Blood Eagle

By Dewi Griffiths and John Washbourne

Blood Eagle is a horror novel drawing on ancient Norse Myth and Russian legend, set on a remote Irish island in the late 1960s. Light house men save a young woman washed ashore in a storm. But the young woman is not what she seems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Garland Stone Productions
• Release date: Dec 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781999926304

Book preview

Chapter 1: An Island Paradise

Spring 1967

In Scotland's Outer Hebrides, winter is like lying in the cold, wet peat bog, smothering all life.

That pale white sun has now burnt through the damp blanket of cloud, rain and mist which has enveloped everything for months.

Spring is like rising from the bog to spend the rest of the year digging potatoes in the unforgiving earth and chasing clueless sheep across the square mile of remote island called home. Until the mist and the rain return to freeze you to the bone once more.

Spring is here.

This evening the sun is dipping onto a red sea. Flat calm. Idyllic. Seagulls swoop and woop and scream. Its the kind of a beautiful spring evening which Ann has seen thousands of times. It holds no more magic.

A slight breeze ruffles Ann's hair. She is timelessly beautiful with dark hair and deep brown eyes. Her natural beauty as a woman in her early twenties is hidden beneath a loose post war austere hand me down dress.

Ann takes in the scenery of the island she now calls home. The low pebbled shoreline, little inlets where their small fishing boat is moored. The croft. Home. A small cottage and a cowshed. Her world now. Still foreign after all these years.

Ann closes the gate to the sheep pen. She pushes back the ewe which is making for the gate. Half the flock instantly follow. Ann's face creases with sudden anger.

Don't you dare! Ann throws back the ewe. Cries of panic from the sheep.

Ann ties the rope around the gate and heads off down the low hillside bounding over the heather towards a lonely croft near the shoreline below. A flash of blue in the browns of the earth. Ann picks some bluebells growing amongst the heather.

Ann walks on down towards the croft.

A fog bank rises like a wall of darkness over the brow of the hill behind her. Unseen. For now.

Ann walks across the yard outside the croft, passing the cowshed caked with the dirt of ages.

Within the cowshed Morag sits in the semi darkness watching around the rear of the cow she is milking.  Morag is in her seventies, island born and bred on this very farm, now playing second fiddle to a woman who turned her son's head the very moment she arrived. When was that? Back in the mists of time. When? During the war? Was it?

Morag so very different to Ann. Celtic fair skinned and blue eyed, with once amber hair now wild and white, controlled by her old wide brimmed hat. Eyes which have seen seasons come and go on this island watch Ann walk towards the croft. Her croft. Morag's face betraying her perpetual silent resentment of the young woman.

Ann sensing cold eyes spins around seeing into the murk within the cowshed. Morag. Do you need a hand?

Morag's forces a smile. No lass. You've not got the hang of this in all the years I've known you.

Anna smiles. Its not that long Morag.

Is it not? Suddenly the fog of confusion descends in Morag's mind.

No. Not long.

Morag grasping for a thought lets it go and returns to her milking.

Ann pushes on the small red painted door in the white washed wall and enters the croft. The door shuts.

The fog bank rolls down the hill towards the croft. Against the breeze.

Ann's eyes adjust to the dark inside of the croft. The fire in the grate. The smoke curling in the light from the small dirty window.

The room is small, musty, claustrophobic, furnished with old, solid, rough tables and chairs, and decorated with embroidered samplers. A timeless place. Untouched by any new generation nuance Ann should bring. An old clock ticks softly. The wireless drones a shipping forecast.

Douglas sits in the high backed armchair, shaking like the broken man he is. Douglas carries scars deep in his mind which are now bleeding once more. He hardly responds to Ann entering.

Bluebells. Ann looks for a vase to place the flowers.

Douglas snaps out of the reverie. Aye. Won’t be long before there’ll be lambs. They’re late. Any signs?

No. The ewes are all together now. I won't let them out until its time to bring them to the barn to birth.

We should have children. You're as beautiful as the day I met you.

Good.  Ann smiles and winks seductively. Spring is coming. You should come out to help me this year.

Douglas shivers. I'll try.

Douglas gets up and puts a log on the fire. He is shivering. He stares down into the flames of the fire as they grow with the new fuel. He drifts away. He's gone.

Ann watches in trepidation. Douglas. Are you alright? Can you hear me? Douglas?

Douglas stares into the flames.

Fire. Everywhere. Its roar pop and crackle.

Dougie. Was that Ann's voice?

Dougie! Ann's voice but a face from the past appears in the smoke. A face from this dark place from his darkest days.

Douglas is twenty five years younger, wearing a British Army uniform is surrounded by smoke, fire and the screams of men. Smoke. Douglas can't breathe.

