The miles stretched on, the motorway bleeding into A-roads, the grey sky pressing lower as they pushed north. The car became a bubble of chaos—laughter, bickering, and the occasional groan from John as his stomach rebelled against the journey.
"Pull over, pull over, pull over!" John's voice cracked from the backseat, his face green.
Laura swerved into a petrol station with dramatic flair, tires screeching slightly. "Again?! That's the third time, John!"
"I can't help it! Your driving is like a rollercoaster from hell!" he gasped, fumbling with the door handle.
Taya unbuckled, rolling her eyes but grinning. "Come on, drama queen, let's get you some fresh air."
They stumbled out, John bolting toward a patch of grass behind the station while Taya followed, patting his back with exaggerated sympathy. "There, there, let it all out. Embrace the purge."
Laura leaned against the car, arms crossed, watching them with amusement. "You'd think we were crossing the bloody Atlantic, not driving to Scotland!"
.....
Inside the petrol station, fluorescent lights buzzed over aisles of crisps, energy drinks, and sad-looking sandwiches. Laura grabbed a basket, tossing in bottles of water, chocolate bars, and a bag of sour gummies. Taya wandered in, dragging a still-pale John by the arm.
"Get him some ginger biscuits or something," Laura called out, scanning the shelves.
"I'm fine," John muttered weakly, adjusting his glasses.
"You're green, mate. You're not fine," Taya said, shoving a packet of crackers into his hands.
At the till, a bored cashier scanned their items without looking up. Laura paid, and they piled back into the car, John clutching his crackers like a lifeline.
"Right," Laura said, revving the engine. "Next stop: Edinburgh. No more puking, John, or I'm leaving you on the side of the road."
"Deal," he mumbled, nibbling a cracker.
The journey became a montage of stops and starts.
John hanging his head out the window at a lay-by, Taya holding his jacket and laughing. "You look like a sad dog!"
Laura blasting music to drown out his groans, singing off-key while Taya filmed her for a laugh.
A roadside café where they scarfed down chips and tea, John looking slightly more human.
The landscape shifted—fields giving way to rougher terrain, the hills growing steeper, the sky bruising with twilight.
...
By 6:30 p.m., the light had nearly bled away, leaving the world bathed in deep blues and purples. The car crested a hill, and there it was—a weathered sign, white letters bold against green:
WELCOME TO EDINBURGH
Laura slowed, and all three leaned forward, eyes wide.
The city emerged from the dusk like something out of a gothic dream. Towering buildings loomed, their stone facades blackened by centuries of soot and rain. Spires pierced the sky, sharp and watchful, while narrow streets twisted between them like veins. Gas-style streetlamps flickered to life, casting pools of amber light that did little to warm the cold stone. The architecture was ancient, imposing—arched doorways, iron railings, gargoyles perched on corners like silent sentinels. It felt like stepping into another era, where magic and mystery still clung to the cobblestones.
"Whoa," Taya breathed, her nose pressed to the window. "It's like Hogwarts, but... scarier."
John stared, his earlier nausea forgotten. "It's beautiful. And terrifying."
Laura gripped the wheel tighter, her pulse quickening. The city thrummed with history, with secrets buried in every shadow. Somewhere in those twisting streets was Haceol—the Whisper's Maw.
"So," Taya said, breaking the spell. "Where exactly are we staying?"
Laura bit her lip, glancing at her phone propped on the dash. "Uh... Kirkby. It's an inn near the old quarter. Not far from Haceol, according to the map."
"Near Haceol," John repeated flatly. "Great. Perfect. Love that for us."
"Relax, Johnny boy. We're just staying close for convenience," Laura said, though her voice wavered slightly.
Taya frowned, scrolling through her own phone. "Okay, but... how do we actually get there? These streets are a maze."
Laura squinted at the narrow roads ahead, cars parked haphazardly, pedestrians weaving through the gloom. "Good question."
They fell silent, the reality sinking in. They'd made it to Edinburgh, but the city felt like a labyrinth-old, unwelcoming, designed to swallow strangers whole.
"We could ask someone," John suggested weakly.
Laura's eyes scanned the street, landing on a dimly lit building tucked between two taller structures. A flickering neon sign read "The Black Hound"-a pub, or maybe a club. Shadows moved behind fogged windows, and the faint thump of music bled into the street.
"There," she said, pointing. "I'll pop in, grab some water, and ask for directions."
"You sure?" John asked, eyeing the place nervously.
"Yeah, I'll be two minutes. You two stay here and... I don't know, don't throw up or anything," she said, unbuckling.
Taya grinned. "Try not to get cursed."
Laura rolled her eyes, grabbed her bag, and stepped out into the cold Edinburgh night.
The door to The Black Hound creaked open, releasing a wave of stale smoke and low, rhythmic music-something bluesy and old, crackling through ancient speakers. Laura stepped inside, and the warmth hit her like
a wall, thick with the smell of whiskey and sweat.
The interior was cramped, dim, lit by weak yellow bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Dark wood paneling lined the walls, scarred with decades of use. A few old men hunched over tables, nursing drinks, playing cards with slow, deliberate movements. In the corner, a dusty jukebox flickered. Eyes-sharp, curious, suspicious-flicked toward her.
Laura forced a casual smile, weaving toward the bar. Behind it stood an old man, wiry and weathered, his face a map of wrinkles. He watched her approach with the kind of stillness that made her skin prickle.
"Evening," she said brightly, leaning on the bar.
"Could I get some bottled water?"
He didn't answer immediately, just stared at her, eyes narrowing slightly. Then he turned, moving to a small fridge behind him, and pulled out a bottle. He set it on the bar, fingers lingering on the cap.
"Never seen you before," he said, his voice rough, like gravel scraped over stone.
Laura met his gaze, her smile tightening. "Just passing through."
She reached for the bottle, but his hand didn't move. The music seemed to dip, the room growing quieter.
"Right," he said slowly, releasing the bottle.
Laura took it, fumbling for coins in her pocket. She turned to leave, then paused, cursing herself. Directions. She spun back.
"Actually—how do I get to Kirkby from here?"
"It's near... Haceol." She added
The music cut out. Not gradually—just stopped, like someone had yanked a plug. Her voice echoed through the sudden silence, bouncing off the walls.
Haceol.
Every head in the room turned toward her.
Laura froze, her breath catching. The stares were heavy, accusing, like she'd just announced she was carrying the plague.
"Why?" the old man asked, his tone flat, but his eyes sharp as knives. "Why are you going to Haceol?"
Laura swallowed, her instincts screaming to lie, but something about his stare made her choose honesty. "Business.."
Then he leaned in, voice low. "You don't want to go there, lass."
"Why?" Laura asked, trying to keep her voice steady, though unease prickled at the back of her neck. "What's wrong?"
The old man's jaw tightened, his eyes darkening. He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Everything, lass. Everything's wrong with that place."
A heavy silence hung between them.
Laura swallowed, her pulse quickening. "I still need to go."
He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slowly, like she'd just signed her own death warrant. "Aye, they all say that." He straightened, waving a hand vaguely toward the door, his tone resigned. "Out, take a left, follow the Royal Mile down till you hit the old market square. You'll see the signs for Kirkby."
"Thanks," Laura muttered, clutching the bottle tighter.
She turned and walked out, feeling every eye burning into her back.
Will continue -
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental.