Went Fairy Hunting in Scotland, but something started stalking me.

Well, I didn't actually set out to hunt fairies during my trip to the Scottish Highlands. That's just the joke I've been using to describe what was, in reality, a ten-day solo hiking trip through some of the most beautiful places I've ever seen.
I started along coastal trails in the north, moving between small paths above cliffs, beaches, and quiet stretches of sea. After that, I moved further inland for a few days.
That said, I did try a few folklore traditions while I was there.
Nothing serious. Nothing I genuinely expected to work.
I dipped my face into a cold stream for seven seconds in an attempt to catch the attention of a fairy prince. I shed seven tears into the sea near a rocky inlet to supposedly summon a selkie. I left a small offering of honey beside a stone circle I passed one evening after reading somewhere that it was "good manners."
Mostly, I did it because it made the trip feel more connected to the stories I grew up with.
The truth is, my fascination with Celtic mythology started when I was very young. Like most people, I first discovered fairies through children's literature and films. Small, glowing creatures. Mischievous but kind.
Later, I started reading older folklore, and it was completely different. The fair folk in those stories weren't safe. They weren't even really "fairies" in the modern sense. They were unpredictable, and the rules around them never made much sense. They could bless you or ruin you for reasons you would never understand.
I never believed in any of it, of course.
At least, not seriously.
Even when I was standing in freezing water counting seconds like it meant something.
In university, I got into hiking, and that interest in folklore always stayed in the back of my mind. It made everything feel a bit more interesting and magical.

So I started the trip properly by staying two days in Edinburgh before heading north to the coastal trails. I wanted something scenic and quiet, and those routes were perfect for that. Small villages, long stretches of empty paths, cliffs overlooking the sea. You could walk for hours without seeing anyone.
It was beautiful in a way that's hard to describe properly. Not dramatic. Just constant and vast.
I spent most of my days walking, listening to music, stopping for photos, and occasionally doing those folklore rituals I mentioned earlier. Looking back, I wonder if they weren’t as harmless as I thought. Maybe I caught the attention of something beyond my understanding — or maybe something took offense.
The first strange thing happened on my third day.
I noticed another hiker on a ridge above the trail, a few hundred meters away. It wasn't unusual. You do occasionally see people on those routes.
What stood out was that I had already seen him twice that day.
Or at least I thought it was the same person.
He was always far away. Never close. Just standing still somewhere along the landscape, watching the direction I was going.
The first time I saw him across a stretch of coast. The second time farther inland on a cliff path. Then again later that afternoon on a ridge ahead of me.
I remember thinking it was strange but not impossible. Some people walk faster. Some stop often. The trails connect in odd ways.
I raised a hand once when I saw him.
He didn't respond.
He just stood there.
When I looked away to check my map and looked back again, he was gone.
I didn't think much of it at the time. The terrain makes it easy for people to disappear behind hills and bends.
What stayed with me wasn't that he disappeared.
It was that I couldn't remember ever seeing him move.
After that, I started noticing him more often.
He was always ahead of me again. Sometimes on a distant path, sometimes standing on higher ground, always far enough away that I couldn't make out details. I couldn't tell whether his attention was on me or on the view beyond me.
I assumed he was just another hiker following the same general route.
But I never passed him.
Never saw him up close.
And over time, I realized I couldn't actually describe what he looked like. Every time I tried, the details slipped away almost immediately. I just knew there was someone there.
Somewhere around the fifth day, that changed.
Not the distance.
The direction.
I was walking through a long empty stretch when I turned and saw someone behind me on the trail.
At first I didn't think much of it. You see people behind you all the time.
But I had been alone for over an hour.
I stopped walking.
The figure was standing a few hundred meters away.
I waited, expecting them to eventually pass or close the distance.
They didn't.
So I kept going.
When I checked again later, they were walking.
The same thing happened the next day.
Sometimes ahead.
Most times behind.
By that point, I was more irritated than scared. I even joked about it with the owner of a small inn where I spent the night.
I told her there was a guy on the trail who seemed incapable of either overtaking me or falling behind.
She laughed.
Then she asked me what he looked like.
I said I wasn't sure.
And for some reason, that answer seemed to bother her.
And it started to bother me too.

