The Loch

By Fran Dorricott

*EXCLUSIVE short story when you buy the ebook!*

The town knows the dangers of the loch. But who will the dark waters claim next…?

Twenty years ago, three young women disappeared, never to be found. The rumour to this day is that their bodies are still hidden deep within the murky Loch Aven.

When Eleanor, Clio and Michaela find themselves rained out of a camping trip in the Scottish countryside, they have no option but to book the mysterious house nestled on the banks of the lake. But little do they know that history has a way of repeating itself.

As secrets in the tightknit community begin to surface, and Michaela suddenly disappears, it becomes clear that something sinister is at play. And now it’s a race against time to unravel the mystery before the dark waters claim their next victim…

A claustrophobic, eerie and atmospheric thriller perfect for fans of Lucy Foley and Sarah Pearse.

Readers are gripped by THE LOCH!

‘This book had a bit of everything! Suspense, intrigue, action, murder, mystery, a few crazy twists…a great whodunnit!’ Reader review, ⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘Intriguing and suspenseful. This was a fantastic book with so many twists and sharp turns.’ Reader review, ⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘This one sucks you in from the first page…Dorricott is among the only authors where I genuinely feel my heart starting to race as I read.’ Reader review, ⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘Creepy and atmospheric with lots of twists and turns. What a fantastic read!’ Reader review, ⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘An excellent setting that adds a mysterious life to the story all on its own.’ Reader review, ⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘Moody and atmospheric, this is a very spooky read.’ Reader review, ⭐⭐⭐⭐

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins UK
• Release date: Mar 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9780008449377

Fran Dorricott

Fran Dorricott is an author based in Derby, where she lives with her family, two cats, and three dogs (one of whom weighs more than she does). She holds a degree in American Literature with Creative Writing from the University of East Anglia and an MA with distinction in Creative Writing from City University London. Fran is also a bookseller working in the Derby branch of Waterstones, which is secretly just a way for her to fuel her ridiculous book-buying addiction.

Book preview

Prologue

Then

Mist hangs low over the shores of Loch Aven. Golden dawn light warms the tops of the trees but touches little else. Paul used to like it this way, endlessly quiet with only the gentle lapping of water and the distant trill of birds in the trees. Today is different. Instead of the sounds of nature muffling the world, there is the endless echo of footsteps; hoarse, sleepless voices calling; his world collapsing.

Paul has no proof that the loch has anything to do with it – with what has happened to his niece, or the other girl – but there is no proof that it hasn’t either. It’s why they have ended up here again, another small, exhausted search party fanning through the trees on yet another shore of this endless blasted lake.

The loch has always drawn folks to it, like the pull of its currents must be magnetic to the population of Blackhills. Paul himself remembers that same pull, that tugging in his gut that drew him and his brother here with their friends weekend after weekend, that drove them to light fires on its shores, to litter their cans amongst the rubble of their revelry – until the guilt made them clean it up.

There has always been something sort of … unworldly about this place.

It makes sense to him that his niece would have come here. Her first day back in the village, before even a visit to her parents. It’s exactly what he might have done. He has no proof, of course, that she came here. None of them do. But they’re grasping at straws, because where else could his best girl be?

He can’t stop picturing the way he last saw her, her mane of hair flying behind her as she marched purposefully straight through the village, on a mission too important for her to hear him when he called her name. Although he hadn’t tried especially hard. After all, he’d thought he would be seeing her later, after she’d been to her parents. After she’d reacquainted herself with village life. Would he have done anything differently if he’d known it would be the last time he’d see her? Would he have run after her?

No. He wouldn’t have caught her.

There’s no use thinking like that, though. He didn’t know. Her coming back was supposed to be the beginning again, not the end. A smoothing out of tension between her and her dad, not … an unravelling.

Paul isn’t sure what would be worse now: never finding out what happened to his niece, or having his darkest fears confirmed. He told Mary to stay at home this morning and she stayed, he thinks, because she didn’t know what was worse either. Robert and his wife, Gwyn, are with the police again, going over and over everything as though that will solve anything. Paul is glad he doesn’t have to be there. He doesn’t know what he might think, who he might blame – what he might say out loud.

