THE RAVEN
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Log Line
The resident ghosts of an ancient Scottish Castle, embark on a perilous quest to save the spirit guide of a well-known psychic, when a ghost hunting show hosts a live event on Halloween.
Synopsis
Connor McKay is a spectral guard in an ancient Scottish Castle and has been for almost 600yrs. His routine is disturbed by the appearance of a Raven called Fitheach that speaks his name and in a panic he seeks out the spirit of the Housekeeper Ms Beatock for advice. She does not seem surprised by the talking bird and instead tasks Connor with reading The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe, where, she states, he will find the answers he is seeking. The castle is visited by a ghost hunting show on Halloween where a live event is broadcast and the spirits of the castle are concerned that they may be spotted on camera.
Connor meanwhile has made friends with the Fitheach who clearly can speak more than his namesake and who tasks Connor and his fellow spirit Maggie with helping the ghost of Lady Anne move on. This they do on the live event with the assistance of Michael the guest psychic medium.
Ms Beatock asks that Connor, Maggie and Michael accompany Fitheach on a dangerous mission to save Michael’s spirit guide Akiara being held in the lower levels by elementals. They agree and embark on their perilous quest through the darker plains of existence. Throughout their journey Connor and Maggie find themselves referring back to the poem and begin to suspect Fitheach has a more sinister and twisted agenda like Poe’s bird.
Chapter One
He was awakened by the stamping of two hundred tiny feet in his mouth. A reflex cough and spit sent the millipede cascading across the floor, curled up in a protective ball like a tiny pebble. It bounced three times then came to rest, pausing a moment then unfurling its segmented body and carrying on its business unperturbed by the sudden flying lesson.
“Little shit!” Connor cursed out loud, still spitting and wiping his mouth, “Go make a nest somewhere else.” His words fell uselessly, the millipede having no ears to hear them. He was sure it was the same one he had discovered much to his disgust, trying to get into his ear a few days ago.
Resisting the urge to stamp out its tiny insect life he sighed and pulled himself to his feet, stretching and debating on what he needed to do today. It was still a few hours till sunset when he would start his routine patrol of the ancient castle, a popular and frequently visited tourist attraction.
It was dark and miserable in his room, no windows to allow sunlight in and situated in the lowest level of the building. It was off the beaten track for visitors; they didn’t make it to the lowest levels of the dungeons, and Connor was surprised there wasn’t water running down the walls, as he was sure they were well below ground.
Still, it was his and his alone, no rent to pay and the faint glow of an electric light filtered through the door illuminating the room sufficiently. The corridor lights were for access to the main generators situated just at the end of the narrow stone passage. The entrance to his sanctuary was just below the passageway, it was like a small offshoot, almost a large alcove which could have been the remains of an old oubliette. He had been here a long time and had grown accustomed to the quiet hum of the machinery in an otherwise silent sanctuary.
Some of the cables ran along the floor just outside his room and he was careful to step over them. The whole place was warmed by the heat generated by the large electric units, and he tried to get out as much as possible, up into the light and visit with the others. But when his shift was over, he would make his way back down into the depths of the building. There was nowhere else he could rest.
He climbed the seemingly endless spiral stairs from his quarters to the first floor of the reconstructed keep, the dull electric bulbs barely lighting his path. Stepping into the bright and well illuminated main banqueting hall, he blinked and paused. The light flooded in through large stain glassed windows that would have been more at place in a cathedral.
Connor admired the attention to detail in the wooden beams, flooring and the fireplace that one could sit a family of six in. He had to admit it, the National Trust had done a brilliant job. It looked great, although he felt the larger windows weren’t true to the original building. He stood staring aimlessly out of what should have been arrow slit windows but which were now three long slender brightly coloured arches with the family crests emblazoned on them.
Connor was startled out of his muse by a gaggle of visitors being herded towards the main building by Agnes Fraser, the tour guide. Connor really liked Agnes. She was ancient, but she could shift like lightning if she needed to, especially if someone ignored the sign about no photography. He had never understood why they thought it would damage the tapestries adorning the walls. Yes, perhaps in the past the flashlights of the old-style cameras could have affected them, but these modern cameras and phones really didn’t have an impact. Old habits die hard, he supposed.
The visitor group made their way inside and Connor slipped back behind a pillar out of sight. Guards weren’t supposed to be seen during opening hours. He listened with a smile to Agnes’ talk. He’d heard it a million times before, and in fact he was sure he could recite it word for word. She recounted the chequered history of the castle from when it was built in the early 11th century to the present day.
The family no longer lived here. The National Trust had taken over the running and maintenance of the place and archaeological students loved to hone their skills in the restoration of the more ruinous sections. It was hoped that the entire castle would eventually be back to its former glory sometime in the future. Connor himself was very familiar with the history from the 14th century onwards, but it was nice to hear the anecdotal stories from Agnes.
He watched the group move around the room, taking in the tapestries, the furniture and the general atmosphere of a building that had seen some serious action. If the stones could talk they would have told some spectacular tales. As the group had their back to him he took his chance to nip across the hall and down the short flight of stairs that led to the kitchen. A frown creased Agnes’ face as he flitted across the floor. She was facing her gaggle of tourists so had a clear view of him darting across. “Damn,” Connor thought to himself, he was going to be in trouble, he was sure she had seen him.
As he was glancing over his shoulder at the squinting eyes of Agnes he almost ran head long into a thin and formidable woman dressed in a neat black uniform. “Shit! Sorry!” he exclaimed as he stopped short in front of her.
“Just what are you doing in here?” The woman’s words were laden with icicles, a soft and menacing voice behind which lay all sorts of threats.