The truth was I really couldn't make out his features. Every time I tried to focus, it was like my mind refused to hold onto it. I knew there was a person there. I just couldn't keep their face.
On my second to last day, I decided to confront him.
I felt his presence behind me before I saw him. I just became aware of him the way you sometimes do when you're alone and suddenly realize you're not anymore.
I turned.
He was there.
And when I stopped, he stopped.
A knot formed in my stomach.
Part of me felt guilty. Maybe he was just an introverted hiker and I was being rude by forcing an interaction. But another part of me couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.
I didn't like having my back to him.
So I stayed where I was.
I tried to make out his face, but I couldn't.
"Hey," I called. "How are you?"
No response.
The figure didn't move.
"If I'm not mistaken, we've been hiking the same trail for a few days now. I figured I should probably introduce myself."
Nothing.
Not a wave. Not a nod.
I started feeling foolish.
Then uneasy.
I was alone on an isolated path with a man whose behavior made absolutely no sense.
One last attempt to make the situation normal.
"I'm Ella, by the way."
He tilted his head slightly.
Just a small movement.
Then he started running.
Straight toward me.
For a moment I thought I had misread everything. That I had made someone uncomfortable and they were just reacting badly. But as he got closer, I saw his face properly for the first time.
Or what was supposed to be his face.
It was changing as he ran.
Not dramatically. Not like something transforming instantly. More like it couldn't settle into one form. Features shifted and rearranged in a way that didn't feel natural. And underneath it, I recognized something that made my stomach drop.
It was me.
Not exact. Not right. Like a version of my face reconstructed from memory without understanding how it was supposed to fit together.
That was when I turned and ran.
I don't think I made a conscious decision. I just did it.
The trail felt different suddenly. Narrower. Longer. My body was already tired from days of walking, and it caught up with me quickly.
I could hear it behind me.
Getting closer.
As I ran, small things started going wrong. Roots that I swear weren't there earlier caught my boots. Thin branches snagged my jacket and scratched my arms. I kept stumbling, losing rhythm, trying to push forward even when my legs felt like they were shutting down.
I knew I was going to lose the distance between us.
Eventually I saw a dense patch of bushes just off the trail and threw myself into them.
The branches tore at my clothes as I pushed deeper inside and stayed as still as I could.
The footsteps reached the path and stopped.
I didn't move.
I could see it through the leaves.
It was standing there, looking around like it had lost something it expected to find easily.
My face looked back at me from the trail.
Not quite right. Close enough to be wrong.
It stayed like that for a while, turning its head slightly, as if trying to understand where I had gone.
Then it continued down the path.
I stayed hidden for what felt like hours.
I don't remember much of the rest of that day.
I just remember walking again eventually, my ankles hurting badly, and the trail feeling too quiet. I kept checking behind me, but nothing followed.

By the time I reached the inn, it was already dark.
The owner asked if I was alright. I told her I had a bad fall. I didn't know how to explain anything else.
That night, I locked the door and tried to convince myself I had just pushed myself too far. That it was exhaustion, isolation, and my own imagination filling in gaps.
I almost believed it.
Until I woke up.
There was a voice outside, quiet and uncertain, coming from further down the road.
I got up and looked out the window.
The thing was standing there.
Alone in the road, looking around like it didn't know where it was supposed to go.
Now it was wearing my purple jacket and my boots. Its form looked almost complete, like it only had one thing left to figure out.
The voice.
It spoke again.
"I'm Ella by the way."
It sounded close, but wrong in a way I can't really explain. Like it was copying something it had only just learned.
Not mocking it.
Practicing it, over and over again in a quiet voice.
I stayed away from the window until morning.
When I looked again, it was gone.
I left Scotland the next day.
I still think about it sometimes. Not because I understand it any better, but because I don't.
Maybe it was a fairy. Maybe it was something else I don't have a name for.