One thing Paul has realised is that Rebecca isn’t the little girl who used to come and sit on his lap behind the counter so she could sort the pennies into piles of ten; she isn’t the same young woman who only a year ago set out to travel the world, to become the best version of herself. The truth is none of them know her as well as they thought – and that’s enough to break his heart.

A shout rips through the general cacophony of human noise, the crack of twigs and clap of warming hands.

‘Hey!’

Paul pauses. Since they began half an hour ago, Rebecca’s friend Joshua has not been far away, marching purposefully along the water’s edge – but he’s not there now. Paul swivels in his tracks and notices Joshua’s dark head as he bends low over the water. A shiver of fear turns his bowels to water.

He breaks into a run. A couple of the others have noticed, too, from where they are spread through the treeline, and Paul hears what might be the thunder of feet coming to join them, or might just be the thunder of his heart. He feels sick.

Janie’s brother, John, skids into him as they both reach Joshua’s side together. He’s panting, his speckled forehead slick with sweat.

‘No,’ he says. ‘Oh, God.’

Joshua shifts out of the way and Paul sees he’s holding a long stick, crooked at the end, and he’s been using it to prod at something in the water.

‘What is it? Please …’ comes a breathless plea. Lucy is behind him now, her hands clasped in front of her in a kind of prayer. Her blonde hair is swept back in its usual chignon, but strands have escaped and she looks wild – as wild as Paul feels.

‘It’s not …’ Joshua’s voice trembles. ‘But …’

But.

He is still holding the stick. At its crooked end is something dark, soaked with the water of the loch.

Paul peers closer. It’s a piece of clothing. Something thick and heavy, embroidered with flowers. He recognises it. It’s the proof, then. He was right. It’s …

‘It’s hers,’ he says.

SATURDAY

Eleanor

Loch House is waiting for us. We approach it from the road – a single dirt track, mud clumping to our already filthy shoes – and it appears between the trees like a mirage. A warm, dry, gorgeous mirage.

From the booking information, I’d been expecting something smaller, a cabin overlooking the lake, but this is something else entirely. It’s huge, grand in a way that makes even the trees around it seem small. At the front there is a peaked roof above a covered square porch, tendrils of ivy snaking up past the wide windows and crawling along silver stone.

Michaela lets out a whooping sound, triumphant, and I can’t help the grin that sneaks across my face as Clio shakes her head.

‘See?’ Michaela crows, doing a little dance that makes her rucksack bounce awkwardly on her back. ‘I told you it wasn’t far down this road. Didn’t I tell you?’

Clio rolls her eyes, smiling good-naturedly. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You told us. I still would have preferred to drive the whole way though, my feet are soaking.’

‘We have been in the car for hours. Excuse me for wanting to stretch my legs! And hey, at least I’m not making you camp in this hideous weather any more.’ Michaela sticks out her tongue childishly. I gaze up at the clouds, which are still dark and swollen with rain.

‘We still would be if El hadn’t managed to get us a refund on the pitch deposit.’ Clio points out.

‘Oh, hey,’ I say, fighting a laugh. ‘Don’t drag me into this.’

Michaela always uses me to prove her points, even though it winds Clio up – she has done ever since the first week we met, freshers at uni thrust together to live in the same small, dark flat.

‘You’ve been thoroughly dragged already,’ Clio says to me. ‘Through a hedge, by the looks of things.’ She reaches up to tidy my damp hair, which has become windswept on the short walk from the car. The booking instructions weren’t very clear and the road looked so narrow from the car that we’d decided to park about half a mile away, but really we probably could have managed to drive down the lane without getting stuck in the muck.

I pull my attention away from the beautiful grey stone house ahead, its black roof slick and shiny and its windows reflecting the solid mass of thunder clouds overhead. Cool air snakes at my back. The rain has stopped momentarily, but the air tastes thick with the promise of more.

Secretly, I’m glad Clio got her way this weekend; I didn’t fancy the idea of camping in gale-force winds any more than she did. The weather’s been so bad that there are yellow flood warnings, but it took until this morning for us to convince Michaela that maybe camping was a bad idea. She’s a creature of the outdoors: hiking, climbing, travelling the world at the drop of a hat. I’m definitely more of a home bird.

