Adam

ADAM

I grab my mobile, turn on the torch, and hurry to the trapdoor. It’s closed, so I don’t see how Bob could have got down there, but it’s also the only place we haven’t looked. I open it and rush down the stone steps as fast as I dare. All I find are the same dusty wine racks, and a dirty, homemade-looking pamphlet on the floor: “The History of Blackwater Chapel.”

I’m sure that wasn’t there before.

“Bob isn’t down there,” I say, coming up the steps, distracted by the piece of paper in my hands.

Amelia doesn’t reply, just stares. If I could see the expression on her face, I know it would be a bad one—her arms are folded and she’s standing in that stance that means trouble. For me.

“What?” I ask.

“I thought you couldn’t find your phone?”

Busted.

The guilt I feel is soon replaced with anger.

“Well, luckily I noticed you removing my phone from the car before we left. You lied to me about that and you’ve been acting strange for weeks. Is there anything else you’ve been lying to me about? Is Bob really missing?”

“Don’t do that. You know I love Bob.”

“I thought you loved me.”

The idea that Amelia had something to do with Bob’s disappearance is unthinkable, but after her crazy behavior recently, I don’t know what to think.

“All I wanted was a nice weekend away. Just the two of us, for once. Not me, you, and your bloody work. The writing, the books, the screenplays … that’s all you ever seem to care about these days. That’s why I took your phone out of the car, because you spend so many hours looking at it all the time you make me feel invisible.”

She starts to cry then—always her Get Out of Jail Free card—and I can’t stay angry with her. It isn’t as though I’ve been honest about everything.

“Do you have a signal on your phone, maybe we could call someone?” she asks. I’m on a different network from her, so it’s a sensible question.

“No. I already checked.”

Her body language suggests she’s relieved, but that doesn’t make sense. I must be reading her wrong. I hate who we’ve become, but I’m not to blame for all of it. Trust can’t be borrowed; if you take it away, you can’t give it back.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

I say the words so quietly I’m surprised she hears them.

Amelia steps away from me. “What?”

“Last night … I didn’t come downstairs to get a glass of water. I saw … something down here, before we went to bed. I didn’t want to scare you, so I waited until you were asleep, then came back downstairs to try and make sense of it. You were already so upset after the crypt incident; I didn’t want to make matters worse—”

“Can you please get to the point.”

“I would if you’d let me.”

“What did you find?”

“This,” I say, opening one of the kitchen drawers. It is crammed full of old newspaper articles about October O’Brien. “She’s the actress who—”

“I know who she is, Adam. It’s not something I’m likely to forget,” Amelia snaps, pulling the neatly cut press clippings out one by one, and laying them on the kitchen table. “I don’t understand. Why would these be here—”

“And I found this down in the crypt just now. I thought about hiding that from you too—I know how much this weekend meant to you—but I also know you don’t like secrets.”

I show her the pamphlet.

“What is it?”

“I think you should just read it for yourself. I don’t think we’re really welcome here.”

“But then why offer a free weekend as a raffle prize? They invited us.”

“Who did?”

Amelia doesn’t answer because she doesn’t know.

She picks up the flimsy piece of white paper covered in typed words, then lingers on the front page as if scared to open it. I watch in silence while she reads.

A chapel has stood on this site, next to Blackwater Loch, since at least the mid-ninth century. When the current owner purchased the property and surrounding land, it had already been abandoned for several years. With a great deal of love and hard work, they decided to transform this derelict building into a beautiful home.

The original features include several carved stones, which are dated between 820–840, and it is one of the oldest Scottish chapels on record. We know that the chapel has not been used for its original purpose since the last priest, Father Douglas Dalton, left in 1948. There are no surviving accounts of his time here, only local (unsubstantiated) rumors that he fell to his death from the bell tower.

According to other records, the chapel’s congregation dwindled down to almost nothing as the local population aged, and that was why it was left abandoned. Not much was known about the chapel’s true history, until building work began to convert what was by then a crumbling wreck into a livable space.

Excavations in the crypt, to make a stronger foundation, revealed that the chapel had been used as a witch’s prison in the 1500s. Iron rings were found in the crypt’s walls, where women and children convicted of witchcraft were chained before being burned at the stake. The bones of more than one hundred suspected witches were found buried in the floor, along with their offspring. Tests revealed that one skeleton was that of a five-year-old girl.

A collection of local anecdotes and urban legends all share similar stories about Blackwater Chapel. Most include tales of ghostly figures that can be seen floating over the loch at night. There are several accounts of women dressed as witches, with burned faces and singed clothes. Rumor has it they walk around the chapel after sundown, peering in through the stained-glass windows, searching for their murdered children. There have been several reports of such sightings in the local press over the years, before people got so scared that they stayed away.

Almost all of the builders involved in the renovation of the property said they felt inexplicably cold in the crypt, and some claim they heard their own names being whispered when they were down there. But it’s important to note that not everybody who visits Blackwater Chapel witnesses paranormal activity or ghostly apparitions.

We hope you enjoy your stay.