Flames. Flames in front of him. The face, reddening as it burns cries out with Ann's voice. "Dougie! The burning man reaches out to grab Douglas.

Douglas reaches out into the fire. His arms catch fire.

Nooo! Ann’s flowers are frozen and frosty in her hands: they drop from her hands and shatter like glass on the floor as she rushes to help Douglas.

Anna pulls Douglas onto the floor, patting out the fire on his jumper.

Douglas is in floods of helpless tears. I’m sorry... I can't help you!!!

Ann bellows. Morag!!! Come here! She rushes to a cupboard and pulls out a jar of herbs. She pours the contents into a bowl, and pours a jar of water onto them.

Douglas' screams ring in her ears. She rushes to his side.  Morag get inside here now!!!

In the commotion, the radio signal fades. The broadcast has come across the airwaves from a radio station three hundred miles away. It fades into a hiss of static. White noise. Meaningless. Then meaning.

A voice in the static crystallises. Arnna...

Douglas is screaming.

Ann stops tending Douglas. Did she hear that? Morag! Hurry!!!

Outside the ice covered window the freezing mist enshrouds the croft.

Chapter 2: The Mist Descends

The fog flows like an icy stream down over the croft, submerging it like a rock, blocking out the setting sun, and drowning it in cold half light. The fog flows onwards towards the sea. In a moment the island is obscured. The warm golden light of sunset is now cold and white within it, as the fog enshrouds the homestead.

The yard is buried in a sea of freezing white air. Ann's screams for Morag from the croft a few yards away are deadened in the mist.

Morag mindlessly milks the cow, lost in the confusion Ann put upon her.

Mist flows into the shed and submerges Morag. She shivers wildly and comes to herself. Ann's deadened voice drifts with the swirling fog. Hardly audible.

Ann, did you call? Morag gets obediently to her feet and walks to the cowshed door. The croft is not visible in the mist.

I’m on my way lass. Where are... She takes a step into the mist.

THUD! An axe is buried in her skull. A look of surprise on Morag's face, her frown gone. Morag drops to her knees. The axe is ripped out snapping her neck, and she twists to the floor; dead at the feet of a tall dark figure. Silence.

Inside the croft the light is dying fast as the fog hangs over the window like a funeral drape. The unnatural hiss of the radio static drowns out Douglas' laboured breathing. Morag! I need you here! Your boy’s burnt himself. Hurry!!!

Douglas is sitting on the floor of the croft crying in agony. Ann scurries over bringing the bowl of water and puts it on the floor beside him.

Put your hands in here straight away love. Don’t fret.

My God that burns! Douglas winces as his hands touch the ice. Ann looks down into the bowl of herbs and water.

The water has frozen in seconds. Ann stops in her tracks. She looks at the window. The mist blocking out everything. Her face creases in terror.

Ann whispers frantically. We have to go! Now! Bring your gun!

Ann... My hands!

Ann looks out of the window. The outside world is obscured by fog. Ice forms across the window glass. Thinking fast. Fighting the grip of the cold. The cold that's freezing her breath on the window pane.

Ann grabs some bandages from the cupboard, rubs them on the ice, and wraps them around Douglas’ hand.

Better?

Douglas relaxes slightly. Aye, thanks love.

The mist begins to seep under the door like an icy hand reaching out across the room towards Ann and Douglas.

Get the gun.

Where’s mother?

Come on! Bring the gun! Ann watches as the mist rolls across the floor, freezing the dampness of her footprints into ice as it advances. The static on the radio becomes deafening.

What’s going on Ann?

We’re going to the boat. Now!

Where’s Ma? What's going on?

The gun Douglas!!!

Douglas gets to his feet and picks up the shotgun from over the fire place. He loads the cartridges into the 12-bore and snaps it shut.

Good, my soldier. Come on

Ann pulls Douglas behind her, moving swiftly to the door. She undoes the drop latch. She pulls open the door, pushing Douglas ahead of her. Fog washes over them. Douglas shivers. His hands are bleeding as he grips the gun in terror.

Ann pushes him outside.

Whiteout. A swirling wall of white. Static turns to silence as they walk out of the cottage into the yard. Douglas' boots sound muffled in the mist as he walks into the whiteness. He slips momentarily on the ice. Ann heads along the side of the croft. Suddenly she is alone.

Ma, where are you? Douglas steps out across the yard towards the cowshed, his boots cracking on the frozen damp ground.

Ann grabs him by the shoulder. Ssshh! We have to get to the boat. Right now soldier

Not without my mother, Ann.

It’s too late for her.

What?

Ann puts her hand forcefully on Douglas's shoulder and spins him around. She looks him