Eldren: The Book of the Dark by William Meikle

poacher trapping the rabbit had been told to Sandy in the same pub only a couple of weeks ago. So Brian couldn’t complain too much if the rest was all in Sandy’s head, now could he?
    Since his return to the town Sandy had taken to walking all of his old paths, ticking them off one by one in a mental notebook as he found out how much, or how little, remained from his childhood.
    Before tonight he had been sorely disappointed. Most of his old haunts had either been demolished or “improved” out of all recognition. Even the house he had been born in had gone, replaced by a supermarket. The actual spot where he had been born was now in the middle of a bare expanse of tarmac...a fitting memorial for an anonymous life.
    Not that Sandy was complaining...that was the way he wanted it. Nobody knew his business, and nobody cared what he did, which lent him a certain freedom in these increasingly regimented times.
    The trip to the supermarket had stirred some memories though, which was why he’d made his way to the cemetery.
    His mother’s grave was neat and well tended, as were all the graves around him. But there were no flowers; no touches to show that anyone still remembered her, still cared. Hot tears ran from the corner of Sandy’s eyes before he turned away towards the church.
    Being in the cemetery in the dark didn’t bother him. In all his travels, and despite all his stories, he had never yet had any proof of the existence of ghosts. And even if he had, he didn’t think that dead people had the power to hurt the living...not physically anyway.
    He was just about onto the path out of the cemetery when something caught his eye, a gray shape moving amongst the stones. He started to call out, but his breath caught in his throat as a pair of blood red eyes turned their stare on him and held him.
    And all around him the black rain fell.
     
    ~-o0O0o-~
     
    Margaret Brodie was lying in the bath wondering whether she wanted to get herself involved with another loner. Especially after the last time.
    The job in Finsburgh had been grabbed quickly after her last one had turned sour. The headmaster had taken a strong interest in her right from the start, making it plain that he wanted her. He was another loner, quiet and studious but she had found out the hard way that there was more to him. He liked to hit women. More to the point he liked to hit strong, self-sufficient women. Of course he’d denied it when she reported him, and it got to the stage where she either stayed and put up with him leering at her every day or resign.
    She resigned.
    What with that and the abrupt end to her most recent relationship she wasn’t sure if getting involved with another teacher was such a good idea. She decided as she got out of the bath that she liked him, she could be friends with him, but that was as far as it would go.
    After a cursory rub down with a small towel, she retired, damp but warm, to her favorite room.
    Margaret was proud of her house. She’d finally got enough money together for the deposit three months ago and, almost magically, the first place she’d gone to see turned out to be exactly what she was looking for.
    The place had once been a miner’s cottage but the previous occupant had given it a complete going over, turning it into a comfortable home but retaining its old fashioned charm.
    She was well aware that if the house had been nearer Glasgow the price could have been double what she paid for it so she thought herself very lucky.  It was a little house on the outskirts of town. It sat back away from both the main street and the new bypass, with a small secluded garden and a view over the loch which, this early in the year, was often covered with a fine silvery mist which clung softly to the water like very fine silk.
    She loved to sit at her window and watch the herons fishing as the sun went down over the hills.
    As she sat once again in her large leather recliner staring out of the French windows across to