Even though the car was a stick shift and completely backward, driving it with my left hand wasn’t as hard as I assumed it would be. And I loved the freedom of revving around the bends of barely paved roads.
It was still misting, but more clouds had rolled in, making it darker now than it had been at dawn. I was well past any signs of civilization, zipping by the thick, dark forest. The car, like everything in Scotland, didn’t have air conditioning, and I couldn’t get the defroster to work correctly, so I drove with the windows halfway down to keep the windshield from steaming up. The cool air stung my cheeks.
I was driving up a fairly steep hill when an old man bolted across the road, right in front of my car. I screamed and slammed on the brakes, pulling my foot off the clutch at the same time. The car screeched to a stop, sputtered, and stalled. I missed hitting him by less than an inch.
The bald, bushy-bearded man leaned on the hood for just a second, his eyes wide with fear. Bertie! I screamed again, and he ran to the other side of the road and crashed through the underbrush, stumbling then disappearing into the trees.
Dream or no dream, I was not going to stick around in the middle of nowhere to see where he was going. My heart thumped in my chest as I fumbled with the pedals, trying to restart the car. Since I was on an incline, every time I tried to get the gas and clutch pedal just right, I got it all wrong and started rolling backward. After three tries, I stopped, afraid I would flood the engine. I sat behind the wheel, shaking, when I saw more movement out of the corner of my eye. A stream of animals—deer, foxes, rabbits—darted across the road, flanking my car on all sides as they ran the same direction Bertie had gone. What were they all running from? A forest fire?
A soupy fog rolled out of the woods, and my windshield started to steam up. I furiously rubbed at it with my fist, trying to swallow my fear. A high-pitched screeching echoed overhead—a beyond-the-grave scream that gave me instant goose bumps. Panicked, I rolled up the windows.
A sickening, cracking sound rippled through the air, followed by a gigantic thud that made the entire car shake. I looked at the sky, my Midwest instincts searching for a tornado. The thick, gray clouds were unmoving. A creaking moan and the sound of splintering wood made me look to the left as a giant pine tree crashed down from the forest and onto the road, landing not two feet from the front of my car. My head almost hit the ceiling of the car as it jumped.
I was so terrified, I lost my ability to scream. My mind was racing. I couldn’t think clearly. I didn’t want to get out of the car, but I didn’t want to die in it, either. The thought of running into the forest seemed like the kind of bad idea the heroine in a horror movie gets . . . right before she’s killed. I fiddled with the door handle, unsure of what to do.
As the moisture started clouding the windshield again, I saw another person dart across the road. He was young, muscular, and dressed in a kilt. It was Gavin! He didn’t stop or even glance in my direction, but leapt over the small bushes on the opposite side like he was jumping hurdles on a racetrack. Another ghastly scream echoed through the valley like the call of a giant, prehistoric bird. My blood ran cold.
I jumped out of the car. Following Gavin was my safest bet.
The foliage had been flattened by the recent stampede, so it was easy to find their trail. I tore through the woods, wet ferns smacking against my jeans, my shoes skidding on the damp earth. My ears strained in anticipation of another ungodly wail, or a warning that another tree was going to fall.
Suddenly, I saw him. Gavin was standing near a fallen log fifty feet ahead. I slipped to a halt.
“Gavin!”
At the sound of my voice, four pig-like animals with slippery, crimson backs darted out of the bushes near him and galloped away, squealing. He searched for the reason and spotted me. Even in the forest, his beauty was overwhelming. He seemed to be almost glowing. It took me a second to stop staring at his face and the bulge of muscles in his chest to notice his hands were dripping with blood. At his feet was a motionless lump of torn clothing.
Bertie.
My stomach lurched. My nightmare had come true again, and I hadn’t been able to stop it. Another person had died, I’d known it was going to happen, and instead of telling someone, I did nothing.
A second wave of shock brought me to my knees. Not only was Bertie dead, Gavin had killed him. Like he’d tried to kill the baby deer. Like he’d killed how many others?
How could I have ever liked a murderer? No wonder he told me to stay away from him. I fought back the urge to throw up. It couldn’t be. Gavin couldn’t be. He had been cold the other day, but a killer?
“Get out of here!” Gavin yelled. The ferocity of his command forced me to stand up, to pay attention. “Now!” he snarled. “Get out of here, Maren! Run back to your car and go!”
I didn’t even think about it. I turned and ran. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I tore open the car door and flung myself inside. I let the car coast down the hill in reverse until I could swing it around, then I engaged the clutch correctly, gunned the engine, and sped away as fast as I could.
I was still shaking when I drove back up to my grandparents’ house. No one was home; my grandparents must have been out on one of their morning walks. For the first time, I actually wished they were around. I didn’t want to be alone.
I bounded up the stairs to my room, slammed and locked the door behind me, and jumped into bed. I pulled the covers up under my chin and tried to calm down. I was home. I was safe. It was over. I couldn’t have seen what I thought I’d seen.
I had to talk to someone.
I reached for my phone and called Jo.
“Hello?” she mumbled.
“Hi, it’s me,” I said.
“What are you doing up so early on a Saturday?” she yawned. “It’s not even nine.”
“I’ve been up for a while,” I answered. “I had this terrible nightmare . . .”
That seemed to wake her up. “Oooh, tell me about it! I love scary stories!”
“It’s not funny, Jo—this is serious. I think I saw that bum you were talking about get killed.”
“In your dream?”
“Yes, in my dream, and in real life!”
“Are you kidding?” she asked.
“No, I saw him. In the forest. Gavin killed him.”
“Are you asleep right now?” she asked. “Did you dream-and-dial?”
“No, I’m not asleep. I told you, I’ve been up since before dawn. I took my grandparents’ car to go to Grantown Library, but the car died on a hill, and that’s when I saw it.”
“Saw what, exactly?”
“Bertie. He ran across the road, I almost hit him, then all these animals were chasing him . . .”
“Rabid dogs?” she breathed.
“No, deer and rabbits and stuff.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed.
“Then Gavin ran across the road, and a tree fell and almost smashed the car, and I couldn’t get it started, so I ran into the woods after them.”
“A tree fell on your car?” Her voice was laced with worry.
“No, next to the car,” I assured her.