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Old Miller's Cottage looked like something straight out of a historical novel. Its stone walls bore the marks of time, testifying to years of relentless winds and sea sprays. Its thatched roof seemed ancient, but still functional. But what caught Amelia's eye was the smoke spiraling from the chimney.
"Looks like someone's home," she observed.
Kirsty took a deep breath. "I've had a few run-ins with McGregor in the past," she began, her eyes on the winding path ahead. "He can be... fiery. Not one to take lightly. But for some reason, he seems to have a soft spot for me. I can go talk with him if you like?"
Finn arched an eyebrow. "Might be good to have you with us then," he said, the corners of his mouth twitching into a half-smile. "An ace up our sleeve." Finn was now formulating some new ideas in his mind.
Amelia nodded in agreement. "It's settled then. All three of us approach together. We'll see if McGregor is more amenable with a familiar face around. It's not like we're turning up to put him in cuffs."
Kirsty parked the car a reasonable distance from the cottage. The trio alighted, the scent of burning wood and sea salt greeting them. As they neared the entrance, the old oak door loomed, its history evident in the weathered wood and rusted ironwork. Each step towards it felt weighted, every sound magnified in the stillness around them.
Just before reaching out to knock, Finn exchanged a glance with Amelia, the air thick with anticipation. Beside them, Kirsty took a steadying breath, and Finn could feel her anxiety building.
The sound of Finn's knock echoed briefly before being swallowed by the vast expanse around them. Silence returned, save for the distant call of seabirds and the soft rustle of wind-blown grass.
Kirsty took a step forward, her voice carrying with a note of authority, "McGregor! It's Kirsty! Open up!"
Still, there was no response, no movement from within. The silence was almost oppressive, making Finn's skin prickle with unease. He felt eyes on him, an unsettling sensation of being watched, and instinctively scanned the horizon. The tall grass waved in rhythm with the breeze, forming a sea of green that could easily conceal anyone—or anything. Though he couldn’t pinpoint a source for his feeling, Finn remained on edge.
Amelia tried the door handle, her face a picture of concentration. "Locked," she murmured.
Finn's voice was firm when he shouted, "McGregor, if you're in there, we're coming in!" But the house gave nothing away, its silence held resolute behind stone walls.
Kirsty motioned for them to follow her as she moved around the side of the cottage. There, nestled beneath a canopy of creeping ivy, was a window. "This one's on a latch," she said, pointing to the slight gap at the bottom.
Finn approached, peering into a window. It looked like the place had been ransacked inside, and he worried someone might have been hurt. Without hesitation, he took hold of the windowsill to hoist himself up. The window creaked softly in protest as he eased it upwards, allowing just enough space for him to slip inside. The world outside became muffled, leaving Finn momentarily disoriented in the dim interior of the cottage.
Inside the cottage, an eerie stillness prevailed, punctuated only by the muted crackling of the dying embers in the hearth. Finn stepped lightly, every creak of the wooden floor amplifying his sense of unease. He blinked, adjusting to the dim light, allowing the room's features to come into focus.
An overturned chair lay like a fallen soldier near the small dining table. Papers—perhaps once neatly arranged—were scattered across the floor, some even fluttering near the fireplace's warmth. The shards of a shattered glass bottle glinted menacingly near the door, a testament to the violence that may have transpired.
Finn's gaze drifted to the fireplace, noting the low burn of the fire. The flames were vigorous. They'd been left unattended for only a short while.
Moving cautiously, Finn approached the main entrance, undoing the lock and pulling the door open to reveal a concerned Amelia and Kirsty. Without a word, they entered, taking in the scene.
Amelia's voice, when she finally broke the silence, mirrored Finn's inner thoughts. "It looks like there was a struggle." Her trained eyes darted around, collecting details and piecing together a narrative.
Near the corner, an old-fashioned landline phone caught Finn's attention. The receiver dangled precariously by its cord, not properly set back in its cradle. Pointing it out to Amelia, he said, "Looks like someone was interrupted during a call."
Kirsty's voice trembled slightly, with a strange quality to it, concern evident in her eyes. "Do you think someone took McGregor?"
Amelia looked to be pondering the possibility for a moment, her fingers brushing a paper on the floor. "It's definitely a possibility," she admitted, looking up to meet both their gazes. "This wasn't a simple break-in or robbery. Something significant happened here."
Finn watched as Kirsty moved around, looking in some of the other rooms.
The glint of what looked like homebrew wine smashed and spilled on the floor caught Finn's attention. The shimmering liquid had created a faint trail of footprints, gradually dissipating but leading in a certain direction. Finn's trained eyes followed their path, which led him towards another window, its latch tarnished with age.
As he approached, Finn spotted a wet patch on the latch—it looked, and more importantly, smelled like the same wine. Curiosity piqued, he carefully opened the window and peered out. His gaze landed on more footprints just beyond the window, leading toward a dense hedgerow that seemed out of place amid the otherwise clear landscape.
Motioning for Amelia and Kirsty to keep up the ruse, Finn cleared his throat. "I think I'll head back to Huldra House and call for some backup," he announced loudly enough for any eavesdroppers to hear.
Stealthily, he left the cottage, making his way around its perimeter. As he neared the thick hedgerow, Finn detected the faint rustling of leaves. Moving closer, he discerned a figure crouched among the bushes—none other than McGregor.
With a smirk, Finn quipped, "Are you bird watching, McGregor?"
Seeing he was caught, McGregor looked up, his face a blend of surprise and resignation.
"No birds today, unfortunately, only an American Eagle," Finn continued, grinning. "Come on, we got you. The game's up."
