The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women Part 14

Alison Littlewood.

The piper stood on the hill, all alone, his dark green kilt blowing in the breeze. Rannoch Moor was broad and windswept, great mounds disappearing into the distance, punctuated by the glisten of water.

Amanda couldn't hear the bagpipes, only the continual grind of the car's engine that had accompanied them for mile after mile. She saw the back of her grandma's head in the pa.s.senger seat and Granddad's sticky-out ears. There were white hairs growing out of them.

"Can't we stop?" she asked.

Her grandma turned and Amanda pointed. Now she saw that the piper was standing in a lay-by. There was a line of parked cars, but there didn't seem to be any people: only the piper.

Her granddad slowed, indicated, pulled in. There were brown spots on his hands. He parked the car and they sat there.

"Here, Amanda," said Grandma. She opened her window, winding the handle around and around. Cold air and the sound of wind and the strange, strident call of bagpipes came in. Amanda twisted and looked out of the back.

"Here," Grandma said again. She fumbled with her purse, undid the snappers and pulled out a coin. She pressed it into Amanda's hand. It was twenty pence.

"For his hat," said Grandma, gesturing. "There's always a hat."

Amanda slipped out of the car, jumping down on to the tarmac. Beyond the lay-by was nothing but tufts of gra.s.s, a line of green that gave way to burned orange and purple. The clouds were low and rippled and went on forever.

She walked towards the piper hearing a wheezing sound, a constant groan under the notes and the gulps of breath he took. She didn't look at him. She saw only his legs, st.u.r.dy and bare. They were covered in curling hairs that shivered in the wind. She looked for a hat and saw a large black case with the shine of coins inside. She put down the twenty pence and walked away, feeling his eyes on her back. Still he played on, different notes each time, a tune she didn't know.

Amanda climbed back into the car. The grind of the engine started and they drove away, onward, towards home.

"Well, isn't that nice?" said Grandma. "A welcoming committee." She started c.h.i.n.king china cups, putting them into saucers, her hands shaking.

There were three of them. They were Amanda's new neighbours. She didn't know if she wanted new neighbours. She wanted her old room, the house that was sold, the house that didn't have a family in it any more. Now she had her grandparents, and this place: a white house with a low roof, a room under the eaves with a faded carpet and a musty smell.

"Scotland will be good for you," Grandma had said. "A new start for us all. Plenty of fresh air."

And here were friends for her already. Mrs McBride was the mother, and here were the two daughters. Morag leaned against the dresser, swinging her foot like a ballerina. She had brown hair and a long, pinched face. Kitty was older. She sat down at once on the sofa, sitting up straight, looking at Amanda with a direct gaze.

"What do you say, Amanda?" Grandma nodded towards the girls.

Amanda tried a smile. She couldn't think of anything to say; then she saw that pointed foot, swinging and swaying. "Do you like ballet?" she asked.

Morag's lips twitched and she shot a sidelong glance at Kitty. "Ballet?" she said. "No, I don't like ballet. D'ye not know Scottish dancing?"

Amanda shook her head and watched as Morag skipped a few steps across the floor.

"Have ye no been to a ceilidh, Amanda?" asked their mother. Her tone was kind. "We'll have to teach ye, won't we, Morag?"

Morag pursed her lips.

"Have you heard o' the ceilidh? Ye'd like it." Mrs McBride laughed. "Ye'll no be used to the accent. D'ye ken?"

Amanda frowned. "My name's Amanda," she said, and everyone laughed.

"Come on," said Kitty, jumping up from the sofa and holding out a hand. "We'll show ye where to play, won't we, Morag?"

There were encouraging sounds from the adults. Amanda rose to her feet and Kitty grabbed her hand. The next moment they were heading up the lane towards a wooded hill, Morag and Kitty in front, Amanda following.

"We'll go to the lochan," said Kitty. "Ye do know what a lochan is?"

"No."

They hurried on, past more small white houses, past a tiny store, past a cottage that was thatched in what looked like old heather. Water dripped from it. The sky was darker now, the clouds weighed down.

"Why're your parents so auld?" The question came from Kitty.

"Why so auld?" said Morag.

Amanda knew she would have to explain: that they were her grandparents, not her parents, because her parents were gone. There was an accident, and only she was left. She imagined the words, held in her mouth only, never reaching her insides. Just going out into the cold air where they would disappear.

