#and historians publish my diaries like yeah she was fucking insane
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guess i gotta just embrace the mysteries 🤷♀️
#it is because#the lunar realm (dream realm) holds both karmic imprints & well bits of reality free of the frontal lobe narration#you can see it all or you could go mad from illusion#i need to stop posting though need to keep things to myself lol#thinking abt being a famous artist one day (i actually am an artist like occupationally this is not a delusion)#and historians publish my diaries like yeah she was fucking insane#isa speak
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The Diary
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5
Chapter 6
He ran his thumb around the rim of his pint glass, staring blindly at the dark murky liquid, as laugher rose up in the crowd around him. From the moment he entered the pub, he’d been bombarded with one question after another, as eager locals had come over to meet the new Laird Broch Tuarach.
Hugh hadn’t been lying when he’d declared him a hot topic. They’d wanted answers to questions he’d not even thought to ask himself, and while it pissed him off, he patiently explained his basic plans.
Over and over again.
Thankfully, the pub quiz had started ten minuets ago, and he’d been left in relative peace. After finding a quiet corner, he’d eventually sat down, and had been staring into his Guinness ever since.
He didn’t want to be here.
After a day spent digging through a derelict house, and crating up hundreds of books and antiques, a hot shower, clean clothes, and a cold pint had been more than welcome. But he was passed ready to get back.
Including Jamie, Hugh and Fergus, there was a team of sixteen working on the house. Five of them had set to work on the generator, running wires, and setting up lamps all throughout the house. The remaining ten had been working with Jamie to get everything packed up. Together they’d managed to completely empty the ground floor and everything, apart from the old diaries, and the crap they’d dumped in the skip, were now on their way to Edinburgh.
He’d keep everything in storage for now, and take Jerry with him to go though it, when he went back home. But the diaries he’d needed to keep.
After Hugh had finished reading the passage, he’d questioned Jamie relentlessly. He wanted to know why it was so important. But having absolutely no idea what the hell was going on, he’d simply shrugged, and told him the same story he’d told Ned.
There was a squatter, and she’d been researching his family.
Hugh had accepted his explanation, but had still eyed him warily as he’d left the room to help the lads set up the generator. In a state of mind numbing confusion, Jamie had pulled out his phone and sent off two quick emails. One to Ned to call off the search, and one to Gail to begin a new one. He needed answers and to get them he needed to dig into the past.
Reaching for his phone, he pulled open Gails response. It was short and sweet, and after reading it for the tenth time, he downed the last of his pint, said goodnight to the lads and left the pub. The bed and breakfast was across the street, but instead of going in and up to bed, he walked quickly towards his car and climbed in.
He’d only had one drink, he was fine to drive.
With a flick of a button the car came to life, and after connecting his Bluetooth, he selected the number Gail had sent and pulled out onto the road. It rang and rang and he was just considering hanging up when a breathless female voice answered.
“Hello.”
“Good evening,” he responded, surprised. He been expecting a man not a woman, and it threw him for a moment. “I’m not sure if I have the right number, but I was looking for a Mr Frank Randell.”
“Oh, of course. Yes, this is his number, excuse me one second and I’ll get him for you.” She rushed out in a sweet, melodic voice. He could hear the soft tapping of her heels as she moved quickly to find him, and the sound of muffled voices in the background. “Frank, there’s a call for you.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know.” She admitted, and Jamie could almost hear the shrug in her voice. It was followed by an impatient huff and soft crackling as the phone changed hands.
“Frank Randell.”
“Mr Randell. I’m looking for some information with regards to an old Scottish property.” He explained as he turned right onto the long road that would lead him back to Lallybroch. “I believe you’re something of an expert in that field?”
“That’s right…Mr?”
“Fraser.”
“Mr Fraser. My areas of expertise are the Jacobite risings and the clearance, but I do delve into other aspects of Scottish history. What kind of information are you looking for?”
“I’ve recently acquired a property about forty miles outside Inverness. I’m looking into its early history, and the people that lived there in the seventeen forties. Around about the time of the second rising.”
The line went quiet for a moment, but he heard the rustling of papers, and the soft creak of a chair as he sat down.
“Fraser.” He mumbled quietly to himself. “Are you referring to Beaufort? I had heard that it changed hands recently. It went to a…different branch of the family I believe.”
“No.” Jamie sighed. Christ this man was quick. It had taken him less than a minute to work out who he was.“I have my own team of historians working on Beaufort. This is personal. I need it kept separate and managed discreetly.”
“Alexander Malcom.” Randell surmised quietly, the sudden awe in his voice making Jamie roll his eyes.
