#this is going up un-betad so it might be subject to revisions before i cross-post it to ao3
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trealamh ¡ 2 years ago
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The Restless
For day five of ScotEng week!
Horror // betrayal, ghost, forgotten // “Stay here.”
[This here was inspired by my mad chase across the grassland as something chased me in the night some years ago now in Hoy. You can find more informations on bothies, a cost-free shelter offered across Scotland, and their history here. This is my most esoteric entry by far. Enjoy! ]
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The camper is driving away.
Arthur is running as fast as his legs can take it, feet punching the ground and slipping on gravel in a mad dash to safety. He catches himself when he trips and pushes forward, the burn of his torn hands muted against the burn in his lungs as he struggles to catch his breath. His mind is blank. He does not let himself feel the terror biting at his heels in any conscious way, running on instinct and adrenaline. He yells after them, words or maybe a shapeless howl, begging against hope that the camper will stop, that it will turn, brakes squealing, to let him on. To wait for him. Some small part of him had thought that they would wait regardless of what he said. If I am not back in fifteen minutes, go. It had been the right thing to say. The only thing to say. They had all been afraid and still, bodies going into different stages of shock. Arthur had helped the rest of his friends load an unconscious Francis onto the backseat and offered to be the one to go looking for Alfred because it had been the right thing to say and do. And he had made them promise that they would go without him because he thought, he had truly and honestly thought—
It had only taken him ten minutes. He had gone searching and came back in ten minutes, not fifteen, because he had found Alfred’s torch thrown to the side and correctly assumed that he’d made it back to camp. Ten minutes.
The camper had already taken off in a cloud of dust, growing smaller in the distance, fading into the dark.
When he trips again his knees take the brunt and his thighs go numb. He thinks that he should scream, shout after the friends leaving him behind but there is not an ounce of air left in him, all of it burnt up in his lungs. The inertia of the fall knocks him on his front and some childish instinct has him tuck his hands into fists, so the ground rips up his forearms instead. It hurts less. It should not be possible from this distance, but he thinks he can see Francis, awake, banging on the back window. He would not have left Arthur behind. Francis would have made them wait. Francis would have pulled him into the van by the elbows and let Arthur catch his breath against his chest.
Arthur presses his forehead to the ground and chokes on a sob.
They should have known something was wrong when they arrived in the early afternoon to find the roads unkempt, not a soul for miles. They had only known to look for the bothy in the first place because they had overheard a local on the ferry whispering about the maintenance work it had needed to bring the roof down without collapsing the walls. The surrounding fields were used for cattle and it was a liability, having a structure that could come down at any moment and had no standing fence to keep the perimeter clear. All they had taken away from that overhead conversation had been clear skies and empty fields; cliffs and white sands and even ground for wild camping. What they should have heard was ‘danger’.
It had been beautiful at first. The flatlands of the isle gave way to the open cliffsides and the endless blue of the ocean and the north-eastern coast. They pitched their tents by the surviving stone wall, where they would be sheltered by the wind, and took their gas stoves and flasks to the waterfront. Arthur had thought then that it would be one of the dearest memories, their laughter that evening by the sea watching the sun set.
The whiskey had left him restless though and while the others crashed in shared tents and sleeping bags he had paced the perimeter of the ruins. The night was so clear this far north, so close to a perpetual twilight, that he had been able to navigate in the dark without a torch. He’d found smooth river stones piled into a miniature cairn some meters away from camp. Following the outcrop that gave way to the coast he’d found old fire pits and a witch stone, placed carefully by the edge like its owner had found it and left it there, intending to return. Arthur had not thought much of it and feeling something like kismet had rolled the stone between his fingers before looking through the gap; first at the ocean, then the grasslands.
It was through the stone that he had first seen it.
With a frightened gasp he had wrenched the stone away from his eye, blinking wildly and reaching clumsily for his phone. In truth, he had not needed any light to see that there had been nothing there. No looming figure, dark against the faint blue-grey of the skyline. Heart racing and clutching his stone, Arthur had hurried back to camp, looking over his shoulder with every flutter of birds’ wings in the brush and the faraway bleating of sheep. He had felt safe laying down to sleep next to Francis, though, and foolish when he’d retold the story the next morning over breakfast.
Then he found the bones. Vertebrae too large to belong to sheep, cluttering a freshly dug trench.
