The Glaistig by Newton Webb

A Gothic Horror Short Story: In 15th-century Scotland, a land enshrouded in mystery and drenched in blood-soaked legends, Duncan's life is irrevocably altered by a sinister encounter.

Contents

1. Free Horror Stories

2. The Glaistig by Newton Webb

Free Horror Stories

Horror Story Compilations

Between Midnight and Mystery: 133 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Festival of the Damned’, ‘The Morrígan’

Books You Can’t Put Down: 91 FREE horror stories, including ‘Ain’t Nothin’ But The Blues’, ‘The Troop’, ‘The Road Revenant’

Chilling Reads: 62 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Festival of the Damned’, ‘The Horror at Hargrave Hall’, ‘Smoke in the Sewers’, ‘The Ballad of Barnacle Bill’, ‘The Morrígan’, ‘The Black Fog’, ‘The Heir Apparent’, ‘The Platinum Service’

Your Darkest Nightmares: 48 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Festival of the Damned’, ‘The Horror at Hargrave Hall’, ‘The Morrígan’

The Glaistig by Newton Webb

1422, Strathspey, Scotland

The moon cast an eerie glow over the rugged hills of Strathspey. Duncan fled. His short muscular legs churned, at speed, up the slope. His friend Alasdair ran beside him as they fled across the desolate landscape. Their breath came in ragged gasps and their hearts pounded with terror. 

“She’s still following us. She isn’t even trying!” Alasdair panted.

Duncan’s chest heaved like bellows. “Don’t talk, run,” he wheezed. 

Suddenly, the two of them came to a stop. Duncan fell to his knees gasping, looking up at the ethereal form of the Glaistig, the green maiden. Surrounded by an emerald mist, her long flowing hair was as dark as the midnight sky. Her eyes glowed green. “Oathbreaker,” she hissed, stalking forwards to face Alasdair on her goatlike legs. A tattered gown shimmered and shifted in the moonlight, fluttering around her despite the still night-time air.

“I never, I…” Alasdair kicked out with his legs, crawling backwards. “It was just once.”

“What did you do, Alasdair?” Duncan asked. He clambered to his feet and stood between the ghostly spirit and his friend. “Please, he can’t repent if you hurt him.”

She ignored him, walking straight through him, her body morphing into a cloud of gas before reforming behind him.

Duncan spun to see her reach out and grasp Alasdair by his tunic. With her other hand, she tore out his throat, holding the grisly remnants of his oesophagus in one hand. “Oathbreaker,” she muttered once more and tossed the bleeding remnant onto Alasdair’s corpse.

Duncan looked at his friend in horror.

The Glaistig turned to face him, regarding him coldly.

Duncan raised himself to his full height, standing at just under six feet. The much taller Glaistig still loomed over him. "If I've ever broken an oath," Duncan's voice quivered, but his eyes remained resolute, "Then strike me down. But I've always lived my life as honestly as I can."

They stood for a while, facing each other. Duncan, defiant and determined. His body sweating despite the cold night air, the Glaistig curious and regarding him closely.

“I believe you,” she said. “But, if you ever tell anyone of my mercy, then I will come for you,” she said, with a firm, steady look into his eyes before fading into the night.

Duncan fell to the ground, weeping in relief. Alasdair’s corpse lay torn open, his throat steaming in the night as the blood rapidly cooled and congealed. Duncan stooped down to lift the body of his friend and staggered back with him towards his farmhouse. By good fortune, it was the closest building to where they had been accosted.

As he stumbled down the hill with his heavy burden, he came across a woman stumbling across the hillside.

“What the devil are you doing?” he shouted. 

She turned and looked at him with tear streaked eyes. Seeing Alasdair’s corpse, she grimly muttered. “I fled, I didn’t want to–”

“Don’t ever talk about it,” Duncan advised. “It is better that way. My farmhouse is close. You can have the bed, I’ll sleep by the hearth.”

The woman considered him with her hazel eyes. He tried to reassure her with a smile, but was too exhausted, so his crinkled face just grimaced. She solemnly nodded, resigned to her fate. The two of them, three with Alasdair’s corpse, continued to walk towards the farmstead.

