Miscellany

By Andrew Lamont

Miscellany comprises several short stories ranging in genre from ghost and paranormal, to fantasy, to crime and thriller. This collection takes you North America, to Scotland, to places out of this world. Originally titled 'Void', these stories explore loss in its various forms and the darkness of the human heart, as well as investigating revenge and how it affects people's lives. A rural castle in Scotland haunted by a homicidal, rage-crazed demon, a small town in North America that has its tranquillity shattered by a blood-soaked woman running out of a forest, a seemingly idyllic town in England tainted by murder. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Lamont
• Release date: Apr 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386876588

Book preview

MISCELLANY

Andrew Lamont

COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2018 by Andrew Lamont

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The following are works of fiction. All names, characters, events and places are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance of persons, living or dead, events and places is purely coincidental.

Cover art by Book Beaver

ISBN:978-1-9996258-0-1

E-book ISBN: 978-1-999-6258-1-8

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This book has been a long time in the making. Writing these stories, compiling them into this book has changed my life. There are triggers within the pages of this book, including miscarriage, the loss of a spouse, the loss of friends, guilt.

Writing these stories has helped me enormously with so many things. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them. Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me.

Contents

COPYRIGHT

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Lady Tabitha’s Revenge

The Screaming Woman

Her Day Off

When Things Go Wrong

Final Walk

Mad as a Hatter

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Lady Tabitha’s Revenge

Dedicated to Ben Alderson, a great friend, role model, and person.

Beauty holds darkness in its hand, shelters it, pushes out the light. This is especially true when it comes to the grand castles in the hills of rural Scotland.

Behind the prettily aged bricks, the gorgeous staircases, the beautiful portraits of owners long since dead, the amazing weight of the history of the estate, lies an evil the world will only recognise when it is too late.

I beg you, dear reader, believe me when I tell you the evil I am going to tell you about truly exists. It lurks in shadowed corners, loiters in pitch black alleyways, lingers in the gloom. It watches you, stalks you, waiting for the perfect moment.

I have desperately longed to tell my story, but have always lacked the courage. Now, as I lie on my deathbed, I have reached my final chance. Without telling my story, I cannot go to my grave and rest. Even then, I expect my soul will never find peace. 

I implore you, dear reader, forgive me ...

***

At the age of seventeen, I entered the world of employment for the first time. Living in a small town in rural Scotland, positions were relatively easy to come by. I knew the people who managed the castle and they gave me it before I even asked about work.

Naive excitement bubbled through me as I walked to the castle on the first day. Nothing could have prepared me for what was going to happen. Who could have predicted? Nobody. Who could have believed it? Nobody. Who would have believed me? Nobody. So I remained silent.

Being seventeen and infinitely innocent, I thought people were joking when they spoke of the hauntings at McAvoy Castle. No-one in their right mind would have believed them. And I certainly didn’t. If only trust came easily to me, I would never have gone to work there. Only two people – the Laurences – tried to warn me about the dangers of going to work at McAvoy’s Castle.

They were never people to talk much sense though. They had only gone to the castle once too and that was before I was born. For the rest of their lives, they stayed away.

Professing to me that I mustn’t ever work there, they simply looked, and sounded, deranged, muttering something about my grandfather who died a few months before I turned five. I never thought much of that talk again until it was too late.

Since it was my first day in the job, I was assigned to clean the library.

Positively giddy with joy at the prospect of working, I charged like an overjoyed child into the room.

It all began in that library. That condemned, yet beautiful room. Crimson carpets of crimson, mahogany shelves, books in perfect condition, even after decades. Everything in there had stayed in a state of perfection, most likely due to a lack of use. Oh, and thanks to how well the contents were looked after.

Dusting the magnificent bookshelves, perusing the titles of the great tomes as I did so, I heard a creak. Turning around, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Working in an aged castle, one expects to hear strange noises like that, so my mind wandered happily back to the books.

However, when I heard it again mere moments later, I was convinced it was some sort of initiation. The majority of employees there were fully-grown adults, but possessed the immaturity of youth. We were all my friends though and they knew me well enough to know I seldom got scared. I had no doubt in my mind that they wanted to see how long it would take for fear to trickle into my blood and pulse relentlessly through me.

At the age of seventeen, I was fearless though. It was a gift that grew to be a burden. Determined not to let my colleagues have a laugh at my expense, I returned to my dusting. You can stop! I shouted. You are not scaring me. I smiled. After all, I was earning my own money at long last. It was a beautiful day outside, I was amongst friends. I had so much to smile about.