‘Besides,’ Michaela goes on, ‘the whole point of coming up here was getting to be in nature, right? Well, we’re in nature. And isn’t it gorgeous?’ She spins on the spot, still triumphant.

‘No, you’re right, Kay, this place is absolutely stunning.’ I gesture at the house and the trees, the short stretch of road between us and the house ahead littered with pine needles and the flame of fallen autumn leaves glittering beneath raindrops. ‘It’s worth the walk, and the rain. I actually can’t believe it was available.’

Michaela preens, doing a terrible job of appearing modest. ‘Guess I’m just a genius.’

‘Or we got very lucky,’ I suggest, mostly to wind her up.

‘Lucky?’ Clio snorts. The longer side of her cropped dark hair sways as she shifts so her own backpack sits more comfortably, another, smaller, leopard-print handbag slung over one shoulder. I think she’s packed half her wardrobe for the weekend, and she might be wearing the other half right now, layered as she is in a T-shirt, shirt, hoodie and jacket. It’s colder up here than back home, but it’s not that cold. ‘You call this luck? We’re only here because we got unlucky and there was literally no other choice.’

‘Psh,’ Michaela brushes her off. ‘Like I said: we’re not camping. You can thank the storm for that, and you can thank whatever deity you believe in for this place instead. Isn’t this, like, some kind of miracle as far as you’re concerned?’

‘Come on,’ I nudge. ‘I can’t wait to get inside. I’m freezing and somewhere in there is a cup of tea with my name on it – with water from an actual, honest to God kettle.’

Plus, and I don’t say this because it sounds weird even in my head, there’s a strange feeling in the air out here. It’s not bad – not really – but I’ve got this overwhelming urge to get into the house so that I can see the water, which I know is lapping at the dock of this rented property on the other side.

Clio nods gratefully and even Michaela seems happy enough to give up on her celebrations in favour of some warmth. The sky looks like it’s going to open up again any moment and the rain is likely to be torrential when it does.

It takes longer than I thought it might to reach the house. The trees crowd close to the porch, giving the path a sheltered, tunnel-like feel, drawing us towards Loch House. I meant what I said about a cup of tea – it’s genuinely a luxury I didn’t think we’d get this weekend. I thought we’d be boiling all our water over a stove and eating beans out of a can.

‘Wow,’ Michaela remarks. ‘Okay, I’ll say it again. This place is great. I’m almost mad we didn’t book it from the start. And it’s closer to the village than the campsite was.’

There’s a lockbox on the outer wall of the porch, grimy with dust and damp, and Michaela lifts her phone screen up to get the number right. It’s gloomy here in the shadow of the house, the tall trees not doing much to help. The sun, hidden behind clouds and pines, feels like it hardly exists at all.

We manage to get into the lockbox after only a minute, Clio sagging against the damp wall with her giant rucksack hanging off one shoulder. When Michaela gets the key in the lock and turns it, there’s a loud snick and the three of us cheer.

‘Thank God,’ Clio groans. ‘I hope this place has a bathtub.’

‘Oh my lord, Clio. I didn’t exactly make you walk miles to get here. It’s a good job we didn’t camp. I can see that I’d definitely have killed you by the end of the weekend.’

We all laugh. To be honest, camping was a bad idea from the start, but it was Michaela’s idea – one that she’s been going on about in some capacity or other for near enough five years. She’s been having such a rough time recently that Clio and I finally agreed to go along with it. It was an escape, and it was cheap, and that was all we cared about.

Besides, I haven’t had many proper holidays since I started at my job two years ago; counselling adoptive families is rewarding, but I am definitely overdue the kind of break where I’m not glued to my phone.

Camping would have been the perfect switch-off, but I’m very glad we found Loch House instead.

‘I was so looking forward to a campfire though,’ Michaela says wistfully as she steps back to let me inside first.

I go ahead, ushered into what feels like another world.

‘Oh,’ Clio says.

The porch leads straight into a huge open space, a wood-panelled kitchen-diner on the right with a lovely old-fashioned stove and central island, and ahead is the lounge, which has a high ceiling, two cosy-looking sofas and a large stone fireplace complete with log burner, and – best of all – two sliding glass doors that look out over the decking and the lake beyond.