He had called out to the others, voice tight with alarm, but they had laughed it up. Alfred had kicked one of the bones carelessly and brushed fresh dirt onto the pile to cover them, so they would be out of sight. He’d seen the like in Texas, he’d said, dismissive and care-free. It could be a cow, a horse. And maybe he had been right, Arthur wouldn’t know, but a chilling suspicion had begun to dawn in the back of his mind. The ground had been undisturbed the night before.
They were not alone. And they were being watched.
He should have forced the issue instead of biting his tongue. He should have ruined the fucking trip. Ripped the tents with his pocket knife if that was what it took. They should have left before nightfall.
Shaking with adrenaline, Arthur slaps his hands against his mouth and forces himself to breathe through his nose. He shifts on his bruised knees and looks around wildly, looking for somewhere to hide. Keeping an eye for him and then he spots him. A shadow between shadows moving pitilessly closer at an even pace. Arthur can barely hear the howling wind over the pounding of his heart but he blinks the tears away and thinks fast. There is the road ahead, endless and exposed. He can’t outrun the night; his lungs will give out before he makes another mile. If he runs now, he will disturb the gravel and call attention to himself. For now, at least he is crouched down, holding himself as tight as he can to make himself seem small. From a distance he might be just small enough to be overlooked. Judging by the direction the shadow moves, he might just walk past him. God, if only he would walk past him, Arthur could make a run for the coastline. He could find a crevice between the weathered walls and sea-washed boulders until the sun rose. In the light of day he could find his phone, still plugged into its power bank back at camp. He could call for help. Walk up the road until he finds service and dial every number in his directory, dial emergency services. He will not be made a ghost haunting the friends that left him for dead. He will not be remembered for being forgotten. Arthur wants to live. 
The shadow pauses, its profile looking out towards the winding road, and for a soaring moment Arthur is sure that it will turn and go. Everyone else is gone, Francis who he had attacked. Alfred who he had lured away in an ill-advised fit of courage. They are all gone. There is no reason for it to suspect that Arthur has been left behind. 
The shadow turns its head and although Arthur cannot see his eyes he simply knows.
It can see him.
Arthur scrambles up to his feet and stumbles, blind with panic, until he can find his footing. Pain shoots through every muscle and joint as he tries to outrun the inevitable. In his desperation he turns towards the bothy, some animal sense in him promising him safety if only he can get behind the stone walls. Clearing the distance takes an inhuman amount of effort but he makes it, lurching past the empty door frame and reaching unseeing for something to block the entrance. There isn’t even a door, the wood long-rotted, but whatever Arthur can do to earn himself another heartbeat he will try. His hand closes around the back of a wooden chair and using the inertia of his failing body he tosses it behind him. Arthur throws his back against the far wall of the small cabin and  watches the wood bounce on the threshold. His lungs wheeze as he pants widely, afraid to blink for too long.
Earlier in the night they had set up lanterns on the cabin’s walls, where the roof would have been thatched onto the structure once. It had dispelled the shadows then and made them feel deceptively safe so long as they stayed within the pools of light. All they do is cast long shadows now as Arthur waits, terrified, for the looming figure to come. 
When it does, it kicks the chair across the room, clearing the threshold and stepping through unhurriedly. Arthur’s finger’s scratch the walls and low shelves behind him, searching desperately for something to use against the hulking shadow he is finally close enough to see.
He is a man, or must have been, once, dressed in a stained undershirt and muddy trousers. A boned mask obscures his features, a savage mimicry of a wolf or bear that tilts to the side as the man seems to consider him. If he came any closer the light might slip into the eye sockets of his mask but as it is all Arthur can see of them are the pooled shadows of an eyeless skull peering meaningly from between strands of unkempt hair. He is easily twice Arthur’s size in padded muscle alone and towers above him in height.
Arthur’s fingers find a thin shard of rock worked loose from the wall behind him and he holds onto it tight despite the pain. He blinks away the black spots that fill his vision.
“Why?” He demands, blinking away the black spots that swirl in his vision.
“Who are you? Why– what do you want?”
The man does not answer. He takes a step forward. 
