Iain, eyes gleaming with determination, leapt from the small boat onto the muddy bank of the island in the middle of Loch Mhòr. Behind him, William, his loyal companion, watched with a mix of admiration and worry, driving the oars into the water to finish beaching the boat. The mist swirled around them, creating a suffocating atmosphere that muffled all sound.
"If the legend is true, Willie," Iain said, shaking the water from his clothes, "I'll find the answers I seek here."
William frowned. "Are you sure about this, Iain? The mist is thicker than usual, and the cottage has a bad reputation. Wouldn't it be better to return to the village? You don't have to prove anything to those idiots at the university."
Iain smiled arrogantly. "A true Scotsman is not afraid of the shadows, Willie. What is life if not a series of challenges? If the legend says the Prince will reveal the secrets of leadership to me, then I must face them."
William sighed, knowing he couldn't dissuade his friend. He handed him a small sleeping bag. "At least take this. The night promises to be long and cold."
Legend had it that in that house, the spirit of Bonnie Prince Charlie wandered, awaiting a new leader to continue his legacy.
Iain watched as William's boat disappeared into the fog and the shadows of the setting sun. Solitude enveloped him like a cold blanket, but it also filled him with a strange excitement. He approached the edge of the lake, his eyes fixed on the still surface of the water. His reflection stretched out like a mirror, revealing a face marked by determination and anxiety.
A gust of wind rippled the water, distorting his image. For a moment, he thought he saw something else in the reflection, a figure moving beside him, almost imperceptible. He turned his head sharply but saw no one. However, the sensation of being watched persisted.
After walking towards the house, Iain stopped in front of a window. The dim light from inside cast eerie shadows on the walls. Peering inside, he thought he glimpsed a dark figure moving behind him. Again, he turned abruptly, finding nothing but the house. The feeling of being watched was strange but alluring.
At that moment, the front door creaked open, as if inviting him in. Iain felt a shiver run down his spine. Undeterred, he crossed the threshold and entered the house. The antique furniture, immaculate and dust-free, contrasted with the sense of abandonment that emanated from the place. He took a candle and a match from his bag, illuminating the room that was beginning to sink into darkness with the arrival of night.
Iain took the candle in his hand and began to climb the stairs. The wax began to melt rapidly, burning his fingertip. He dropped the candle with a muffled cry and, as he picked it up from the floor, an elongated shadow stretched across the wall, ascending the stairs as if someone were climbing.
Though somewhat nervous, Iain quickened his pace. Upon reaching the landing, he raised the candle and asked in a trembling voice, "Is anyone there? Are you the one I seek?" Only a cold gust of wind replied, rattling the windows and swaying the shadows that danced on the walls. The moon, peeking timidly through the clouds, bathed the room in a ghostly light, casting long, distorted shadows that moved incessantly. Iain, feeling a chill run down his spine, repeated to himself, "If I want to rule, I must not fear."
Iain clenched his jaw, his heart pounding. The temptation to flee was overwhelming, but his ambition anchored him to that place. How could he give up now, after so much effort? Crossing the lake in the middle of the night was madness, and the idea of surrendering to fear was unbearable.
With a sigh, he resigned himself to spending the night there. Perhaps, he thought, sleep would bring him the answers he sought. Maybe, in the dream world, the legend would manifest in some way. With that hope, he spread out the sleeping bag that William had lent him and settled in front of the door, his back to the wall.
Just as he was beginning to doze off, an image formed on the periphery of his vision. In the old armchair at the end of the room, shrouded in shadow, was the silhouette of a man. Iain shuddered. Was it a hallucination caused by fatigue and tension, or was it finally the manifestation he had so longed for? The figure seemed to be staring fixedly at him, its gaze penetrating and enigmatic. A shiver ran down his spine. Could this be the spirit of Bonnie Prince Charlie?
Iain was petrified, his blood seemed to stop flowing. The silhouette, once blurry, materialized, emerging from the shadows. With slow, deliberate steps, it moved towards him. The breeze, as if intent on plunging everything into chaos, flung the door open, extinguishing the candle and plunging the room into complete darkness. Only the pale moonlight filtered through the windows, creating grotesque shadows that danced on the walls.
Behind the figure's footsteps, the boy heard a crowd approaching. The sound of heavy footsteps, ancient chants, and the crackling of torches created an oppressive atmosphere. It was as if the dead had risen to reclaim what was theirs. Iain tried to scream, but his voice was lost in his throat. Confusion and terror paralyzed him. He could only perceive the increasingly close noises, which enveloped him like a threatening wave.
When the specter reached his side, it spoke in a cavernous, hissing voice, its warm breath brushing against Iain's face. "Who are you, intruder?" it asked, its voice echoing in the darkness. "An English spy sent to betray our rebellion? A cowardly peasant who would trade his loyalty to his people for a title and lands? Or simply another fool seeking the secret of Scottish leadership to plunge our people into another hundred years of slavery?"
Iain wanted to vanish, to sink into the darkness and disappear. The feeling of cold froze his blood, and an indescribable nausea overcame him. The specter's voice, ever closer, reminded him of a man being hanged, his last words muffled by the noose. The noises around him were a cacophony of moans, curses, and incomplete prayers, as if the ghosts of the past had gathered to condemn him.
The specter fixed its gaze on Iain, its eyes shining intensely in the darkness. In a deep, resonant voice, it recited an ancient Scottish proverb: "Ambition, like a sharp knife, cuts both ways."
The specter fixed its eyes on Iain's, its gaze penetrating and accusatory. "Now go," it spat, its voice resonating like thunder in the night. "You are unworthy."
Finally, Iain managed to break the spell that paralyzed him. With a heart-rending cry, he threw himself into the icy lake. He swam desperately, the waning moon illuminating a macabre scene on the shore he was leaving: fires crackling, men hanged from the trees. However, Iain could not stop. The lake seemed endless, and he swam aimlessly, carried by an invisible current.
When dawn arrived, Iain's lifeless body was washed ashore. A strange light emanated from him, separating from his corpse. As the last remnants of dawn faded, a figure materialized in front of his spirit. It was the prince, his face lit by an enigmatic smile. "Now you will learn all that a leader must do," he said. "Welcome to the Jacobite Rebellion. You are now an eternal part of '45'."
Iain, in a weak voice, knelt and uttered the sacred words: "God save the King, God save the House of Stuart."
The following story is an entry for the Scholar and Scribe Invitational contest of the Scholar and Scribe community.
The story has been translated from the original Spanish using Gemini AI.