1423, Strathspey, Scotland

Duncan’s farm had never been prosperous, but it had always been enough to keep him fed and watered. After the terrifying night in the hills, of which he was never to speak, he found he had a new friend in Isobel. She was a stout woman in her late thirties, with a sturdy frame which she put to good use on his smallholding. She immediately set to work, digging and planting a herb garden, creating and selling poultices to the local farmsteads. Once a week, she took them to the nearby village of Rothes. She was of a practical mindset. On the night Duncan had introduced her to his farmstead, while he had gone outside to bury his friend, she had made herself acquainted with his kitchen and cooked an early breakfast for him. Even before he’d cleared his plate, he had offered to let her stay the night. 

Duncan stretched and stood to his full height, cracking his back from where he’d been repairing the dry stone wall. He looked fondly at her. Her soft chestnut hair was streaked with strands of silver and bound into a practical, tight bun as she stooped to tend her herb beds. A rough woollen shawl over her shoulders protected her from the wind.

He’d slept in his chair by the hearth for six months before she’d come down from the bedroom and berated him for his nonsense, leading him upstairs.

Regarding his wall with a critical eye, he eventually nodded to himself in satisfaction, then scowled at the sheep who had broken it in the first place. They bleated their ignorance.

Duncan headed inside to get some water on the boil. While he waited, he filled two glasses with whisky and settled down on a chair. He wiggled his burly frame and heard the wood creak. He was just examining it when Isobel walked in.

“Look at you, sitting there all cosy like, while I’m out working the fields?” she jested. Walking over to the now boiling water, she added sprigs of rosemary to the pot to make a tisane.

Her calloused hands picked up the mug of whisky, and she took a grateful sup.

“You’ve a lot to answer for, Mr MacGregor.” She gave him a stern look.

Duncan smiled at her, his face worn by the elements and hard labour in all weathers. “Ah, jings, what have I done now?”

Leaning back, she took another drink of whisky and then refilled both their mugs.

Duncan looked suspiciously at the generous measure.

“You’ve gone and made me with bairn, you have,” Isobel said.

It was as though the sun had chosen that exact moment to shine and she had never looked so beautiful to Duncan. Over forty years old and never married, he’d imagined his life to be one of solitude. As he raced over and gripped her in a bear hug, tears rolled down his cheeks. He could already imagine teaching his son how to hunt, how to build. He kissed her forehead once, then twice, then a dozen times until she whacked his shoulder.

“Don’t you be daft, you big numpty.” Even as she harangued him, she smiled. The two of them caught up in the moment. “Put me down before I wallop your ears.”

I’m going to be a father.

“Ah, Isobel, you are the best thing that ever happened to me,” he enthused, gathering her up in his arms. “You beautiful angel.”

“I love you too, you filthy beast, but get a hold of yourself.” She turned away, but not before Duncan witnessed her blushing.

1429, Strathspey, Scotland

Duncan was sitting on the banks of the loch, the sun on his face amidst a cooling breeze. Damselflies chased their prey across the water, weaving between rushes. His daughter, Moira, sat beside him, her small fishing pole extending into the glassy water. 

He looked fondly at the spirited girl. She had her mother’s chestnut hair. Duncan had taught her to shoot a bow and arrow, mend a fence, and now he was imparting the age-old wisdom of angling. He’d been certain that Isobel was going to give birth to a boy, but the moment he’d seen the red skinned little Moira bawling her eyes out with her hearty lungs, he’d known he wouldn’t trade her for the world. 

"Don’t fiddle with the line, lass. You have to be patient with the fish. Let them see the bait, then guide it closer," Duncan advised, his eyes not leaving the water's surface.

He watched her take in his wisdom, her eyes squinting in concentration. 

She is as curious as a raven and indomitable as a bull.

“Did I tell you about the night your mother and I met?” Duncan sat hunched forward, enjoying the tranquillity. 

“No,” Moira lied, enjoying the story.

"The moon was shining like a jewel, wide and bright in the night skies. The wind howled through the Strathspey hills. I carried a dear friend in my arms, never to breathe again, and there she was—your mother—emerging from the darkness. Lost and scared, just like me. We helped each other that night, and we’ve been helping each other since."