Arthur could chance him coming closer but a sudden fury bubbles in his chest at the thought of this hulking man crowing him. He lunges at him, seemingly managing to catch him by surprise enough that he gets a good hit in with his shoulder. The shard in his hand splits in two under the strain of his grip alone so Arthur throws it blindly hoping one of the pieces will find the man’s eye behind his mask. The stranger recovers quickly though, bending over with a grunt and reaching around Arthur to get him in a corded grip. With his hands now free, however, Arthur can claw at him, looking for an opportunity to jab an elbow against his neck or face. When the man manages to catch his arms, he kicks. When he is pushed against the wall, he cranes his head and bites down. He is savage with it and in a triumphant moment earns a howl of pain when his teeth pierce the man’s skin. Blood floods his mouth however and he chokes, spitting the metallic taste and battling against the nausea that conjures hot bile up his throat. He is still spitting when the man regains the upper hand and lets go of one of his arms to grab a solid grip of his hair by the roots instead.
All Arthur knows after that is a sharp pain at the back of his head and then, nothing.
Nothing at all.
-
He wakes up curled up on his side, his cheek pressed down on a rough-hewn mattress that smells like peat. His head throbs but when he tries to reach up to his nape he finds that they are caught on a snare. The rope is not tight enough to grind down on his bones but it keeps his wrists crossed and anchored to the bed frame. He has to crane his head back to find where it’s been strapped and nailed down to the wood. Barely awake, he does not have the wherewithal to be frightened yet but when something grips his ankle his wits snap back into attention. 
His first instinct is to start kicking but his legs are pulled out harshly and pinned. There is not enough give to the rope around his wrists to accommodate him being yanked down so his shoulders are pulled forward, his field of vision obscured by his own forearms. The mattress shifts with the man’s weight and Arthur really panics then, bucking his hips up and twisting. He only stops when strong hands bracket his hips. It is the shock, at first, and then the knees that dig in firmly into the insides of his thighs, keeping him still as the man leans over him to grab wrists in a single hand. 
His heart is in his throat, mind racing with a million possibilities. He tries to pull his arms down to at least be able to look at the man on top of him but even his best effort is pointless. He had known as soon as he had seen him that he’d ne outweighed and outmatched but the reality of that body on his blinds him to reason. Arthur curses and bites back the urge to scream, only settling down when the man above him growls angrily and pins his turned face into the mattress with the weight of his forearm. He has gotten wise to the sharpness of Arthur’s teeth, it seems.
Angry tears smear into his temple and the stranger’s dirt-streaked skin as Arthur pants to keep his emotion at bay. He will not cry, he will not beg. He bites his lips and swallows the hitch in his breath, unwilling to give up the last torn shred of his pride. There is nothing Arthur needs to make peace with except himself so on and on, he curses until his voice gives out, too hoarse to continue. It is only then that the weight above him shifts, like the man crouched above him was only waiting for Arthur to tire himself out. He reaches for something Arthur cannot see, still blinded by his own arms, and the only weakness he allows himself is turning his face against his shoulder, bracing for whatever may come. 
All that happens is that something cold is pressed onto his palms.
He flinches, startled and hisses when his skin begins to burn but the man seems to have had enough. He hushes him harshly and squeezes his wrists to keep him still before dabbing roughly at the scrapes on his palms. Once he is seemingly satisfied with the work he’s done he moves to clean Arthur’s forearms next.
It is an action so absurd that Arthur’s is shocked to stillness. He lets his arms be raised and lowered without fighting and drops his head back to catch a sight of the bed frame once more, wondering if he is still asleep or half-dead already and hallucinating as he goes. The sharp scent of herbs bites at his nose and his fingers curl when some kind of salve is slathered on his palms.
The man slips down his body when he is done, clumsy and heavy, but for now not trying to hurt him. He goes as far as to ease his weight of Arthur when he winces and for now seems to trust that Arthur will not try to knee him when he shifts his knees off his thighs. It is enough leeway for Arthur to feel like he can risk provoking his temper so he pulls himself back up the mattress, using the rope to hoist himself back. He is stopped from going too far when the man grabs a hold of his ankle again like a warning but he is able to sit up at least and finally regain his sight.
Absurdly, the first thing he thinks is that the man’s eyes are the same shade of green as his.
His shoulder is clean and wrapped. Arthur does not know whether the mark of his teeth will scar but he imagines it might, for a while at least. Good. Good, Arthur hopes it does. He can see some bruising starting to form around the area. He is wearing a different undershirt, this one looser on his frame, but the same soot-stained trousers as he had been earlier. His feet, Like Arthur’s now, are bare. More importantly though, so is his face. He has the same stern features that Arthur has seen on the men who work the docks and pubs of the northernmost isles. It should not be right that he looks like them, or they like him, but the truth is that Arthur should not be surprised. He has known violence and fear at the hands of so many men who looked like this: ordinary, handsome even. It is almost disappointing that this is how it will end. It is a fucking waste.
