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

BOOK TWO: Chapter Three

One evening, after several peaceful months of living in Edinburgh, Mrs. Coltheart and Abigail sat by the fireplace and were busy mending holes in Mr. Coltheart's clothing.  Why he needed his shirts mended so often was beyond her knowledge but if he claimed his sleeves always get snagged while working, she believed him.

They chatted about the latest gossip that was circling among the women's mouths and ears in Mercat Cross and the Grassmarket. "Did ye hear aboot them robberies up in Mile?" Mrs. Coltheart asked with enthusiasm. The fire dimed down and with a metal stick, she stabbed the embers to bring them back to life.

"Ay, Ah have," Abigail muttered into her work as she kept her full attention on her bobbing needle. She slipped the pointed instrument over and under the fabric with great care that demonstrated her practice of the trade. She sat, slumped over the clothing, in silence with her blue eyes attached to the material. With a sigh that screamed curiosity, she raised her head and opened her mouth to speak. "If Ah can talk how Ah want; don’t it worry ye?"

"Speak up loodly, Lassie. Ah cannae hears or understands ye," Mrs. Coltheart demanded, putting her handiwork down and staring Abigail straight in the eyes for hopes of intimidation. She leaned forward a small bit so that her elbows were resting upon her knees.

Abigail looked around the room as if she was searching for something. Looking back at Mrs. Coltheart, she took a deep breath and started, "Sume say this Close es haunted frum a sickness," Abigail whispered as if simply mentioning the word 'haunting' would bring malicious spirits foreword and call a terrible wrath down upon her and the house.

Abigail's question lingered in the air for a moment, while Mrs. Coltheart contemplated her answer.

Once Mrs. Coltheart figured out her carefully selected response, Mrs. Coltheart laughed loudly until her sides ached. She did not even both to remain ladylike and cover her mouth with a hand or laugh softly. "Nae thar es nae thing as ghosts." She chocked on her laughter and when she had her breathe, she picked up her work and started once more. Occasionally, she would shake her head in wild scepticism.

The two women sat working in silence once more. The sky-light dimmed and a plethora of candles were places out about the house, casting dark shadows in the unreachable corners and crevasses. Occasionally Abigail would hum several, low notes of an ancient, Scottish folksong that she knew from her childhood. But each time she started, she was quickly silenced by glares from Mrs. Coltheart who preferred to work in quite.

They carried out in this fashion for a while, and then suddenly, with a hesitant stutter, Abigail whispered, "Did ye hear that?" Her eyes were large and frantically running around the room, searching for whatever could have possibly made that noise.

"Hear woot dear?" Mrs. Coltheart asked with great annoyance. She slammed her piece of material down on her lap and started intently at the foolish Abigail. 

"Cow."

Mrs. Coltheart placed her slender hand across her thin mouth to cover a smile but her glistening eyes gave her mood away. She sat like that for several moments before bursting out in laughter. "That es th' mentalist thing Ah heard!" She picked her needle up and started to push it through the fabric to mend the sleeve. 

Abigail slumped over in her chair and set her eyes towards the ground. She shuffled her feet back and forth several times before looking up. "It not that foony," she mumbled into her chest with a tear starting to form in her eye. In fear of getting yelled at or punished, she wiped it away before Mrs. Coltheart could see.

"Oh, but it es, lassie," Mrs. Coltheart said with a condescending tone and cooed with a tint of laughter still residing in her voice. "Ye need more sleep."