As the sun kissed the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, Duncan felt a pull from his own line. Quickly, he gave it a sharp jerk to set the hook in the mouth of the fish. With deft hands and years of experience, he hauled in a hefty trout.

"Well, would you look at that, Moira? Dinner's served," he exclaimed, holding up the fish.

"Can I help cook it, Da?" Moira asked, excitement lighting up her face.

"Of course you can, lass. We'll gut it together and give it to your mother. A proper MacGregor feast!"

Just as Duncan was packing up their fishing gear, a melodious voice echoed across the loch. "Duncan! Moira! Don’t make me come out there. Supper's ready!"

Duncan looked at Moira, grinning. "Ah, we can’t ignore the queen of the house, can we?"

Moira giggled. "Nay, Da, we cannot."

Reaching the farmhouse, they were greeted by the heavenly aroma of herbs and stew. His woman stood there in the doorway, her hands on her hips. The stern faced expression was ruined by her eyes, which twinkled as her family approached.

"Ah, there you are. And what took you so long?" Isobel asked, feigning impatience.

Duncan winked at Moira before replying, "Will you look at what we caught, Isobel? Reckon you could fry it up for us?"

“I reckon I could at that. Go and prepare it then. I’ll warm up the pan.” Isobel ushered them in. “There is a wee dram of whisky on the side for you, pet.”

“Thanks, love.” Duncan kissed her cheek.

“Get off with you. You’re slobbering like a hound.” She tugged her wash cloth from her belt and whipped his arm with it. “Get that fish descaled and gutted–don’t throw away the head, it’ll make good stock.”

#

The night was chill, as much for heat as for romance. The couple lay tightly intertwined, Duncan’s thick arms around his wife.

“Isobel, I need to share something with you.” Duncan whispered into her ear. She didn’t respond. “Isobel, are you awake?” he said louder.

She shifted against his body. “Go to sleep Duncan.”

“No, this can’t wait. I don’t want to keep secrets from you, not for a moment longer, and I’m sure you need to get it off your chest, too.” He took a deep breath. “We should have talked about this before, but I… Well, I guess I was scared.”

His wife stilled. “Hush now, you silly goose. Keep your secrets and go to sleep.” Fear tinged her voice.

“I won’t. You see, the night we met–”

“Duncan, it is the middle of the night. You’ve drunk too much whisky. Please, go to sleep. This can wait.” His wife pleaded with him.

“I have to get this off my chest,” Duncan said quietly. “I need you to know.”

“Please Duncan, I love you, don’t do this.” Isobel’s voice fell quiet.

Duncan kissed the top of her head. “Listen now, it is because I love you that I must. I have always been honest with you and I don’t want to keep secrets anymore. See, the night we met–”

“–Duncan!”

“I met the Glaistig,” he blurted out.

Silence fell between them.

“I did. I tell no lie. Didn’t you see her too?” Duncan pleaded, misinterpreting his wife’s lack of response.

Her body seemed to shimmer, turning translucent.

Duncan gasped, shuffling out of bed and falling onto the floor.

Isobel’s hazel eyes turned green and her nightgown turned to robes that flowed despite the still breeze. “We could’ve been happy together.”

Duncan frantically shuffled back across the floor. “Isobel, you can’t be!”

“I thought I could find peace with you. But, I cannot, I will not suffer an oathbreaker to live,” she whispered as she drifted from the bed, lifting the big man effortlessly into the air, her inhuman eyes filled with sorrow and resolve.

“Isobel, don’t you be daft now. Please,” Duncan begged.

Their daughter came running into the room, drawn by the commotion. Her eyes were the same unearthly shade of green as her mother's. Her goatlike legs peeked out from under her dress. “What is going on?”

“No, no, not Moira too, anything but my Moira,” Duncan wept.

“Go to your room. Your da has been bad, nothing more.”

Duncan looked once more into those eyes, those now empty soulless, green eyes, as with her other hand she tore his oath breaking throat out of his body.

If you enjoyed this free short story, then please consider Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1. My first collected works on Amazon containing sixteen short stories and novellas by Newton Webb.