The man does not hold his gaze for long, seeming more concerned with the hem of Arthur’s trousers. He does not let Arthur pull his legs away but does not pull them straight and splayed either. He lets Arthur keep his legs slightly bent while he rolls up the fabric up to his knees. Arthur is too tired to feel demeaned. It hurts to have the material pried out from the grooves in his torn knees and he can’t help flinching again. This time, the man only presses his thumb to the joint of his knee, like he means to hold him steady. 
Arthur is exhausted. He is shaking with crashing adrenaline and his ears are ringing from how hard he is clenching his jaw. Maybe from how hard the man bashed his head, as well. That the same man is now carefully cleaning his knees is so absurd that he feels hysterical laughter bubble up in his chest, breathy and hoarse. The man only looks up briefly before resuming his task. When he is done, he stands from the bed and reaches immediately for the mask that Arthur can see now has been sitting on a low table all this time. 
Arthur speaks without meaning to. “Why?”
The man pauses, half-turned. He is holding the mask against his face with one hand, the other reaching back to tie the leather tongs that hold it in place. Looking at him now, golden in the half light, Arthur realises that there is a small fire lit in an iron stove across the room and gas lamps sitting in every corner of the room. 
“What is the point?” He pulls his legs closer to his chest; his thighs are starting to burn from the night’s exertion. He means the man’s touch on his skin and the care for his wounds. Minor, for all that there might be in store for him. 
The man does not answer. He adjusts his mask and when he turns to face Arthur it’s with the same animal blankness he had exuded as he cornered him in the bothy. 
Has it been hours? A day? Arthur suspects the former. He is not hungry, only thirsty.
The man goes around the bed to approach him this time rather than climbing in the mattress the way Arthur had expected he would. He crouches by him, so large that it is only in this way that they are finally at eye level. Arthur holds his eyes, obscured by the deep set cavities of the skull, and holds his ground. He does not so much as flinch then the man’s hand comes up to touch his face, tracing his jaw with a calloused knuckle. He does not tilt his head, just follows the natural curvature of the bone towards his chin. Arthur is so focused on the slow drag of the caress that he does not notice the way the man’s breathing shifts, slowing down into deep, controlled breaths that fill his diaphragm with air. A deep, rumbling voice hums a singular note before he speaks, the words barely given shape behind the bone which distorts them further. It is not Gaelic or Scots of any kind that Arthur has heard but they ring into his ears like tide; rhythmic and familiar. 
Arthur is not aware of the way his defiant gaze softens, only of the way the pain at the back of his head seems to melt away, leaving only a light, tired throb behind. He feels his muscles yield to exhaustion and the pull of those dark, sightless eyes. Something hot and consuming pools in the pit of his stomach.
When he loses consciousness this time it is not sudden, but gradual. His head is cradled kindly and his body is laid out. 
Dawn crests, unseen, and Arthur dreams of cliffs and the howling winds of Orkney, a voice hidden in their midst.
-
They are told that Arthur drowned. Not one of them believes it.
After a thoughtless drive across the island to flee the horrors of the night, Francis had managed to scream sense back into them. With a fraction of diesel left in the tank, however, making the drive back to camp had been impossible. They’d had to wait until the morning after contacting the ferry operator on an emergency radio left by the docks. The search for Arthur had been fruitless. They returned to the mainland with Arthur’s phone still hooked to a power bank and missing a friend. Francis didn’t look away from the island once as they were escorted away. He also has not spoken a word to a single one of them since.
The official reports will read like a common tragedy: too little sleep and too much to drink, a prank or fight gone awry with one young man left behind. With Arthur’s phone found abandoned by the rest of his things and Gil’s phone missing, the theory had been born that he must have climbed onto a cliff edge trying to find reception and had fallen to his death, body lost to the ocean. The ferry operator, some local workmen who had joined in on the search,and the women who had leveled them with pity and censure on their return deflected their questions and refused them help in proving that there had been someone else there; a man. It is some time before the nightmares fade and the guilt settles into something they can live with. Arthur is brought up rarely and only as a memory. 
Until one day, the ferry dispatch on the mainland receives a mayday signal from an emergency radio long in disuse.
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