We rush forward, dumping our bags haphazardly on the floor in an attempt to get closer to the glass. The sky looks like a bruised apple, green and brown and grey, and the first new drops of falling rain prickle the surface of the lake at the end of a long dock.

‘This is incredible.’ I turn to Michaela, almost reluctant to draw my eyes from the expanse of water, the rolling hills in the distance bordered with more pines, thick and dark and taller than you’d think possible. There is a mist that seems to cling to everything, sitting on top of the water at the edges like a shroud. ‘And you said it just had like … open availability?’

Michaela’s dark eyes are wide as she takes in the view. ‘Yeah. I know, right? It’s wild. Literally the only place for miles and I’m not sure anybody’s booked it for the rest of the year. We could stay all week if we wanted.’ She waggles her eyebrows suggestively, though I think she’s only half joking.

Clio frowns. ‘You didn’t tell me that this morning,’ she says. ‘Doesn’t that seem … a bit dodgy to you?’

‘What? Why?’ Michaela gestures around. The house is a little dusty but has a sort of rustic charm, woven throws on the sofas and an old, worn rug in front of the fireplace. ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere. I don’t think it’s that strange. We got lucky there was anywhere available at all, otherwise we’d have ended up in some stupid-expensive hotel somewhere random.’ She grits her teeth and shakes her head as though it’s the worst thing she can imagine. I suppose, given the new uncertainty about her job, it’s not surprising that she might suddenly decide that any additional cost is one expense too far. I can’t really blame her, I’m not exactly rolling in it myself, and I know Clio doesn’t make loads from her storytelling gig, even though she’s amazing at it. I think she’s probably undercharging.

‘It’s probably just too out of the way,’ I agree. ‘It’s not like the village – Blackhills, right? It’s not as if it’s a massive tourist spot. My parents took me all over Scotland and Wales when I was growing up and there were always places like this that somehow just seemed to thrive despite never getting much attention.’

‘But the loch,’ Clio says. ‘Surely people come for the loch. Why else would they have this big house just sat here?’

‘I’m sure they do,’ I say. ‘In the summer. I suspect most people tend to go somewhere warmer this late in the year.’

This makes Clio pull a face in Michaela’s direction and we all laugh again. Clio had wanted, desperately, to fly somewhere hot – and had been pushing for a summer holiday months ago, but Michaela hadn’t been able to get the time off. Being a lawyer, it turned out, meant making some sacrifices. And now Michaela didn’t have the money, and she’d had her heart set on camping, so a break in the UK had suddenly been on the table.

I’m not about to complain. It’s been over four years since we graduated, and I thought it might be good to remember the things that had brought us together in the first place – cheap wine, uncomfortable beds and late nights talking about nothing much at all. As Michaela said: it would be fun.

‘Sorry,’ Michaela jokes. ‘I didn’t realise you were as dead set against a cosy house as you were the tent.’

‘The tent,’ Clio groans. ‘Oh God, don’t remind me. I was so stressed. I had dreams.’

‘You were stressed?’ Michaela says.

We’ve been skirting around the topic of Michaela’s failure to be kept on after the training contract that was supposed to turn into a permanent role at the law firm she’s worked at for the last two years, and it’s starting to get uncomfortable.

I don’t know how much Michaela wants to talk about it. Normally, she’d bitch and moan and get it out of her system, and then she’d have a plan and feel unconquerable once more. I was expecting it for the whole drive up from Durham, and I think Clio was too. Instead, Michaela talked about everything but her job, asking Clio about the storytelling, begging for tales about awkward parents who booked Clio for their parties, bugging me about how my parents were doing, whether I’d made any progress on finding my birth family – something I’ve been working on for months this time around. I usually get frustrated and bin it off after hitting the same brick wall, but this time I’m still going, though I’ve had no luck and I told her that.

Every time there was a lull in the conversation, I waited for her to bring it up, to tell us what happened. You don’t just get let go from a training contract for no reason. But she still hasn’t said anything and I don’t want to pry.

I leave Clio and Michaela to bicker and wander back into the lounge proper. The way the half-light hits the sliding glass doors through the pine needles creates weaving shadows that look like long fingers, grasping. The place has an untouched feel to it, compounded by the old magazines scattered on the small rough-hewn coffee table and the creased spines of the paperback books on the bookcase. It’s clean and very tidy, but it feels … unloved, I guess. Even though somebody clearly put a lot of effort into making it nice once upon a time. I want to fill it with our laughter, light the fire and make it warm and festive.

