Page 27 of Purrfectly Haunted

“A-ha!” James says, victorious.

There is an audible click as he turns an old-fashioned key and he pushes the heavy door open. Immediately, we’re hit by a wave of musty, damp air. It smells wrong, like forgotten places.

James grabs his phone, turns the flashlight on, and aims the beam through the open door. It barely pierces the oily darkness, and we can’t make out what’s really on the other side. But when the light reaches the ceiling, there are dark patches spreading on the paint.

“What is it?” I whisper, as if afraid the house itself is going to hear me.

James hums and leans through the doorframe. I resist the urge to pull him back out. “Looks like mould. It can’t be good.”

I get closer to him. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Yeah, you might be right.” He backs out from the door. “We’re unprepared and—”

There is a sudden freezing wind coming from the basement, and the heavy door slams with a loud bang, making us both jump. There’s another click as something—or someone—locks it again.

“Holy shit,” James breathes out. And that’s when we hear someone scream in Gaelic above us. “What the fuck? What now?”

The cats yowl and run up the stairs, James follows them. I find myself alone by the closed basement door. There is another quake, and the house groans around me, as if the building itself is holding on for dear life. A cold shiver slithers down my spine, and I run away without turning back.

By the time I make it to the first floor, James is cursing loudly as a suit of armour is charging down the stairs towards us with a war cry. I stand frozen for a moment, unsure of what's going on, and James grabs me by the arm and pushes me against the wall just as the armour comes barrelling down.

For a moment, I wonder if a guest at the hostel had too much to drink, but then James says, “It must be the Warrior.”

My eyes widen. Oh. Of course, a ghost.

The suit of armour peels off from the entity and falls to the ground in a cacophony, revealing a translucent old man underneath, wearing a kilt and padded leather armour. My Gaelic is rudimentary at best, and so I can’t make sense of what he’s screaming at us.

“Do you know what he’s saying?” James asks me. “He’s going to wake the whole damn house.”

I shake my head.

James walks up to the ghost and tries to get his attention, but the Warrior screams angrily at the whole world. He floats around the hall like a ghostly bull charging.

Then the entity does something quite unexpected, even after all we’ve seen so far since we arrived here. He bends forwards, pulls his kilt up, and flashes us his butt and wrinkly ball sack.

“Oh my fucking god!” James says. “Are you kidding me?”

I can’t help it, I burst out laughing.

So that’s why Lana and the staff call him the Flashing Warrior, and not just the Warrior like the Ghost Tour book.

“I need bleach for my eyes!” James says. I laugh some more, and he looks at me with a smile. “I’ll try to distract him long enough for you to release him from the house,” he shouts over the ghost’s nonsensical war cries.

I nod. “Alright.”

“Here goes nothing.” He raises his arms as if approaching a scared animal. “Hey, Warrior! We need your help fighting off the British.”

Of course, this works wonders to catch the old highlander’s attention. If Lana’s notes are right, he lived during the eighteenth century, a time when the Scots and the Brits didn’t really see eye to eye.

The Warrior’s toothless smile widens and an honest-to-god claymore appears in his hands. He brandishes his weapon with another of his war cries and charges towards me.

“Oh shit!” James says. “I’m the Brit! It’s me!”

He puts himself in front of me and zaps the ghost with the PolterPulse. The claymore dissipates, but the Warrior continues his mad charge. His immaterial body goes through James, but doesn’t come out on the other side.

I watch, horrified, as James convulses and screams with a distorted voice.

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