"Here," Kitty cut in. There was a low bridge and the start of a wood. A path wound its way into the trees, fallen leaves lying wetly on the ground. The gold and red of tall trees mingled with the dark green of pine.

Amanda trailed after them, her smooth soles slipping on the leaves, revealing streaks of black mud. Dribbles of lichen hung from the trees. Away from the path the ground was covered in little mounds, old branches maybe, covered in moss and tight, star-shaped leaves. Everything dripped.

"A boy disappeared here once," said Kitty. "But we're not scairt, are we, Morag?"

"No."

"Are ye scairt, Amanda?"

Amanda looked at them.

Kitty turned and smiled. "How old are ye, Amanda?"

"I'm eight."

"He was eight, too. He was eight, wasn't he, Morag? When he disappeared?"

Amanda frowned. "I don't believe there was a boy."

"Aye, there was. A long time ago. An' he vanished. They all thought he ran away, but we know he's here. Don't we, Morag?"

Morag nodded.

"We'll show you."

Amanda glanced back; saw the pathway winding towards the house. Thought of going home on her own, without her new friends, and everyone asking why. She nodded.

There was a man standing by the lochan. He stood by a small green hut, a wooden creel at his feet. He twisted a length of blue rope in his hands, around and around.

The lochan was a small lake, still and grey and edged with rhododendrons that weren't in flower. A wide, even pathway circled it. "It's pretty," Amanda said.

Kitty snorted. "Come on." She led the way to another path, narrow and dark, leading up the hill into more woodland.

The man watched them go. His face was heavily lined and he had a white beard like Santa Claus. He smiled at Amanda and she smiled back.

"Don't look at him," Kitty hissed. "He's mad, he is. Everyone knows it."

She stomped up the path, leaving peaty footprints. Soon they were stepping over branches, and mounds and grooves cut into the earth by run-off from the hills.

"Look," said Kitty.

Amanda looked about. There were just trees with silver trunks, scarred here and there with black patches.

"Ye can see his face." Kitty pointed.

There was a shape in the trunk of a tree, a growth sticking out. "It's nothing," Amanda said. "Just a bole."

"Oh, is it now? Just a be-owl," said Kitty.

"A bowl, a bowl," Morag echoed.

But Amanda saw that it wasn't a bole, at all. It was a face; the face of a young boy with closed eyes, the mouth slightly open, his two front teeth missing. His skin was smooth apart from deep grooves that ran through the bark like scratches.

"He was kilt here, tha's wha' I think. An' they never found him."

Amanda frowned. She reached out to touch the face. It wasn't carved. It was growing in the wood, a living thing, damp and lightly greened with moss.

"Don't touch it!"

Amanda turned and saw Kitty's face, her eyes wide open.

"Ye mustn't touch it. It's bad luck."

It was too late. Amanda's fingers rested, lightly, on the bark.

"That's bad luck, now." Kitty marched off, back the way they had come, Morag trailing at her heels.

After a moment, Amanda followed.

Kitty and Morag had told her to meet them in the woods. Amanda glanced out of the window, seeing the empty lane, a formless grey sky.

"We're your friends," Kitty said. "We'll play by the lochan. Above the lochan." And Amanda saw the way she and Morag glanced at each other.

What if she went, and they didn't meet her after all? What if they went, and she didn't? She sighed. Soon there would be school, and the girls would catch the bus together, share the journey every day. If she didn't go to the woods but no. It had to be them who didn't show, if anyone. And maybe they would be there; maybe they really meant to be friends.

Amanda's footsteps were loud on the pavement. She paused at the bridge, looking down into the white froth, listened to it crashing on the stones. She sniffed. Grandma was right; the air was clean here. It didn't smell of anything at all.

She went in under the trees, kicking fallen leaves that stuck to her boots in wet clumps. The woods were damp, droplets of water clinging to strands of moss and lichen. She glanced down. There was a groove in the ground where water trickled through a carpet of pine needles. Something moved.

Amanda started, and then saw the velvet body of a vole, its tender nose twitching. She imagined the voices in her ears: "Are you scairt?" "Ye scairt?"

She shook her head and went on.

