The Haunting of Mary King's Close (No longer writing)

BOOK ONE: Chapter Four

The man forcefully pulled the stake from Thomas's chest which caused spits of blood to spray out. The man took the bloody stake to the table and laid it inside the velvet.

The priest walked over to Thomas body, with shaking knees and his bible at the ready.  "Domine Deus noster tu es promptus ad misericrdiam, et fidem. Thomas Williams fuit violenter auferri. Veni in auxilium accelerat, miserebitur eius es consolare amicos suos teuri et virtute crucis. Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen."  

He spoke in perfect Latin while blessing Thomas's soul.  The priest closed his eyes in sorrow, as the last word slipped out of his mouth. He took a deep, agonizing breath and slowly closed the bible. His head hung to his chest as he regretfully moved away, with the Judge at his heels.

The two masked men untied Thomas's body and dragged it off the cross. They carried it to the cart and dropped it inside before pulling the cart away.

The crowed started to thin out but their smiles and constant chatter let it be known that they were pleased with it.  "It hurts me." Gregg said releasing his hand from Cora's grip.

"Sorry," she said walking away from Gregg and to her father. She took his hand. "Ah feel bad for him," she stated to Finlay, who was walking beside her.

He snorted. "Wa?" he asked ushering his brother to move at a fast pace. "It was th' best part ay me day. A murderer getting' killed." He said with his eyebrows raised and enthusiasm in his voice. His sister did not respond; there was no need for her to. They both knew what she was thinking.  "Nae think that. Thar is nae way he us free."

                                    The four of them walked home in silence from that moment on. They were all thinking about the chance that not only Thomas, but all the others, had been innocent.  The Judge never went through a proper inspection and based his deaths on his feelings and his mood. He was always in the mood to see blood pour out of people, or to watch their eyes bulge and head turn purple as they thrashed on the rope.

By the time the family reached their home, a dark layer of rain covered the streets and engulfed the city in a normal state of shadow.  The sun had dipped below the towering tile rooftops and the sky was a gloomy shade of purple.

They ate their late meal in more silence.  Anytime Gregg opened his mouth to speak, he was silenced by his brother and sisters harsh glares. Niall was not in the mood to talk after a long day. They pushed their food around with their fingers and took small bites of their days old haggis, eating it slowly.

Niall finished first and stood up with a loud yawn. His children fallowed. "Am tired, gonna go tae bed," Niall said scratching his head

"A bedtime story Da?" Gregg asked propping his head on his hand and facing his father, who pulled a chair from the table to the bed.

"I told ye one," he said with a twinkle behind his sapphire eyes. "Again? Alright. Which one?" He pulled a chair to the kids' bed.  He leaned forward on the chair and rested his arms atop his knees.

He told them stories of Scotland's history, spinning it into a tale of heroic or malevolent men.  Storied that travelled back farther than his grandfather and came from Scotland's struggle for independence. They were stories of his childhood in the Highlands.  They came from fields of amethyst thistle on the plummeting hills and tartans worn in secret.  They were from Highland Games and fights with other lads.

"Th' loovers," Cora said lying down close to the wall and next to Finlay.

"That was unce lad and lass was madly in loove."  Niall started the story with gusto and a fire behind his eyes.

But this story was different from the rest.  It did not start a revolution nor was it heard across the borders.  It was his story.

"They were always together. Nobody could separate them. Nae e'en their mums. When they were uld enough, th' lad asked 'er Da for 'er hand."  He paused for a moment, taking in the pain. "But th' Da said no." He stopped for another second and studied the sad face of his daughter. "He was nae educated enough tae marry 'er."  

"But th' next day he- like a true man- cried tae 'er about 'er Da’s denial. He said he woods kill himself if she was nae his wife. But 'er fathers orders did nay stoop them. At night they ran awa' wi' as much money and scran they coods carry."

"They travelled awa' from their wee true Scottish toon tae a more English city an' made their new way. They were as 'appy as culd be.  Ten years later they hud three kids an' a babe was on th' way. But she nur th' babe-"

Nails' words seized in his throat and he could no longer continue.  His voice wobbled to an abrupt stop. Tears dripped down his broad face, left clean lines on his skin and his shoulders shook violently.  He buried his face in his hands as a bad attempt to cover his ache. He could no longer carry on, but the children knew the rest of the story like the print of their thumb. It hurt Niall too much to think of that dreadful day. 

There were different paths of the story to tell. There were happier moments to tell of, funnier ones, and romantic stories.  But that was the only story Niall cared to tell.

Finlay put his head down and faced the wall, overlooking Cora who lay on her back. Her eyes were closed as she pretended to be asleep. He closed his eyes too.  He breathed heavily once in pity and disgust. Not only did the memory of the death hurt Niall, it hurt Finlay too and he often spent time thinking about her.

 "Ah loove ya Da." Gregg's childish voice broke the silence of sobs.  He rolled over to face his father while a tear fell down his face. "An' ah loove 'er too."

"Ah loove you, Son," Niall responded between breaks of weeping.