This conversation had taken place five years prior, and Malcolm has since been visiting his granddaughter in London every year.

Eight months ago, on his last visit, he said, “My health is not what it used to be, Megan. In all likelihood, this is probably my last visit. Now it’s your turn to come and visit your old man.”

“I was planning to do so this year, but you see, mom had surgery, and I needed to be with her in California. Next summer I will come to visit you for a few weeks. The summer there, as I’ve heard is the only time of year when you don’t freeze to death and drown in the rain,” Megan laughed. “But I promise; this time I will definitely come; nothing will make me change my mind.”

“Drown in the rain? What nonsense! No doubt your good-for-nothing mother planted such ideas in your head. Of course, it’s cooler in the north than in the center of the country, but it’s not nearly as awful as you say! Your visit will give me great pleasure. I will arrange a celebration to mark this day.”

And now she was here. He would have been so glad to see her. What cause for celebration her arrival might have been. But, as it turned out, she arrived the day after his funeral. He had passed in the evening, and the very next day his body was buried in the McKenzie family crypt, such were the burial customs in this place. Feelings of guilt had tormented her ever since she learned of his death.

“Grandpa, I’m so sorry. Forgive me, please. I didn’t make it in time,” she whispered. Wiping away the tears streaming down her cheeks, the girl thought that she couldn’t permit herself to break down right now, she needed a clear head to make important decisions. Tomorrow would be a difficult day and she had to be ready. She would have to meet her grandfather’s brother Alaric and his grandchildren, Warren and Duncan. As she recalled from Malcolm’s stories, by the twentieth century, their family had two castles in possession: Castle Mal and Castle Raven. Castle Mal was the ancestral home built by the McKenzies, and Castle Raven was inherited from the neighboring Drummond clan in 1898, when the last member disappeared without leaving any heirs. Grandfather Malcolm and Great-Uncle Alaric were the two heirs of David McKenzie, who bequeathed to Alaric, Castle Raven and the wool factory, while Malcolm inherited Castle Mal and the Scotch whisky distillery. At present, Alaric and Duncan are residing at Castle Raven, while Warren and his wife are temporarily staying at Castle Mal with Megan, who, from tomorrow, will become the official owner of the ancestral home, after the lawyer reads the will. The best solution that came to Megan’s mind was to offer the relatives to buy the distillery and the castle from her, if they so wished. She had no intention of selling the estate to strangers; she didn’t want Malcolm turning over in his grave, knowing that the clan’s home had been sold to someone outside the family circle.

Having changed her clothes and finished unpacking, Megan looked at the clock on the fireplace mantel. What a long day it had been; the memories of arriving at the airport that morning felt as if they were a week old. The clock showed 22:25. The room was getting cooler, and turning on the heater, she draped a shawl over her shoulders. She was about to go and remove her make-up when she heard an unusual sound. It took her a while to figure out where it was coming from. She listened carefully. This intriguing continuous melody was mesmerizing, capturing her attention and evoking a vague sense of unease.

“Bagpipes,” she said softly.

Her heart suddenly pounded loudly, while her soul clenched sweetly yet painfully. The girl couldn't understand why the sounds of a Scottish musical instrument stirred her so deeply. It was as if something magical, something supernatural, was beckoning her. She opened the window and saw that someone was playing the bagpipes not far from the castle. After listening for a short while, Megan left her room, drawn to stand outside and savor the melody. Leaving the house, she struggled to make out the shapes of objects until her eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was cool outside; the temperature had dropped and the wind from the sea sent chills down her spine.

Within a few minutes, she could clearly see the river at the base of the castle grounds, and hear the North Sea's rumble to her right. The sound of the bagpipes came from that direction. There was no one around, but she wasn't afraid. It was strange; she never made such reckless decisions, always cautious of the dark, but this time, she was magnetically drawn towards the source of the magical music. She walked as if enchanted. The area was private property and unlikely accessible to just anyone. With such thoughts, she calmed herself, rationalizing her impetuous act. She knew the entrance to the castle was nearby, and if fear overtook her, she could quickly return.

At that moment, the full moon came to her aid, appearing in the sky and illuminating the river and surrounding hills. On one of the hilltops, Megan noticed a man with a bagpipe. His tall, graceful figure resembled one of the true northern highlanders described in legends. He stood with his legs shoulder-width apart, wearing a Scottish kilt and high white woolen socks up to his knees. Megan couldn't make out the colors of the kilt, the moonlight wasn't bright enough to illuminate the details. The jacket, with a cape, was draped over his left shoulder. He continued playing the same heartbreaking melody, which was as beautiful as it was sad. Megan crept forwards, desperately wanting to take a closer look at him, to fulfill her irresistible desire. Her soul trembled as if her life depended on the encounter with this highlander. But the moon hid behind a cloud as suddenly as it had appeared, and the melody stopped.

It became very dark, and only the sound of the sea was audible. Megan felt an instant sense of unease, as if she had just awoken from a dream. Despite her attempts to discern the stranger's silhouette on the hill, she could not. At that moment, a crunch on the gravel came from behind. She froze in place, feeling as though someone was watching her. But there was no one around.

You're just tired, Megan soothed herself mentally, that's why you're seeing things.

But her heart was racing with fear. She had decided to return to the castle when she heard another sound, a rustling. The girl quickly turned and saw the shadow in a black cloak. It was following her. A soul-chilling fear paralyzed Megan. Somehow, she knew this was not the highlander with bagpipes, it was someone else.

The man in a cloak, with a hood thrown over his head, began to approach Megan, putting a finger to his lips, gesturing for her to be silent. Something ominous emanated from him; his intentions were clearly the most terrifying imaginable, she felt it with every cell in her body. The girl backed away, and in a state of fright, she didn't immediately realize that her feet were in the water; she didn't feel the cold of the river. Panic took over completely, and she dashed towards the entrance door. It was only about thirty meters away. The shadow moved along the shore, thereby blocking the path to the castle entrance.

“Gregor, help!” Megan screamed. She heard the man approaching, turned to see how close he was, and stumbling, fell backwards, hitting her head on a river rock. She didn’t even have time to feel the pain. All her thoughts were focused on one thing – survival. Frantically moving, she unsuccessfully tried to get up. Fear increasingly immobilized her movements. Meanwhile, the moon emerged from behind the clouds, illuminating everything once again, including the figure in the black cloak whose face was not visible. Suddenly, the flash of a blade of knife raised above her head. A rush of adrenalin gave the girl a little strength. She managed to crawl slightly away from the attacker, and just at that moment, a loud bird cry suddenly pierced the night. A huge, as Megan perceived, black raven flew directly at the face of the potential killer. The assailant swung the knife towards it but missed; the raven was more agile, hitting the face and head of the wrongdoer with its claws and wings. The attacker, trying to fend off the bird, dropped the knife and attempted to grab it by the wings, but in vain. Finally losing his balance, he fell on the riverbank, rolled onto his stomach, and covered his head with his hands, fearing the raven would peck out his eyes. After a minute, the assailant jumped to his feet and, bending over double to protect his face, ran away from the scene. Megan watched everything as if in a dream. Whether from the shock she had experienced or from the blow to her skull, her vision darkened, and she lost consciousness, never knowing how the struggle ended.