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Once again she shook her head.

I decided to go for the direct approach. “Do you believe there is anything living in the loch, Mrs. Ferguson?”

There was a moment of shocked silence then she laughed, “This isn’t Loch Ness, it’s Loch Furness. There’s no monster here.”

That wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind, but I let the subject rest.

“Have you seen the rose by the loch?” I asked her.

“The Dedfield Rose? I’ve not seen it yet but I know what it means.” Her old eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

I squeezed her hand, offering what little comfort I could.

I made some more entries in my notebook but I soon realized Mrs. Ferguson couldn’t tell me any more. It was eight when I left her pouring a bowl of milk for her brownies.

Outside a pale moon competed with the lights inside the houses, but neither did much to illuminate the dark street. The chill in the air was now bone-numbing, and despite the darkness I thought I could see little curls of mist wreathing the nearby gardens. There was something eerie about this village at night. I would be glad to return to the safety of Mac’s.

As I strode toward the pub a breeze began to blow bringing the bitter cold of ice and snowfields into the village. It seemed excessively cold for early fall. Reminding myself that the fall temperatures in Scotland were very different from those of San Diego, I folded my arms around my body and quickened my pace.

The breeze gathered strength. It rushed up behind me and wrapped itself around my legs. I put on a burst of speed and hurried toward Mac’s. I had almost reached the door when the howling began. Softly at first and then growing in strength until it filled my head.

I didn’t cover my ears. Paranormal investigators don’t do that kind of thing. Instead I listened for hidden words. Witches’ spells can hide in the wind. Ghosts can use it to voice their pain.

I could hear pain now—deep, primeval and unmistakably feminine. As the wailing of the wind increased, I tried to identify the source of the pain. Love? Anger? Grief? I’m not psychic, but sometimes I can sense these things.

Right now I sensed grief. Vast and overwhelming, as though someone’s soul was being wrenched from their body. There was death too. Dark and horrible.

“Who are you?” I asked the wind.

It answered by blowing harder. The wailing changed to a keening that made me shudder. I’ve heard a lot of horrible sounds in my time, but the only one that rivaled this was the moaning of the White Lady at Willingthorpe Castle. The one case I had failed to solve.

This wasn’t the time to dwell on my one failure. I was trying to push the memory of the White Lady out of my mind when the wind abruptly died, plunging the village into brooding stillness. It was the kind of stillness you get before a snowfall, but I guessed there would be no snow tonight. Something much worse was on its way.

Chapter Two

Hurrying the last few yards to Mac’s, I pushed open the door. The crowd in the pub was oddly silent, as though they too had been listening to the wind. More than one pale face turned toward me. There were questions in their eyes. Was the paranormal investigator any good? Did she have the answers?

Ignoring their stares—there was no point telling them I knew as little as they—I headed for the bar. Douglas gave me a whiskey. Resisting the urge to down it in one gulp, I took a sip.

Douglas said, “I assume you heard the banshee.”

Banshee? Of course. Although I associated banshees with Ireland, I knew they were also heard in parts of Scotland. Draining my glass no longer seemed such a bad idea. In fact it proved quite fortifying.

Douglas looked me straight in the eye. “There’ll be a death.” He kept his voice low but it carried in the unnatural silence. A whisper of agreement rippled through the room.

With an impressive show of bravado, a middle-aged man got to his feet and ordered another round. His words broke the tension.

Someone said, “Settle down, McEwen. There’s no hurry. Death won’t come for you tonight. You’re too tough and ugly.”

That’s not exactly what he said. I’ve deleted