I grab my bag and haul it up the creaking wooden stairs. Everything is panelled in the same dark wood and it makes the place feel homey and yet somehow eerie too. Everything echoes. I can hear the sounds of Michaela and Clio talking downstairs as Michaela starts to empty the seemingly endless snacks from her bag; I can hear the crinkle of crisp packets and the dull shake of the sugar container, and I send up a silent prayer of thanks for both of them. It’s good to be here, just the three of us, and the rain and the water and the trees.

Upstairs, there are three large bedrooms with double beds and a family bathroom, all clean and neat with neutral-tone decor accented with random items in green plaid: blankets, cushions, even the towels in the small linen cupboard. The back two bedrooms look out over the water, which is churning under the heavy rain. The weather app on my phone says the worst of the storm will pass soon – at least until tomorrow – but the temperature is set to drop below zero. Typical.

I dump my bags in the smaller bedroom at the back of the house, knowing Clio will want the one that looks out over the trees and the road at the front and Michaela deserves the biggest bedroom of the three, and then unpack a few bits – not that I brought much with me, just corded sweaters and comfortable jeans, a pair of leather boots with a fur trim which I’m glad for, and some slippers, which I pop on now. I send a quick text to my parents to let them know we arrived safely, though the signal here isn’t very good and I have to stand by the window, holding my phone up high, waiting for it to send. Mum sends back a photo of her very wet garden in Leicester, which also takes an age to download.

By the time I eventually make it back downstairs, Michaela and Clio have emptied out the food stash and have put the kettle on, but there’s a hollowness now that wasn’t there before, their jokes and laughter a little muted. They’re sat together on one of the sofas, Clio’s legs draped across Michaela’s lap, and they’re staring out of the big glass doors. The mist that had been floating at the edges of the lake has rolled further across, even in the minutes since I last checked, and the whole surface of the lake is swathed in it. I suppress the delicious little shiver that worms its way up my spine.

The water is so still I find it eerie, yet somehow I can’t bring myself to look away. It’s at once beautiful and haunting, mesmerising in its promise of murky depths filled with who knows what. My heart beats faster, a flutter of emotion that might be longing or excitement or something else entirely.

‘It’s making me think of stories,’ Clio says distantly and her voice startles me. It’s a phrase I’ve heard before, countless times over the years I’ve known her. It means the situation, the weather, the way the stars have aligned, have made her remember one of the many stories she read while studying for her folklore degree, or one that she tells now when she’s working. Normally, she frames it as a joke. That cat’s making me think of stories – you know the one about the fox with the two tails, the one that can divine the future? Wouldn’t that be cool? But today Clio doesn’t follow it up until I prompt her.

‘Which?’ I ask.

Michaela blinks, shaking her head as though coming out of a trance. ‘Weird. I was so focused on those trees in the distance, my eyes started to see double. Sort of like seeing a ghost.’

‘Which stories?’ I repeat.

Clio looks up at me and grins. ‘The one about the beautiful brown-haired best friend who really fancies making me a cup of tea right now?’

‘Cheeky!’ Michaela cackles and jabs her thumb into the flesh of Clio’s calf, causing her to scream and tumble away. I roll my eyes.

‘Fine,’ I grumble. ‘Fine. I’ll make your tea, but only because you called me beautiful.’

‘Maybe she was talking to me.’ Michaela drags herself off the sofa and stretches like a cat. She wanders over to the fireplace, picking at various carved wooden ornaments – a stag’s head with antlers made of polished brass, a bird of some kind, and what looks like it might be a snake or a lake monster captured in individual little loops that are meant to look as if the rest of its body are submerged in water, or in this case the mantel.

I reboil the water in the kettle and set out three mugs from a cupboard above. There’s loose-leaf tea in a jar, but I opt for the teabags we brought with us since I’m not sure how long it’s been there.

‘What’s the plan for the rest of the day?’ Clio asks. She’s stood by the doors again, fiddling with the locking mechanism until they slide open with a soft swushh, letting in a rush of October air.

