The Loch

Young Clyde always visited his sister’s grave on her birthday. She was buried five years ago now, under the old alder tree, overlooking the loch. A breathtaking view “Mom and dad said you drowned. That can’t be true. My big sister Blair is the best swimmer in the village.” By this time Clyde was older than his sister ever grew to be. After her accident, Clyde’s parents forbade him from drawing near the shores of the great loch; in addition the family sold off all their horses. Clyde always questioned that; his dear sister had a great passion for them. Sitting beside her tomb, “ maybe the horses remind them of you Blair. I'm so sorry, mom and dad didn't even want to come with me this year, and I'm scared I'll forget you one day.” 

The young boy sat beside her for another hour or two before the mighty sun fell to rest on the loch, painting the sea many shades of red and orange. Clyde took a moment to marvel at the sight before the cold winds ushered him off the mountain. It was a common belief in Clyde’s village that nature was a protector, and a brisk wind meant it was getting dark and you had better go home. 

Clyde began his march down the hill and into the dense forest to his house, humming a military tune his dad taught him. He decided to stop by the old stone church to gather firewood for tonight. The young Clyde wanted to show his parents that he didn't have to be protected and could do Blair's chores too. During the softer parts of his hum, he could've sworn he heard the faint sound of hooves from behind him. 

The church was now in sight. Knowing he was low on daylight, he quickened his pace to the church until he fell, knocking him out cold. 

Coming to hours later Clyde became scared in the dark forest. The atmosphere was nothing less than suffocating; the navigable forest turned into a pitch-black maze. Terrified, the boy ran into the church and began to cry out. For his parents. For his sister. For anybody, little did he know, something would answer his prayers — however its intentions were less than admirable. A soft neigh began to echo through the night and off the mossy walls of the church. It rang in the boy's ears, like when a close friend or parent calls your name. His cries fell silent as young Clyde left the threshold of the church, where for some reason the shadow declined to move closer, choosing to stay a few feet behind the tree line. 

Stray beams of moonlight pierced the branches, unveiling  an ethereal sight to behold. What called to Clyde was a stunning Galloway horse. Its black coat bounced back the fractured moonlight into the surrounding forest. An odd sense of want, no, need fell over young Clyde. “If it will let me, maybe it will take me home,” he thought. For a second, he imagined his big sister was a guardian angel now. 

He startled the steed only to realise the mane was soaked and an array of sea grass clung to its body, like unkempt strands of hair. It soon galloped the opposite direction. Clyde started to get scared; he tried to call the horse, but it was for not. He looked down to see the hoof prints were backwards. Clyde knew the only thing this could be. It was no horse. It was a *Kelpie.* 

Young Clyde began to scream into the cold night, begging to the stars for anybody. Unfortunately, The world stayed silent — just as it did for poor Blair five years ago. 

They neared the loch’s shores now. The Kelpie gave up the act by this point. Its neighs morphed into a horrid cackle — half man, half twisting, churning metal. Its body began to reshape, one of its hooves contorted into a clawed hand that carried the stench of death. 

Just before Clyde would meet the same fate as his sister, voices came from the forest, scaring the spirit back to the murky depths from which it came. His parents and the village priest ran out screaming a prayer. Clyde fell off the spirit’s morphing spines. He fell into the arms of his parent’s, safely at last. 

Decades later, rumors still linger like a ghost unwilling to die. Of a Dark horse that stalks the shoreline of the loch past dark. With a wet mane and backwards hooves it hunts for children left stranded by the moon. Unfortunately, Blair wasn’t the first and surely wouldn’t be the last victim of what the Scottish call, the Kelpie.