“Yes. But again, it’s not a business request. If I decide to offer you the job, and you accept, then you’ll be invoicing me directly. Not my company. Is it something you’d be interested in?”
“Yes, of course.” He rushed out. “My wife and I are admirers of your work, Mr Fraser. And from a professional point of view, what you’ve accomplished for the heritage in such a short amount of time, is fascinating.”
And completely irrelevant to this conversation.
“Thank you, but I assure you, I haven’t done it alone. But as my people are tied up in the heritage projects…”
“Of course, of course. I’ve obviously done a lot of research on the highland clans from that era. It’s highly likely that I already have some of the information you’re looking for. What is it that you require?”
“I have a list of names and a rough time frame. I want everything that can be found on them from the day they were born, until the day they died.
“If you text your address details to this number, I’ll have my lawyer courier over a confidentiality agreement. Once we have it signed I’ll send you everything you need to get started.”
“Okay.” Randell hedged hesitantly. “But most of the information you’re looking for is a matter of public record. It hardly requires confidentiality when anyone can find it.”
“The historical reference, yes.” Jamie agreed as he turned left on to the dirt track. “But I’ll be supplying you with personal information about myself and my family, and giving you access to private historical documents. I don’t trust easily, Mr Randell, and I don’t want to see the information published in a new Oxford journal.”
“Completely understandable. Send over the paperwork and I’ll be happy to sign it.”
“Good, I’ll have it to you tomorrow. Once it’s back with my attorney, I’ll give you a call and we can go though the details.”
“Splendid. I look forward to working with you, Mr Fraser.”
“We’ll talk soon.” He disconnected the call, and stayed sat in the car at the front of the house as he composed an email to Ned.
He needed the confidentiality agreement to be iron clad. He didn’t know this man from Adam, and if he found out about Claire’s diary, he didn’t want his insanity splashed all over the tabloids.
Not that he actually thought he was insane anymore. Fergus and Hugh had both seen the diary, and Hugh had clearly read her most recent entry. The one that had been written about her encounter with him.
To be honest, he no longer knew what to think. Every time he attempted to come up with a new explanation his mind went completely blank. He was out of logic and it was frustrating the hell out of him. He didn’t believe in the supernatural, but he was suddenly faced with the very real possibility that the house was actually haunted.
But surely ghosts can’t write in a fucking diary?
He scrubbed his hand across his face and took a deep breath, before climbing out of the car. It was just after sunset, but it wasn’t quite dark yet, and he took a moment to look up at the house as he fished the keys out of his pocket.
It looked like a haunted house, he couldn’t deny that. With a few boarded up windows, crumbling stones, and small saplings springing out of the pointing. It was a classic horror movie in the making. He was sure that if he searched YouTube, he’d most likely find some random teen ghost hunter, roaming the halls of his house, with an amp metre and an infrared camera.
Shaking his head, he walked up the front steps and opened the door. It was almost pitch black inside, so flipped on a couple of lights as he made his way down the hall, and up the winding staircase to his room. He’d purposefully left the diary on the windowsill, rather than under the mattress. He wanted to see if it would move, and what her reaction would be to finding it there: if she had one at all.
And if she really did exist.
It hadn’t escaped his notice that, although the year was different, the date coincided with his. Today was the 17th June, and although she didn’t write everyday, he was hoping that moving the diary would encourage her to do so.
“Yeah, ye still fucking crazy.” He huffed as he walked into the room, heading straight for the window. He was attempting to communicate with a bloody ghost, like some crackpot medium, and if that wasn’t a sign that he was crazy, he didn’t know what was.
It was with a deep sense of disappointment that he saw the book still sat where he’d left it. It hadn’t moved an inch, and when he flipped it open, the last entry was the same. Closing it gently, he moved backwards and sat on the end of the bed.
He didn’t have a fucking clue what to make of it all. If she was a ghost, the two incidences could have been a freak anomaly, where their aurora collided or some cosmic shit like that. But her being a spirit didn’t explain how she was still going about her life like it was 1747. Everyone she loved was apparently still there with her. She’d delivered a baby the night before he’d arrived, and she had people searching the house for him.
And it didn’t explain the garden he’d seen.
So what was it then? Some kind of rift in the fabric of time? A worm hole? Did the diary exist in two places at once?
He looked over at it and frowned. Jesus Christ, he felt like a complete twat even thinking it, but it randomly made sense in his warped mind. It was impossible, but it would explain why it looked so new.
It was new.
So many things in the house must have changed since she’d lived here. The house itself had changed and been extended, he’d seen the makings on the original blueprints. But she made no reference to any of it, so she must be in 1747. Even the mattress she so diligently hid her diary beneath, would have been replaced numerous times before he’d swapped it out for his air bed.