‘Watch those. The booking info says if they slam you need the key to get them open again.’

‘It’s okay,’ Clio says. ‘They’re pretty stiff.’

‘Anyway, back to the village, I think. I want to have a proper look around.’ Michaela says this in a tone I know she learned on the job. She’s a lawyer through and through, regardless of her shitty firm letting her go. This tone leaves absolutely no room for argument.

Clio, who has a history of whining until she gets her way, tries anyway. ‘Are you kidding me? I thought we were done with the walking today.’

‘You’ve hardly walked at all! It won’t kill you to walk back to the car.’

‘Ugh, that’s what you think. These delicate bones simply can’t take it. And we’ll have to walk around the whole village and I know what you’re like, so we’ll be there hours and hours and I’m tired!’

‘You’re always tired,’ I say kindly.

‘Yes.’ Clio nods sagely. ‘I am, as the internet says, bisexual and tired.’

‘I don’t think that’s actually how the saying goes.’

‘Hey, have you guys seen this?’

When I turn around, teaspoon in hand, Michaela is kneeling on the floor by the coffee table. There’s a big book spread out before her, with creamy pages that fall open at Michaela’s touch.

‘Nope,’ Clio says. ‘What?’

‘Guest book,’ Michaela replies. ‘I think. Last entry is dated …’ She peers closer, as if the ink is hard to read. ‘Kinda faded. Is that a nine?’

‘Let me see.’ Clio walks across and leans over Michaela’s shoulder, scooping the longer side of her hair behind her ear.

‘Is it?’ I drop the spoon in the sink and carry the mugs of tea over to the coffee table so I can join them. The book is quite small, around the size of a regular hardback, not the usual textbook size I’ve seen for guest books, and each page is printed with a spray of pine trees across the bottom. ‘Oh my God. The nineties?’

Clio backs away, holding her hands up. ‘Nah, Kay, you did not bring me to a place that’s not had guests since, like, before we were born.’

‘Hey, you’re the one who didn’t want to go camping.’

‘We don’t know there haven’t been other guests,’ I point out. ‘Maybe they have a digital guest book now. Maybe people just never fill it out, or it’s a keepsake or something. Where did you even find it?’

Clio doesn’t look convinced. She glares at the book with her green eyes narrowed as if she might set it on fire by willpower alone. While she’s definitely hamming it up, I can’t deny there’s something strange about it. The book, and the unloved little house, and the eerie mist on the lake.

‘Oh what does it matter,’ Michaela says. ‘There’s heat, running water and beds, what more could we want?’ She pauses, then turns to me. ‘There are beds, right?’

‘Yes,’ I laugh. ‘There are beds. Or, two at least. I didn’t check Clio’s room. Probably she’ll have to sleep on the floor. I hear it’s good for your posture.’

The girls grab their mugs of tea and carry them back to the sofa, along with a pack of Jammie Dodgers. The door is still open a crack and the damp air blusters in. I stand right in the gap and suck in the fresh scents. The dock and the decking connecting it to the house look slippery with the rain. I glance down at my slippers and make a mental note to only head down there in proper shoes, and to encourage Michaela and Clio to do the same. The last thing we want is somebody falling in.

Eleanor

Michaela leads the way down the path that takes us back toward where we parked the car. We’re quicker than we were this morning, less burdened by our heavy bags and with the comforting knowledge that we’ll have somewhere warm and dry to return to later buoying our steps.

The chill in the air is refreshing now that we’re not so wound up from the length of the drive, tiredness making everything feel heavy. All three of us had a little nap after the tea and biscuits and we’re raring to go. Well, raring might be an overstatement, but I for one am enjoying the feel of the breeze on my cheeks and the soft dampness in the air, tinged with woodsmoke and the soft undercurrent of fresh water. We left Durham so early this morning that it’s not even lunchtime yet and we have until Tuesday to take it all in, to unwind and—

‘Why, exactly, are we heading to the village again when we have everything we need for the rest of the day in the house?’ Clio interrupts my thoughts, striding alongside us as if she hasn’t been lagging down the path so far. She’s doing the voice she does when she’s intentionally winding Michaela up, but for once Kay doesn’t notice; her brown eyes look bright and her cheeks are flushed, and