Isla MacLeod had always been remarkably good at being invisible, which was unfortunate since she seemed to be getting remarkably bad at staying that way.
She sat in the furthest corner of Thornfield Children's Home's common room, her knees drawn up to her chest in what she privately called "turtle position."
At twelve years old, Isla was small for her age, with the kind of delicate bone structure that made her look fragile even when she felt anything but. Her auburn hair was her most striking feature—thick and wavy, falling past her shoulders in shades that shifted from deep copper to burnished gold depending on the light. Today it fell around her face like a protective curtain, partially hiding features that were still caught between childhood and
adolescence.
Her eyes were perhaps her most unusual characteristic—a pale silver-grey that seemed almost luminous in certain light, framed by dark lashes that made them appear even more startling. They were eyes that seemed older than her years, as if they had seen things that most twelve-year-olds never encountered. Her skin was pale with the kind of translucent quality that came from spending too much time indoors, marked only by a light dusting of freckles across her nose and cheekbones that became more pronounced when she spent time in the sun—which wasn't often in the perpetually damp Scottish Highlands.
She was dressed in the standard Thornfield uniform—a grey wool skirt that had seen
better days, a white blouse that was clean but showed signs of repeated mending, and a navy cardigan that was slightly too large for her thin frame. Her black shoes were
practical rather than pretty, scuffed from years of wear but polished to the best of her
ability. Everything about her appearance spoke of careful maintenance on a limited
budget, the kind of meticulous attention to detail that children in institutions learned
early.
Isla held a book in her lap—Scottish Folk Tales and Legends—though she had been
staring at the same paragraph about selkies for the better part of an hour.
The words kept swimming around on the page, not because Isla was a poor reader, but because her attention kept being pulled toward things that definitely shouldn't have
been there. Like the strange shimmer around Sarah Chen's head that looked like heat waves, except it was October in the Scottish Highlands and the common room was barely warm enough to keep the frost at bay.
Isla had learned through twelve years of careful observation that it was generally best
not to mention when she saw things others couldn't see. Adults got a particular look in
their eyes when she did—the kind that suggested they were mentally calculating the distance to the nearest telephone and the number for the psychiatric hospital in
Inverness.
But the shimmer around Sarah was especially persistent today, and it was making Isla's teeth ache in a way that suggested something important was trying to happen. Sarah hunched over her homework at one of the study tables, her straight black hair falling forward. She was one of the quieter children at Thornfield, which was saying something, since most of the children here had learned that making noise attracted the wrong kind of attention.
"Stop staring, freak."
The voice came from Marcus Donnelly, a fourteen-year-old with a perpetual sneer and
knuckles that seemed permanently scraped from fighting. He stood over Isla, his
shadow falling across her book like a bad omen. Marcus was tall for his age, with the
kind of build that suggested he'd be formidable when he grew up, assuming he didn't end up in prison first. His sandy hair was cut short, emphasizing the angles of a face that hadn't quite grown into its features yet.
Isla didn't respond. She'd learned long ago that responding to Marcus only made things
worse. Instead, she pulled her book closer to her chest and tried to make herself even
smaller, a feat that seemed physically impossible but which she had perfected through years of practice.
"I said," Marcus repeated, leaning down so his face was uncomfortably close to hers,
"stop staring at Sarah, you little weirdo. What's wrong with you?"
Isla could smell the mint gum he was chewing, could see the flecks of amber in his
otherwise muddy brown eyes. But what caught her attention was the dark, oily shadow that seemed to cling to his shoulders like a cloak. It writhed and pulsed as if it were alive, feeding off his anger.
"Nothing's wrong with me," Isla said quietly, her voice barely audible even to herself. "I
wasn't staring."
"Liar," Marcus hissed, grabbing her book and yanking it from her grasp. "You're always
staring at people. It's creepy. What do you see, huh? Ghosts? Monsters?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Maybe you're the monster."
The shadow on his shoulders grew darker, more substantial, and Isla felt a chill run
down her spine that had nothing to do with the drafty common room. She wanted to look away, but she couldn't. The shadow was fascinating in a horrible sort of way, like
watching a spider build its web in the corner of your bedroom.
"Give it back, please," she said, reaching for her book.
Marcus held it up higher, out of her reach. "Make me."
Several of the other children had stopped what they were doing to watch. Some looked
uncomfortable, others mildly interested, but none made any move to help. That was the
way of things at Thornfield. You kept your head down and minded your own business, or you became a target yourself.
"I said," Marcus's voice grew louder, "make me, freak."
Something hot and unfamiliar surged through Isla's veins, a feeling like electricity but warmer, more alive. The air around her seemed to crackle, and for a moment, just a
moment, the book in Marcus's hand trembled.
Then the common room door swung open, and Mrs. Blackwood stepped in.
