one stays there now, in that burned out old ruined roofless shell of a place."
Then she smiled again. "You must have drifted asleep in your car in a layby or something. Of course we've got a room for you."
It was only when John unpacked their suitcase in the nice modern room they'd taken that he discovered his lucky cuff links were missing.