Photographing the Loch

He dragged the collar of his jacket as tightly round his neck as he could and then thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He had checked on the internet the time that the sun was due to rise and had left the hotel early, not knowing if the cold January weather would hamper his journey. Black ice was always a problem in this part of Scotland, but luckily the night had been cold and dry, making his drive trouble free. He had arrived at the car park by the loch with enough spare time to set up his equipment at his leisure and now he stood in the cold pre-dawn air waiting and thinking.

In his mind’s eye he saw again the photos of the loch that had intrigued and inspired him for so many years. Images taken during every month of the year, showing the changes in the seasons and the weather, the light and the shadows. There were lurid shots of the Northern Lights, reflecting garish tones of blues, greens, purples and reds in the still waters; yellows, oranges and reds of sunsets and sunrises; and cool blues and greys taken in low light and mist.

He had trawled the internet and the photography magazines, researching the exact place to wait, the equipment he needed and settings to use. Now he finally had had the opportunity to travel to the loch and create his own images. The excitement was mounting in his mind but tempered with anxiety. Would the weather be kind to him? Would the sunrise create the colours he wanted? He sighed. There was nothing he could do apart from wait, but now he was feeling impatient too.

A quick glance at the spot where the ridge of the mountains should be, revealed that the quality of the darkness was changing. A few minutes later, there was no doubting it – there was now a distinct line where the black of the mountainside gave way to the dark grey of the sky. Gradually the grey gave way to blue and then a subtle shade of yellow began to creep upwards, which deepened, before turning to orange and then scarlet.

He bent his head towards the camera, which he had already clamped to his tripod and began shooting. It didn’t matter how many photos it took, as he could edit them later and discard those he didn’t want.

Then he noticed that the water looked slightly out of focus through the viewfinder. He straightened up and saw thin slivers of mist slowly rising from the surface of the loch and then coalescing into a thicker layer, that hung several inches higher.

A movement to his right caught his attention and when he turned to investigate it, he saw a disturbance on the surface of the water. Something was appearing, but in the indistinct light, it took a few seconds for its outline to resolve itself. It was a head. A female head, with long flowing red hair.

He blinked several times, wondering whether his imagination or the cold was affecting his vision. No. A pair of naked shoulders followed the head, followed slowly by the rest of her body. The figure turned towards him, with her lips slightly parted. She was approaching him.

His logical brain told him it was impossible for anyone to appear that way. The water was too cold and she had spent too long underneath it to avoid being drowned. Something felt extremely wrong, but his curiosity was roused as well.

Her lips began to move and the sound of her voice enchanted him, robbing him of his freewill and leaving him malleable to her every whim and fancy.

“You’ve come at last,” the woman said. “I knew you would.”

As she finished speaking, she stepped onto the shore and stood there, naked but seemingly unashamed.

He thought of all the research he had done on the loch and wished now that he hadn’t skipped all the information on folklore. Surely, she must be a ghost. Not that he really believed in them, but he could think of no other explanation.

There was one, but he would have been sceptical of that too. This being wasn’t a human, but a kelpie. An otherworldly shapeshifter that could take the form of a woman and lure people to their death. If he had known that he would never have spoken to her.

“You must be cold,” he said, taking off his jacket and handing it to her.

She took it and slipped it on.

“But now you must be frozen,” she whispered. “We can share it.”

She stepped forward and enfolded him in her arms, wrapping the jacket round his back at the same time. Her body felt icy to the touch and her skin smelled vaguely of the outdoors. She brushed her cheek against his and whispered the word “Come” into his ear. Then she began retreating to her watery abode, drawing him with her. The ripples swirled around them as they walked further into the loch, until finally a stream of bubbles erupting on the surface marked the man’s last breath. Within seconds the water had returned to its mirror-like finish.

Hours later a passing police car stopped by the loch to investigate why a camera and tripod had been abandoned by a parked vehicle. They were able to trace the owner’s identity from the registration number, but despite exhaustive enquiries, they never found him or discovered what had happened in those few fleeting moments.

by Josie Gilbert 

Josie Gilbert was born in West Sussex and has lived there ever since. She has self-published two novels, “McCarthy’s Country House Hotel,” and “The Stuffed Giraffe’s Head,” and two collections of short ghost stories, “Tombstoning,” and “The Black Shadow,” all of which are available on Amazon. Some of her historical articles have been published by the West Sussex Gazette, The Littlehampton Gazette, The Bell and Sussex Local and she has co-written a children’s guide to Arundel, with her historian friend, Mark Phillips. Her other interests are photography, knitting and languages.