My latest short story to be published is "Open Book" in The Black Beacon Book of Ghosts. Always a believer of "try before you buy", here's a ghostly glimpse of my tale...
#
Like most professional genealogists, it started with an interest in my own family tree that soon grew to the point of obsession. It sinks its teeth in, you see. The not knowing gnaws at you night and day, and with every discovery, a new mystery arises, casting a shadow of doubt upon the discovery, so that it becomes a greater mystery than it was in the first place. It’s frustrating but fascinating at the same time. Once hooked, there’s no turning back.
My name is Thomas Alasdair Douglas, or Tommy Dee for short. Not that my name particularly matters, because this strange story—oh, and that it is—has nothing to do with my family tree. What you are about to read happened while I was working on the genealogy of one Erwan Josso. I wouldn’t have believed a word of it either if it hadn’t happened to me.
It started in Edinburgh, as unoriginal as that may be for a ghost story—but that can’t be helped. Although I reckon myself a man of the world, the Scottish capital is my home, and I’ll argue until there isn’t a drop of single malt left in the bottle that it’s the finest city in the world, and the most haunted to boot. That said, while the story you’re about to read started in Edinburgh, it soon took me elsewhere—to another land renowned for its legends of enchanted and haunted sites. You see, I was back home visiting family and friends, and doing a spot of research, after a long stint working in the genealogist’s El Dorado—the U.S. of A. I met up with a few friends over a pint one Friday night and a Breton exchange student from university days happened to be in town. Naturally enough, we got to reminiscing about the old days—if a tad over a decade ago can be considered thus. He knew I’d always been interested in family history, but he was surprised to learn I was now earning a crust as a genealogist. He thought that was “so cool”, and you’ll perhaps not be surprised to learn that it’s not the usual reaction I get when I make that particular confession. Likewise, knowing Erwan Josso came from a Breton family of some standing, I must admit I thought it was pretty cool when he invited me to stay with him in the Breton manor his recently departed paternal grandmother had inhabited.
‘You see, I need your help,’ he went on before thoughtfully sipping at his porter, and I think trying to find the right words in English. ‘There’s a mystery surrounding my great-grandmother. My brother and sister are not particularly interested in family history. Our parents even less so.’ Again the slow sip. ‘I am, however. I didn’t want to—euh, I forget the expression—while my grandparents were alive.’ A long pause, and I think he was waiting for me to find the missing expression.
‘You didn’t want to stir up a hornets’ nest?’ I offered.
