The bus turned into a narrow lane by a train station and Isaac craned his neck to see the sign. CRAIG STATION. Half a dozen British soldiers disembarked with him, their rowdy banter fading into the distance as they made for Craig Village, leaving Isaac on his own.

He turned in a full circle. Craig Station sat at the edge of the village. It was late, and mist hovered above the trees, and the damp air smelled earthy. There was no castle to be seen. He wondered what to do next, so he climbed the steps and went inside the empty station.

A man lifted his eyes from his paperwork and peered at Isaac through the bars of the ticket window.

“Another bairn,” he said with a grim look.

“Rookskill?” Isaac asked. He didn’t want to say more lest his accent betray him.

“It be hainted,” the man said, his voice a rumble.

Isaac’s scalp prickled. “Um, hainted?” Some of these Scottish words were a mystery, but this one he knew. Haunted.

The man leaned close to the bars of his window. “A place of ancient dark secrets, that’s what. And worse now than ever. Strange doings. Peculiar lights in the night. Doing work o’ the de’il, says I. Says everyone. No one goes up there now. Except the strange ones.” And he peered hard at Isaac. “You be strange?”

“I . . . do not think so.” Isaac swallowed hard. Then he straightened. “Where?” he asked.

“Up that way. First road to the right. Then along the fence to the right and through the woods since the gate be locked.” The man pulled away, muttering, shaking his head.

Isaac made for the door.

“Laddie.”

Isaac turned.

“Next train for Edinburgh in two hours. And each day but Sunday. Ye keep that in mind.” He paused. “And don’t be caught in the forest after dark, aye? Nobody goes through that forest after dark, especially now. Nobody goes.” He paused, then muttered, “’Less they be strange.”

Isaac clenched his fists and nodded. The overhead bell jingled as he closed the door behind.

It was cold with a soft drizzle. Along the road that led to the castle, the trees hung low, dripping and casting gloom. Isaac took every step with increasing care.

The gate, as the stationmaster said, was locked. Black iron with spiky points and an empty circle at the top like a round eye, the gate rose into the overhanging branches. Isaac put his hand against the gate and instantly pulled away. It felt as if it was electrified.

Probably it was the cold metal against his skin.

And then a sound, a low growl from behind him and he turned fast, and . . . nothing. His heart began to pound. He turned back to the fence and caught a glimpse of movement in the underbrush.

But, nothing. A trick of the mist.