Arrows rattled off stone, skidded across steps, and burst into fountains of sparks, forcing the fugitives to lurch from side to side in desperate, ugly motions. A youth vaulted a fallen balustrade and nearly escaped into the orchard below, only to be seized by the ankle and dragged back upward while the others ran on without daring to look behind.
Everything in Castle O’Shan conspired to make endurance feel supernatural. The passageways breathed with drafts cold enough to numb a wounded limb in minutes, the cells sweated salt as though the sea were trying to reclaim the masonry, and the bells in the high tower rang at odd hours without any visible hand to pull the rope.
Under such a cloud of dread, even the strongest captives began to imagine the castle choosing who might live, and John O’Shan encouraged the belief because fear, like torture, was another instrument with which he probed the hidden edges of a human soul.
When the moon rose thin and hard as a knife edge, horns called the wolves again and gates opened along the lower yard. Captives were driven outward by spearpoints, and the hunt took form at once: guards sweeping behind with swords, archers pacing the walls, wolves coursing ahead and then circling back whenever panic split the human line.
One prisoner, maddened by exhaustion, turned to fight a wolf with a length of chain and was dragged from sight in a knot of fur and mud. Another dove through an ice-fed stream and hid beneath its bank while arrows stitched the water above, each impact punching silver droplets into the night.
Rumor among the captives gave shape to the madness. Some said John O’Shan had found, in a sealed chamber beneath the keep, a text bound in skin and clasped with blackened silver, promising that death could be outwitted if one fed the proper life into the proper vessel.
Others swore he sought not a victim but an heir to some older curse, one soul in whom the boundary between flesh and spirit had worn thin enough to be crossed.
Whatever the truth, his trials were designed like questions asked with blades and surf and teeth, and every survivor was merely another answer that failed him.
Yet the air of Castle O’Shan never settled, for John O’Shan’s search had no peace in it and granted none to those trapped within his reach. So long as the sea kept throwing back a few who would not drown, so long as a handful outran arrows in the dark or rose bloodied from the wolves’ pursuit, he would believe the immortal one remained just beyond his grasp.
And so the torches burned, the horns sounded, and the castle upon the cliff kept breathing its cold breath over the land, waiting for the day one captive survived too much and ceased, forever, to belong among the dying.
CHAPTER TEN
The silence at the dinner table was so unnatural, so deafening, no one wanted to break it for fear of what might be said next. The way Rose told the story, the graphic detail of what the poor victims endured, was nearly too much even for the battle-hardened warriors.
“That story has come down for generations to my family and some, through the ghosts themselves,” she said proudly. “There was always one woman who could see and hear the spirits in my family. Only one. I am the one in my generation.”
“So, is this guy, John O’Shan, does he think he’s some sort of Dracula or something that he could achieve eternal life?” asked Rory.
“I’m not sure if that’s it. Dracula wasn’t talked about back then. We spoke of fairies and selkies, other magical things but I never heard of Dracula being spoken of. But. His thoughts seem to lend themselves to the idea that if he could find someone, the right one, they would provide eternal life for him,” said Rose.
“I can’t believe you’ve kept this secret all these years,” said Conor admiring the woman.
“People think you’re daft if you speak of ghosties, Conor Laughlin,” she smiled.
“I suppose they do,” he nodded.
“Rose, how do we stop him from doing this? Obviously, he’s got something special about him that he’s been able to kill all these living people when he is dead,” said Julia.
“It’s been a mystery to me all these years, too, lass. I think his anger and hate is so powerful, he’s able to lure these people to the castle or find them and kill them. Since he neverallowed any to live that we’re aware of, it stands to reason that he believed killing them gave him more power.”
“Forgive me, Rose,” said Chief. “We’re all former military men. Men of reason and certainty. Yes, we’ve encountered things we cannot understand or explain. But killing people to give you more power? How does that make sense?”
“And yet he’s done it,” she said flatly. “He’s selected his kill, endured, haunted, stalked, and murdered hundreds of victims over the centuries. Have you ever heard of the Mackenzie Poltergeist?”
Everyone shook their heads. Everyone except Julia who sat back and stared at the woman, wondering where she was going with this.
“In Greyfriars Kirkyard, or cemetery, in Edinburgh, there is a violent ghost, Mackenzie Poltergeist. It is associated with the mausoleum of Sir George Mackenzie, better known as Bloody Mackenzie. Since the late 1990s, hundreds of visitors on ghost tours have reported unexplained attacks, including sudden scratches, bruises, cuts, and fainting spells. No rhyme. No reason.”
“Who was this man?” asked Liffey.
“He was born in 1636 and was a prominent Lord Advocate who earned his dark nickname by ruthlessly prosecuting and torturing the Covenanters, those that vowed to protect the Scottish Presbyterian Church.Sound somewhat familiar?” The others stared at Rose, giving a slight nod.
“He is responsible for the imprisonment of thousands of Covenanters in the Covenanters' Prison, a section of Greyfriars Kirkyard where prisoners were starved and subjected to inhumane conditions.”
“Jesus, and they call us brutal,” frowned Rory.
“Don’t make me tell stories of your history,” said Rose with a glint in her eyes. “The terrifying modern reputation of the site began in 1998, after a homeless man allegedly broke into Mackenzie's mausoleum. He accidentally fell through a rotted floorboard into a dark, hidden vault. After he was able to escape the tomb, the graveyard's paranormal activity reportedly exploded. Visitors frequently claimed to be attacked by an unseen force, especially near the black mausoleum and the adjacent prison area.
“These attacks and experiences attributed to the poltergeist are notoriously physical and aggressive. The most commonly documented encounters include things like unexplained scratches, cuts, and bite marks appearing on visitors' bodies. Others reported sudden, intense drops in temperature. Some visitors experienced fainting, collapsing, or feeling suddenly and inexplicably ill or there were unexplained foul odors. Many even reported that their electronic equipment—such as cameras and watches—mysteriously failed.