“I…eh…I was just getting out of the way, there’s a visitor group heading round the tour.” Connor stammered, Ms Beatock was not to be tangled with. If she had a first name no one knew it if she had a husband or life outside of her job no one knew that either. As the official Housekeeper in every sense of the word she was strict, stern and terrifying in her own right, her dark eyes glistening in the stairwell, her thin pinched cheeks colourless and drained, her lips drawn into a disapproving line. She looked over his shoulder and listened to the sound of shuffling feet and the faint voice of Agnes.
“Well then,” her voice losing its threat and her lips softening slightly, “for once you seem to be using good sense and staying out of sight.” She sighed slightly in annoyance at the visitors who kept the castle going but were an inconvenience she could do without. Messing up her routine and dragging all sorts of muck onto her clean floors. Her latest team of cleaners were not as diligent as she would have liked and they needed to be kept on top of. However, it was not acceptable for her to be seen by the general public, so she stepped to one side to allow Connor past.
She watched him disappear down into the kitchen and shook her head. That boy needed to be kept in line. She liked him but, goodness, he was such a ‘flitterby,’ head full of nonsense and no common sense. She sighed. That was the problem. He hadn’t been particularly well educated, and she had taken it upon herself to teach him to read. Connor was at an age of around mid-twenties, she had guessed, though had never asked him. His job as a guard was the making of him, but there was a lot of work to do to get him moving forwards. As she heard Agnes approach the top of the stairs, she turned and drifted off silently, discretely heading for the upper floors to stay out of the way.
Conner stepped into the kitchen relieved that Ms Beatock was in a pleasant frame of mind. She was a bit of a dragon, but he really respected her and how she had tried to educate him. The library had plenty of books, most of them very boring and laborious to read, but he was determined to work his way through them. It was interesting to see how people’s perceptions on life had changed over the ages. Some of the books were several hundred years old and even the language used had changed. Nowadays Connor felt things could be said much more plainly, directly and with little flourish. Sometimes he liked a bit of flourish when speaking but mostly he was happier with the modern day way of talking.
He stared at the creepy dummies dressed up in period clothing, 18th century he guessed, poised as though acting out day to day duties. To be honest, it was very impressive. They were very lifelike and the attention to detail was astounding, from the food right down to the cat and mouse in the corner, it was a great display. Still, it did give him the creeps, especially when he was patrolling this section late at night, he half expected them to come to life and chase him. He shuddered slightly at the thought and disappeared quickly outside into the small kitchen garden.
Sliding along the wall trying not to be seen, he stepped into the woodlands surrounding the castle and rested on a log in a small clearing. He listened to the gentle rustle of the leaves above as the wind whispered, telling tales of faraway adventures no doubt. Connor was at heart a bit of a romantic. He had a vivid imagination but lacked the language skills to write or even speak his private thoughts, it was something he was hoping Ms Beatock would help him with, as he would love to see his stories, his adventures written in one of the large books in the library.
Here in the woodlands he imagined all sorts of things, including fairies and magical beasts hiding from people, just like he had to hide sometimes. With an eye for detail he marvelled at the intricate partnerships in the plants around him, like how the ivy’s climbed the strong trunks of the massive oaks, beech, pine and rowan.
He especially liked the rowan trees. In the autumn their red berries decorated the woodland like ruby jewels. The tall grasses and thistles pushed themselves towards the light above, whilst the gentle and delicate red campion threw their canopy over the fading bluebells who were pulling their reserves back for another year. Wild garlic fragrance floated subtly through the air and a stand of ferns seemed to wave at him from across the tiny glade. He breathed in deeply, closing his eyes and marvelling at the sounds of the forest, insects, birds, small furry creatures going about their daily business.
There was a rustling sound directly above him, “Caw, caw, caw!” The raucous call was directed straight towards his seat on the log. Startled out of his muse, Connor stared up at the large raven perched on a branch studying him. He grinned and shook his head,
“I’ve nothing for you to eat so you can just bugger off right now,” he said, secretly admiring the glossy black feathers and the bright brown ringed eye peering at him. The bird clicked its beak and turned its head to the side peering down at him, making a strange trilling sound in its throat. Shaking its feathers and flexing its wings, it bobbed up and down for a moment.
“Caw, caw.” The raven finally replied, hopping down to a lower branch just above Connor’s head and shaking its tail feathers.
“You’d better not shit on me!” Connor shifted slightly just in case and stared again at the mesmerising gaze of the bird. The raven looked back at him, intelligence and wisdom focussed in its burning eye. A strange tingling sensation, not unpleasant but not welcome, started to creep through Connor’s very soul. He had felt this once before a long time ago, but the memory was faint, distant, not quite remembered but not forgotten. Shivering, he began to feel uncomfortable under the inscrutable gaze of the black bird. “Go away, mind your own business.” He tried to sound brave but inside fear was wrapping itself around him.
“Caw, con, connor.” The bird’s beak clicked shut as it stared at him. Connor shot to his feet in shock. That bloody bird had said his name, and that was impossible! He stared in terror at the now frightening apparition and it stared back. Shaking his head, he wondered if he’d imagined it. “Caw, connor.” This time the raven was loud and clear, the voice taking on a sweet and endearing tone and the bird nodded slowly at him.
Totally freaked, out Connor started to back away from the raven which had now hopped down onto the log he had been sitting on. “Connor.” His name floated towards him and through his body, more demanding and authoritative. It was too much. With trembling limbs he edged back through the foliage and onto the path, all the time the bird watched him with keen interest. It flapped its wings and hopped onto the ground, running after him with a comical gait.
“Fucking hell!” Connor turned and ran back through the woods, along the path and into the castle kitchen garden, too frightened to look back to see if the bloody bird was still following him.