Ch. 1 - The Leak That Led To The Loch

Liam’s life had become a series of leaks.

First, his girlfriend leaked out of his life (took the vinyl collection too).

Then his band leaked away ("creative differences," aka: you’re too sad, mate).

And now, literally, his ceiling was leaking brown water all over his one good rug.

The keeper said it’d take three days to fix. Three days.

So, he did what any sensible, desperate man would do: he went online and searched for "cheap cabins nowhere Scotland."

"Now, let's see where I can live without starving." Liam yawned, scrolling past many options.

"Too expensive."

"Why would I pay for two rooms?"

"Lame."

"Also too expensive."

"What exactly even is this place."

He kept on scrolling past, with weird excuses he made up to sugarcoat the fact that he's broke as hell.

"Lame." He passed one and quickly went back, a smile playing on his lips. "Cheap."

He found Lochview Cottage. It was cheap. Like, cheap cheap. Haunted kinda cheap.

The listing said: "Secluded loch-side retreat. Low rent. Quiet. No Wi-Fi. No neighbours. No hassle. Well there's a small town nearby though."

"The rent is just too low…suspiciously low. Hmm, probably 'built on an ancient burial ground' low." He looked at it skeptically and stroked his chin.

He decided to read the reviews. One read:
"You’ll hear things."

Another said:
"Came for solitude. Left with… questions."

Another said:
"I do NOT want to be here again! Creepy asf!"

Liam blinked at the reviews and booked it anyway. "Don't believe in ghost shit."

He closed his laptop and exhaled. "Alright, Liam. Beauty sleep. Try not think anything over."

Yeah, he did think everything over and barely slept two hours before waking up by 7 am, like he was woken by an alarm. "I hate my life." He muttered.

He got up, washed up, packed up and got ready to leave for his 'haunted' cottage.

Two hours north of Inverness, the road turned thin and moody. Sheep looked at him silently from fog-draped fields. And for some unknown reason, it annoyed him. He came down, chased them, fell, and came back with a mud tattoo on his cheek.

Two hours and he'd reached his destination. When he finally found it, Lochview Cottage looked exactly like the photo - if the photo had been taken in 1972, right before a landslide.

It was small. Stone. Hunched near the water. The key was under a rock that looked like it belonged in an auction hall or a museum.

Inside, it smelled of damp wool, old fire smoke, and whatever an old house smelt like.

But the view. That was good thing to speak of about this place. Just by the bedside window.

The loch stretched out wide. Mist curled over the water. There wasn’t a sound. No cars. No people. No leaky ceiling.

Just… silence.

And for the first time in months, he took a full breath. "Not bad. Not bad at all."

He spent the afternoon ignoring the weird tapping noise coming from the kitchen sink and trying to write a song that didn’t sound like a it'd be used for a funeral. "What on earth is wrong with you, Liam? It's all gone, get over it, would you?" He tossed his notebook and stormed out of the room. A few seconds later, he came back, picked the notebook and gently dropped it on the table before leaving again.

He went to the nearby town and bought a few stuff that would last him three to four days at least.

Not too long before night fell.

"Let's take this again, eh?" He picked up his guitar. "You've got this, Liam. Forget Giselle. Forget the band. This is just you and the guitar." He muttered to himself.

With an exhale, he started to play. Starting with a steady E minor. He closed his eyes to finally enjoy the peace he'd been looking for. Well that didn't last long either. Leaked out too.

A voice from outside, snapped him out of focus. "Oh, come on!" He palmed his face and then everything came crumbling. "Eh? A voice?" His eyes widened. Wasn't he supposed to be alone? 'Nah, it can't be a ghost right?' he thought to himself, slowly peeking out the window.

He heard nothing. He let out a long breath he didn't realize he was holding. The moment he started playing again, the voice returned. He almost freaked out, but something about it was strange.

The voice was undeniably melodious and beautiful. But the words were ones he'd never heard before. And for some reason, he felt like he understood it.

It was soft. Clear. Almost familiar - like a melody he’d dreamed once and forgotten. He stopped, but the voice continued.

He stood still, frozen by the window, guitar hanging uselessly from his hand.

The voice rose, weaving through the mist - as if calling onto him, then it stopped. He took the guitar and quickly ran out of the house and started playing again, determined to find where the beautiful voice was coming from. And it returned.

He wondered if that review was less a warning… and more an invitation.

You’ll hear things.

Yeah.

He was hearing them.

And part of him - the part that wasn’t pissing itself - never wanted it to stop.