The man by the lochan had his back to Amanda. He was clad in a light blue shirt, bending over a fishing rod that was set out over the lake. She stepped quietly, her boots sc.r.a.ping just slightly on the path, and began to climb up the hillside. She glanced back and could see his legs, ending in brown boots, the feet now pointing towards her.

She slipped and put out her hand. It plunged into leaves and pine needles and came away black. She looked towards the lochan once more. Now she couldn't see the man at all.

She went on, watching for the special tree. She wondered if the boy would still be there, looking out at nothing. Whether his eyes would still be closed. She swallowed.

"Kitty? Morag?" she called out, but her voice was a whisper. "Kitty?"

The wind soughed in the branches. Behind her, a branch snapped.

Amanda whirled about, seeing only silver bark, the black shadows of branches. And then something else, through the trees: something that looked like a pale blue shirt. It was there, and then it was gone. She drew in her breath, turned back, and saw the boy. His eyes were closed. They were two smooth, blank ovals.

"Kitty?" she breathed.

"Kitty?" the call came back. It wasn't a girl's voice. It wasn't a child's voice. Amanda's stomach constricted. There was nothing but trees, all around.

"Kitty?" It was a man's voice.

Amanda walked quickly onward, up the hill. The path became more irregular and she found herself picking her way between green mounds. She slipped, felt her ankle turning, but caught herself. It was all right. Her ankle smarted, but nothing more. She looked back into the wood and saw the man. He was below her on the slope. He held a blue rope in his hands. He was turning and turning it, over and over. He looked back at her. He didn't smile.

Amanda started to run as best she could. "Kitty!" she called. "Morag!"

She slipped and almost fell, recovered, ran on. She ducked under branches that snagged her hair and clothes. She pulled free, not crying out as hair was yanked from her head. The hill grew steeper; she hardly seemed to be running at all. She glanced back. She couldn't see the man.

Amanda stopped, her breath catching. Warm, stinging tears came to her eyes. Was he there? Was he waiting for her to go back down? She looked about. The trees were all the same. She could edge around him, maybe, try to get back to the lochan.

She looked left, then right. There was something through the trees. Not the man, though, not a pale blue shirt; something red. As Amanda watched, it moved.

She let out a little cry, a sound that started way back in her throat.

The thing moved towards her and resolved itself into a boy. He wore a red jumper. He was about her height. The boy jerked his head, indicating that she should follow. Amanda glanced back once more over her shoulder, and then she did.

The boy led her over the hillside. Amanda listened for anyone following but heard only the wind, her own breath, and twigs crackling under her feet. She pushed branches aside and crawled under a fallen tree, bits of wood clinging to her hair and clothes. She could hear the man again, his deep, quick breathing, the heavy tread of his boots. The boy stopped and turned to her, put his finger to his lips. Then he pointed, two sharp stabs.

Amanda went up to him. His jumper was muddied and torn, his hair so long she couldn't see his eyes. He nodded down the slope and she saw what he meant. There was a narrow gully. It was damp, and covered with pine needles, but the way down was clear.

The boy gestured again and then he smiled. His two front teeth were missing. He wore a short twist of blue rope about his neck.

He left her, heading back towards the man. Amanda didn't wait any longer. She lowered herself into the gully and half climbed, half slid down towards the lochan, pine needles m.u.f.fling the sound of her steps.

Grandma's knee was hard and bony. Amanda shifted on it and leaned back. Her grandma stroked her head, making "shhh" noises. Her hand was shaking. Amanda's granddad was at the door, seeing the policemen out, talking with them in a low voice.

Grandma began to pick bits of bark and leaf from Amanda's hair. She had not told them about the boy. She could still see his face, though, the grin as he disappeared into the trees.

They found a man, the policeman had said. Lying against a tree. Heart attack, most likely. Had a piece of rope in his hands. He glanced at Amanda as he said this. A piece of blue rope. There was something in his eyes Amanda didn't like. She wanted him to go away. Now she heard the door close.

She slipped her thumb into her mouth and began to suck it, the way she used to, back when she was really small.

"Wha', the new girl? Aye, she's our friend."

Kitty stood at the bus stop. Morag was next to her, her hair pulled into thin plaits. Two other children waited there, a boy and a girl with the same pale yellow hair.