The room went silent immediately, the way a forest goes quiet when a predator enters
the clearing. Mrs. Blackwood was the director of Thornfield Children's Home, a tall,
severe woman with iron-grey hair pulled back in a tight bun and eyes like chips of flint.
She wore a black dress that reached her ankles, making her look like she was gliding
rather than walking as she moved across the room.
"Mr. Donnelly," she said, her voice as cold and sharp as a winter wind. "I believe that
book belongs to Miss MacLeod."
Marcus's face paled, the shadow on his shoulders shrinking back as if afraid of Mrs.
Blackwood. He dropped the book onto Isla's lap without a word.
"And Miss MacLeod," Mrs. Blackwood continued, turning those flint-like eyes on Isla, "I believe I've spoken to you before about disturbing the other children."
Isla felt her stomach drop. "I wasn't—"
"My office," Mrs. Blackwood cut her off. "Now."
The other children watched in silence as Isla gathered her book and stood, her legs
feeling like they might give way beneath her. As she followed Mrs. Blackwood out of the
common room, she could feel their eyes on her back—some sympathetic, others relieved it wasn't them.
But it was the shimmer around Sarah and the shadow on Marcus that stayed with her,
like afterimages burned into her vision. Something was happening, something she didn't understand, and she had a sinking feeling that Mrs. Blackwood was about to make it worse.
Mrs. Blackwood's office was on the ground floor of Thornfield, a Victorian mansion that
had been converted into a children's home sometime in the 1950s. The building retained much of its original character—high ceilings, dark wood paneling, narrow windows that let in precious little light—but none of its warmth. It felt like a place that had forgotten how to be a home, if it had ever known in the first place.
The office was no exception. It was a large, imposing room dominated by a massive oak
desk that looked like it weighed as much as a small car. The walls were lined with
bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes that Isla suspected had never been
opened, and a single window looked out onto the bleak Highland landscape, the distant mountains shrouded in mist.
Mrs. Blackwood settled herself behind the desk, gesturing for Isla to take the
uncomfortable wooden chair opposite. Isla perched on the edge of it, her book clutched
to her chest like a shield.
"This is the third time this month, Miss MacLeod," Mrs. Blackwood said, her voice
deceptively soft. "The third time I've had complaints about you... observing the other
children."
"I wasn't—"
"Do not interrupt me." The words were like a slap, though Mrs. Blackwood hadn't raised
her voice. "You were staring at Sarah Chen. Again. It makes her uncomfortable. It makes
all of them uncomfortable."
Isla looked down at her lap, at the book with its worn cover and dog-eared pages. She
wanted to explain that she hadn't been staring at Sarah, not really. She'd been staring at the strange shimmer around her, trying to understand what it was, why she could see it when no one else seemed to notice.
But she knew better than to say that. The last time she'd tried to explain what she saw,
she'd spent three weeks seeing a child psychologist who had diagnosed her with an
"overactive imagination" and "attention-seeking behavior."
"I'm sorry," she said instead, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. "I didn't mean to
make anyone uncomfortable."
Mrs. Blackwood studied her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. There was something about the woman that had always unsettled Isla, beyond the obvious intimidation factor. It was as if there was something not quite right about her, something that didn't fit, like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong space.
Today, that feeling was stronger than ever. As Isla sat there, trying not to fidget under
Mrs. Blackwood's gaze, she noticed something strange. The air around the director seemed... different. Darker, somehow, as if the light couldn't quite penetrate it. And there was a smell, faint but distinct, like earth after rain or old leaves decaying in a forest.
"You've been with us for nine years now, Miss MacLeod," Mrs. Blackwood said finally.
"Nine years since your parents' unfortunate accident."
Isla flinched. Mrs. Blackwood never failed to bring up her parents' death, as if Isla might
have forgotten that she was an orphan.
"In all that time," the director continued, "you've never quite... fit in, have you? Always on the outside, always watching. One might almost think you believe yourself to be above the others."
"No," Isla said quickly, too quickly. "I don't think that at all."
Mrs. Blackwood's lips curved into what might have been a smile on anyone else. On her, it looked more like a crack in a frozen pond.
"No? Then perhaps you think there's something wrong with you. Something... different."
Isla's heart began to pound in her chest. This was dangerous territory. She'd learned
long ago that being different at Thornfield was not a good thing. Different children got
extra "attention," extra "help." Different children disappeared to special schools or
treatment facilities and rarely came back.
"I'm not different," she said, the lie coming easily after years of practice. "I'm just quiet."
"Hmm." Mrs. Blackwood leaned forward, her hands folded on the desk. "And yet, I've
noticed things about you, Miss MacLeod. The way you look at people, as if you're seeing something the rest of us can't. The way strange things happen around you when you're upset or frightened."
Isla's mouth went dry. She thought of the book trembling in Marcus's hand, of the
countless small, inexplicable incidents over the years—lights flickering, objects moving,
doors opening or closing without being touched. Things she'd convinced herself were coincidences, because the alternative was too frightening to contemplate.
