Tall, turreted and elegant, Morven Castle had, in times past, stood up bravely to the onslaught inflicted by warring clans. Over the years, however, the weather had also taken its toll and, like many of the other old houses and cottages of the glen, the castle was now showing signs of wear and tear. Nevertheless, thought Chuck appreciatively as he walked towards it in the gathering dusk, it retained an elegance rarely found in modern buildings. He drew his jacket more closely round him for although it was April, the wind was bitterly cold. He turned as he reached the cavernous front door that gave onto the main reception hall and, pausing with his hand on the huge handle, looked again at the towering peak that was Morven.
Although he had been pleasantly surprised at the gentle, comforting sweep of Glenmorven, a feeling of acute depression swept over him at the sight of the mountain. He pressed his lips together in sheer frustration as his eyes scanned its steep slopes. There was nothing for it, he reckoned. He was just going to have to wait until Powerprobe locked onto Morven again before he made his next move — aliens or no aliens! For the truth was, he thought disappointedly, that neither he nor any of the geologists and climbers, had discovered anything. He just couldn’t believe it. They had been over the mountain again and again with the proverbial fine toothcomb and in all the time they’d been there they hadn’t found a thing that was suspicious. The Geiger counter readings were normal, the rocks were normal, the mountain itself was normal; in short, there was absolutely nothing to account for Powerprobe’s massive reaction.
The only thing that wasn’t normal, as far as he was concerned, was the castle itself for although things had initially gone quite smoothly there had been several strange incidents of late that had made him wonder if the building was, actually, haunted. He hadn’t believed Lord Robertson when he’d hinted at it but, he reflected, the castle was certainly old enough to house a few ghosts.
He entered the Great Hall and relaxed imperceptibly as his eyes swept over a relatively homely scene. By common consent, they’d made the hall both their living and working area. A long, mahogany table and a dozen chairs had been moved in from the cold vastness of the dining room and a collection of sofas and armchairs, drawn from various parts of the castle, now clustered round the huge fireplace that dominated the hall. A fire had been lit and the logs burned and crackled, sending a welcoming wave of heat through the huge room whose high, panelled walls were hung with a variety of shields, spears, ferocious looking claymores and the odd blunderbuss. As castles went, he thought, it was proving to be remarkably cosy.
Seated round the huge table in the middle of the hall were the group of young men that Mrs Ferguson had objected to so vehemently. Although they looked a pretty motley crew they were, he knew, professional to the core and it was here, he thought as he shrugged off his heavy, padded jacket and slung it over an antique coat stand, that the trouble lay. They didn’t believe in ghosts and the unexpected advent of the supernatural had given them the jitters.
“Hi, Chuck,” a murmur of greeting ran round a table that was piled high with a variety of dishes. Chuck took his place beside Shane and as they all started eating, the conversation inevitably turned to the strange events of the past few days.
Sam started it. Young and impressionable, he added a lavish amount of ketchup to an enormous hamburger, replaced the sauce bottle and, fitting the top half of the bun in place, looked across the table at Jake. “I don’t care what you say, Jake,” he said, preparing to take a mouthful, “but I reckon the place is haunted.”
Jake frowned. “You’re not serious, are you?”
“How else do you account for it, then?”
“You slipped on the stairs.”
“I didn’t slip,” Sam protested vigorously. “I tell you, I was pushed!”
“Nobody pushed you, Sammy. I saw you on the stairs and there was nobody anywhere near you!”
“That’s what I mean,” Sam said irritably. “It must have been a ghost. And I felt cold all over. That’s what happens in haunted houses. I saw it on a TV programme. There’s always a cold feeling around.”
“What do you expect?” scoffed Jake. “Castles are draughty places … all the rooms are huge for a start.”
Chuck frowned slightly but made no comment for he, too, on occasion had felt sudden waves of freezing cold air sweep over him for no apparent reason.
Shane’s tone of voice was indulgent. “Re-lax,” he grinned. “Y’all are going to be plenty warm enough tonight.”
Chuck, who had asked for fires to be lit in all the bedrooms, made a mental note of the mockery in his voice and curbed his irritation with an effort. He’d done his best to like Shane but was finding him hard going.
“I agree with Sammy,” another geologist said, looking up from his plate and glancing suspiciously round the hall. “I think there are ghosts. This castle’s old enough to have hundreds.”
“Ghosts don’t exist, Steve,” Jake said, glancing round the table of half-excited, half-fearful faces, “and if one of them dares come into my bedroom, well, I reckon I’ll just take one of those blunderbusses from the wall and pump it chock full of lead.”
“No, you won’t,” Chuck interrupted, sternly, “firstly, because I don’t want us to be landed with bills for bullet holes in the panelling and, secondly, just in case you’ve forgotten — ghosts happen to be dead already.”
Chuck, nevertheless, was worried, for he himself had had an alarming experience that he hadn’t mentioned to the others. The castle was large and, not unnaturally, full of unexpected flights of stairs, odd hallways and long corridors. Despite this, it hadn’t taken them long to find their way around, so Chuck hadn’t been unduly worried when he’d suddenly found himself in an unfamiliar corridor. Retracing his steps had proved fruitless and only made him more confused. In the end, however, the experience had a nightmare quality that sent his brain into overdrive; staircases led nowhere, corridors stretched endlessly and, when he turned to look back, he found that he’d passed doors that he didn’t even remember seeing. And then, to his relief, he’d heard voices and recognized a familiar flight of stairs. Shane had made no comment when he’d come clattering down the stairs at a run but Chuck knew he’d been curious for he hadn’t been able to hide his anxiety or the look of relief that had swept over his face as he’d seen them in the hall.
Later that evening, as he crouched on the patterned Persian carpet in front of the roaring blaze, prodding the logs tentatively with a poker, Shane looked speculatively at Chuck, who was leaning back thoughtfully in a very old armchair of enormous proportions. “So everything that’s been happening has a reasonable explanation, then, has it?” he enquired calmly as they all sat round the fire.
“Of course, it has, Shane,” Chuck answered, trying to raise a smile. “Surely educated people like us don’t believe in ghosts in principle?”
And, as though someone had been listening to every word that had been said, a sudden wave of icy-cold air swept over them. Despite the heat from the blazing fire, it left them staring at one another, their teeth chattering like castanets.