By William Meikle
This story isn’t really about me.
On the Isle of Skye, near the community of Dunvegan, sits a rustic old one-bedroom home, waiting for a new tenant. It seems like the perfect opportunity for Jim Greenwood to escape the hectic London city life—a place to move on from tragedy.
This is the story of a house.
As he tries to settle into country life, his is tormented by mysterious soot marks left throughout the house while he sleeps, cryptic emails from unknown senders, and hundreds of hand-drawn stick-figure drawings etched in a perfect pattern on the cottage’s cellar walls.
Stay. Beth needs you.
Jim begins losing control, drinking excessively, shaking to an uncontrollable beat in his head, trying to decipher what may or may not be a code—or a warning.
No limbs, no limbs, no head, no head, left arm gone, left leg gone, no legs, no head.
The door is open, and something is coming through. It’s just a matter of when—and what.