Hearing laughter from outside, I chucked the duster onto the sofa and made my way over to the window, pushing the aged sash up with difficulty, and, rather like I dog, I poked my head out. Odd, I thought to myself. All of my colleagues were outside.

That was when the creaking sounded again. This time it sounded like floorboards. I felt breathing on the back of my neck, then an icy waft of air. I swerved round, sensing something. I was alone ...

Of course you’re alone, I remember thinking. Just then, a black feather floated down from the ceiling and landed next to my feet. Picking it up, I thought nothing of it. After all, it was just a feather. It meant nothing. Little did I know that I had just received my first  warning.

An almighty crash sounded so that I jumped. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest at the sheer volume. A flash of white caught my eye, followed by a shadow disappearing into the next room.

I decided to play along and followed it into the bedroom. Whoever is playing these tricks has made a mistake, I thought. Having grown up with this castle as the only family-day-out location within a fifty-mile radius, I knew every corner: whoever was trying to frighten me had gone into the nursery and the only way out was through the door I had just walked through.

Baby blue wallpaper, pear-green carpets, demonic dolls lining the walls. I’d never liked those horrid things with their glassy little eyes ... I had always felt like they were watching me. Even as a child. Little china boys and girls, expensively made, no doubt, especially back then. I, for one, would not spend a penny on them though. They still give me nightmares. Thank goodness the fashion for toys had changed. Although, in my town fashion was still an embarrassment. 

Shivers ran down my spine then, however –not through fear, but through a sudden drop in temperature. As I walked through the door, I might as well have thrown myself into the loch: it would have been warmer.

At that moment, I thought nothing of it. I mean, the nursery had never been particularly warm.

Looking around, confusion mingled with irritation: not a soul occupied the room apart from mine.

Obstinacy grabbed me. Nah, I said to myself. There is no such thing as ghosts. It is an old building. My imagination is playing tricks on me.

Despite my stubbornness, I could not deny the sudden realisation that my arm hair was standing on end. It must be the cold, I thought dismissively. Why was it so cold?

Don’t be daft, Kathleen, I snapped at myself. You are in Scotland. Be it the middle of winter, or the middle of summer, it will be freezing.

As I finished voicing common sense, there was another excruciatingly loud crash from the library, so loud it could have been an explosion.

Turning to leave, I found the source of that almighty crash was the nursery door slamming.

I can’t have shut the window properly.

For goodness sake, I muttered, my irritation beginning to grow. Venomous fear slithered into my heart though as I turned the handle: the door was locked.

Creak. Creak.

I twisted my neck round, hoping that, despite all my years spent coming to this castle, I had overlooked a second exit. Of course, I hadn’t.

I wish I had not turned around: if I hadn’t, I would never have had the overwhelming sensation that those cursed dolls were watching me. I know now that it was no sensation. I know now that ever since I was employed at that repugnant place, I had been chosen for the demon’s revenge on the world.

The truth is too much to bear. Reality often is. Nevertheless, I will tell it. I have hidden for too long. It will be known. Just not yet.

I tried the doorknob several times, each time more vigorously than the last.

What is happening?

The curtains swished shut. The cold deepened, turning my blood to icy water. I could see my breath pouring out of me.

A scream. Sadistic laughter. And then the door opened. 

I ran back into the library. The window was open, blowing cold air through the room. I walked over and closed it. I chastised myself, endeavouring to regain control of my pounding heart.

I knew I was being childish for allowing myself to be frightened, to be tricked somehow. Besides, curtains could not close themselves.

Feeling heat on the back of my head, I swerved round and they were open. I had imagined the whole thing. At least that is what I told myself.

But that was my second warning.

I continued dusting the bookshelves, quicker than before.

Even at the top of the castle, I heard the staff door banging shut. How could I not have? Everyone in Scotland would have heard that. Even those lying in their graves.

Creak. I scanned the room. Nothing there, of course, I thought to myself.

But I was wrong. Swinging sullenly from side to side was the portrait of Lord Earl McAvoy. His eyes fixed on me.

I would not be tricked. I would not be fearful. Fear is just an illusion. There would be a logical explanation. No

Reviews for Miscellany

[Marissa Jameson · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Read all his books so far and they are fabulous I can’t wait to see what he will do next. He will be read by millions soon