"I don't know what you mean," she whispered.
"I think you do." Mrs. Blackwood's voice had changed, becoming deeper, more resonant.
"I think you've always known that you're not like the others. That you're... special."
The way she said "special" made it sound like a disease, something contagious and
dangerous.
"I'm not," Isla insisted, but her voice lacked conviction.
Mrs. Blackwood studied her for another long moment, then seemed to come to a decision. She stood, smoothing down her black dress with pale, long-fingered hands.
"I believe a change of environment might be beneficial for you, Miss MacLeod," she said.
"The third floor has a room that's currently unoccupied. You'll move there today."
Isla felt her stomach drop. The third floor was reserved for children with "special needs"
or disciplinary problems. It was isolated from the rest of Thornfield, with its own
bathroom and small common area. Children sent there rarely interacted with the others,
taking their meals separately and having individual lessons instead of attending the local school. It was, in effect, a prison within a prison.
"But I haven't done anything wrong," Isla protested, her voice small.
"This isn't about punishment," Mrs. Blackwood said, though her tone suggested
otherwise. "It's about providing you with the space and attention you clearly need. I'll be
personally overseeing your education from now on."
The thought of spending more time with Mrs. Blackwood made Isla's skin crawl. There was something predatory about the woman, something that reminded Isla of the nature documentaries they sometimes watched in science class—the way a snake would watch a mouse, unblinking and patient, knowing the mouse had nowhere to run.
"You may go now," Mrs. Blackwood said, turning to look out the window. "Mr. Jenkins
will help you move your things after dinner. I suggest you use the time until then to say
goodbye to your... friends." The pause before the last word made it clear what Mrs.
Blackwood thought of Isla's social connections, or lack thereof.
Isla stood on shaky legs, clutching her book to her chest. As she turned to leave, Mrs.
Blackwood spoke again.
"Oh, and Miss MacLeod? I'll be confiscating that book. I don't think those old tales are
appropriate reading material for someone with your... imagination".
Reluctantly, Isla placed the book on the desk. It was one of the few possessions she truly cared about, a gift from Miss MacBride, the librarian at the local school who had always been kind to her.
"You may go," Mrs. Blackwood repeated, not looking at her.
Isla left the office, closing the door quietly behind her. In the hallway, she leaned against the wall for a moment, trying to steady her breathing. The feeling of wrongness that surrounded Mrs. Blackwood had been stronger than ever today, and now Isla was going to be isolated, cut off from the few allies she had at Thornfield.
Something was happening, something beyond her understanding, and she had never felt more alone or more afraid.
But beneath the fear, there was something else, something new and unfamiliar. A spark
of defiance, of determination. Mrs. Blackwood had called her special, and though she'd meant it as an accusation, Isla couldn't help but wonder if there might be some truth to it.
If she was different—if the things she saw were real, if the strange incidents weren't
coincidences—then maybe, just maybe, she wasn't as powerless as she'd always believed.
With that thought holding back the tide of fear, Isla pushed herself away from the wall
and headed back to the common room. She had until dinner to figure out what to do
next, and she wasn't going to waste a minute of it.
The third-floor room was exactly as bleak as Isla had imagined. Small and sparsely
furnished, with a narrow bed, a battered desk, and a wardrobe that looked like it might collapse if she put too many clothes in it. The single window offered a view of the stone circle on the hill behind Thornfield, ancient and mysterious against the darkening sky.
Mr. Jenkins, the caretaker, had helped her move her few possessions after dinner, his
weathered face creased with sympathy but his mouth set in a firm line that discouraged
questions. He'd left her with a gruff "Try to stay out of trouble, lass" and the sound of a
key turning in the lock.
Locked in. Like a prisoner.
Isla sat on the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap, and tried not to cry. Crying
wouldn't help. Crying never helped. Instead, she focused on the view from her window,
on the stone circle that had always fascinated her from a distance.
There were stories about that circle, stories in the book Mrs. Blackwood had taken from
her. The locals called it the Threshold, and it was said to be a place where the veil
between worlds was thin, where one could sometimes glimpse things that existed
beyond ordinary sight.
Things like the shimmer around Sarah Chen, or the shadow on Marcus Donnelly's
shoulders.
As Isla watched, the last light of day faded, and the stones became dark silhouettes
against the twilight sky. And then, just for a moment, she thought she saw something
move among them—a flicker of light, like a candle flame, dancing between the ancient
monoliths.
She blinked, and it was gone. But the memory of it remained, a tiny spark of wonder in the darkness of her new reality.
Isla MacLeod had always been remarkably good at being invisible. But as she sat in her
prison room, watching the night settle over the Highland landscape, she began to
wonder if perhaps it was time to be seen.
Really seen, for who—and what—she truly was.