But maybe the bed-frame was the same, and the bedside table. The two places he’d found the diary.
So where had it been when it had disappeared from the bottom of the bed? Had she placed it on a piece of furniture that no longer existed? Or had it vanished because she was writing in it?
Was he actually really considering this?
He was a rational, twenty first century business man. Renowned and respected across the globe. Yet here he was seriously considering that he’d found some kind of…what?
A talisman to the past? Physical proof that Einstein and Hawkins were right? A link to a long dead ancestor?
Was she an ancestor? Had she eventually married William Fraser? Was she his great, great, great, great grandmother or something? Or was it a parallel universe? Everybody seemed to have the same Goddamn names. Surely that wasn’t normal.
“Jesus, Jamie! What about any of this is fucking normal?” He growled as he pushed to his feet and walked back towards the window. He needed to get the historical information from Randell so he could find out once and for all.
He reached for the diary, wanting to read through it again, but as his fingers brushed against the leather it disappeared.
“Shit!” He hissed, jumping back in shock, one hand still outstretched, and the other clutching his suddenly pounding heart. “Jesus fucking Christ! It disappeared. It actually disappeared.” He gasped, backing away, then moving forward again to quickly check behind the curtain, and on the floor. “Motherfucker!”
It was gone, vanished, just like that.
He suddenly didn’t know what to do with himself. His body was flooded with so much adrenaline that he was physically shaking, and he couldn’t keep still. He paced the space between the window and the door, over and over, backwards and forwards, until he suddenly stopped and turned to face the bed.
Surely if she was writing in the diary, then when she was finished she’d place it under the mattress or on the bedside table. If that was the case, he wanted to see the exact moment that it reappeared. Reaching for his pillows and sleeping bag, he dropped them to the floor, grabbed the air bed, and set the whole thing up in front of the door.
Then he sat down and waited.
And waited and waited.
For over an hour he sat staring at the place he expected it to turn back up. He barely even blinked, and although he was desperate for a piss, he didn’t move. This was huge, really fucking huge, and he was so agitated, he was surprised that his shitty heart hadn’t completely given out.
But there wasn’t even a twinge. It just pounded rapidly in his chest, pumping more and more adrenaline through his blood stream.
How much is she writing?
If she was writing at all. His theory could be a load of crap, and in the morning he might be going back to the drawing board. But if she was…Jesus, he didn’t know. Trying to wrap his head around something like that was migraine inducing. God help him if anyone ever found out. The government would slap him with the official secrecy act before he could blink, and he’d probably be thrown in the loony bin.
Or assassinated.
Most likely the latter. The ramifications of being able to communicate with someone from the past were astronomical. It could completely change history.
If the diary worked both ways.
And there was no evidence to say that it did. For now it had disappeared, and who was to say that it would ever show up again?
He sighed and lent back against the wall attempting to ease the pressure of his aching bladder. There was an empty water bottle on the floor by the bed, and if the diary didn’t turn up soon, he was going to have to bite the bullet and piss in it. It was either that, or peeing out of the window. Neither was appealing, but desperate times and all that.
He rubbed at his newly formed stubble, then almost fell on his arse, as he jumped to his feet and dived across the room.
It was back!
As quickly as it had disappeared it had reappeared on the bedside table, and he snatched it up and quickly flipped to the last entry.
Holy mother of God!
Saturday 17th June 1747
Who are you?
Where are you?
How are you getting into my room?
I locked the door this morning, safe in the knowledge that no other person in the house has a key, and that my possessions would be safe from the prying eyes of a stranger. Yet you have been here again, I know you have.
Why?
What do you want from me?
If Jonathan has sent you to play games with my mind, you can inform him that it will not work. If his savagery failed to break me, I can assure you that his parlour tricks will be as unsuccessful.
I am not mad, and he will not make me so.
I will not lie and say that I am unafraid of him, there would be no point, you have already stollen that truth from my mind. But I will not cower before him, there is nothing he can do that has not already been done.
But that being said, being a pawn in the games of a sick and twisted man, does not explain your ability to walk through walls. Nor does it shed light on your vanishing act.
Without your propensity to move inanimate objects, I’d presume you a ghost, but that is not the case is it? You are as real as I am, for you have held my diary in your hands, just as I know you are now.
So tell me, sir, what exactly it is that you hope to achieve? Are you attempting to scare me? Are you planning to hurt me? Or are you simply a voyeur to my life, intending to pry out all of my secrets?
With no wish to disappoint you, allow me to say that your endeavours are in vain. I do not fear you. You can not possibly hurt me more than I already have been. And my life is invariably dull.
But by all means, pray continue, for you will soon find the truth to my words for yourself, and I will gladly say that I told you so.
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