Beatrice shivered, the air was cold and the water crashing against the side of the boat was casting a thin mist into the air. The water slammed against her clear plastic coat, running down it in rivulets, like rain against a window. Beatrice had never been on a boat, not once in her eighty-one years of living. It had seemed an excellent idea when she had picked up a leaflet advertising Raasay’s new visitor centre. In her hotel lobby. Now, she was regretting it, her stomach performing a high wire routine inside her.

She glanced around at the other occupants of the boat, anything to get her mind off her turning stomach. A small crowd had been squeezed into the worryingly small boat, leaving little space to escape for the constant deluge. Most of the other occupants were like Beatrice, older people wearing clutching at their coats, desperately trying to keep the wet out. There was the ferryman, his hands grasping the wheel, whistling happily to himself. Nearby him were two people, a woman and a man who had spent significant time in discussion with the ferryman. Beatrice didn’t consider herself the least bit nosey, which of course meant she was a curtain-twitcher of the highest order. She had used her considerably practised eavesdropping skills to determine the two were police officers.

She thought for a moment, concern washing over her. Why were police headed to the island? Beatrice shook her head, trying to eject the thoughts through her ears. She didn't want to think about it. This was supposed to be a holiday for her, away from her gaggle of relatives. Always clutching for handouts or loans they would never pay back. Beatrice had done fairly well for herself before her retirement, a success that had spawned several children and grandchildren with no concept of hard work.

The boat crashed over another wave, sending a fresh barrage of spray onto its occupants. It washed over Beatrice, and she realised she had come to quite enjoy it. It reminded her of her youth, of walking in the rain with her father to the nearest bus stop. Everything about this trip so far had been a throwback to her childhood. The houses in the town were scattered about on the upcoming island, like crumbs spread across a pond. It looked charming, a quintessential rural town, untouched by the nonsense of modern life. No internet, no signal strong enough for smartphones, no rushing around nonsensically. To Beatrice is was perfect. It was like a tiny French village, although with a considerably greyer colour palette.

Beatrice stepped down from the boat, the ferryman’s hand clutching hers as she walked down the ramp. She smiled at him and nodded a thank you. She took careful steps, eager to not slip on the tiny pier. Its aged wood creaked uneasily, groaning underfoot. Slowly she edged towards the end, stopping to breath a sigh of relief as she felt the safety of concrete beneath her feet. She shook her coat, trying to remove the thick wet layer that had built up on it. Thankfully the weather itself was fine, which for Scotland meant that it wasn’t raining yet. There was a clatter as the ferryman wheeled a suitcase across the pier’s wooden boards. It clunked at the wheels dropped onto the concrete.

"There you go love," he said presenting the case proudly, as though it were an award. "Planning on staying for a while?"

“Only for a few days, see as much of the island as I can.”

"Shouldn't be too hard, there isn't a lot to see. Where are you staying at?"

“Raasay house,” Beatrice answered. “Is it nearby?”

The ferryman drew his breath in through his teeth in a loud hissing noise. "Not really. Clean on the other side on the island. It's not far, distance-wise, but no offence but I imagine you aren’t up for a ten-mile hike.”

“None taken. You’re right there.” Beatrice took the handle of her case, wheeling it behind her. “So, I need to grab a taxi.”

“The Taxi. We’ve only got the one on the island. And I don’t see him about, so he’s off doing a job by the looks of it. Come with me, I’ll take you to the visitor centre, you can stay in there until he’s back.”

The centre was huge. An impressive example of modern architecture its foyer had a large domed ceiling. Every wall was a pale beige, or at least where it wasn't glass. The light seemed to pour into the room, creating a sense of space. Beatrice thought it was beautiful, but also hugely out of place for the island. It felt as though the building had been plucked from the heart of a modern city and dumped onto the island.

The ferryman led ahead. His face beamed as he walked across the chamber. The floor was interspersed with glass cabinets filled with flint tools. Local archaeological finds. Several backlit displays proudly touted the history of the island. He stopped at an expansive curved counter, behind which rows of merchandise sat. Books, shirts, themed sweets, and of course tea towels. The eternal contents of a gift shop. A woman stood behind the counter, a till resting on it before he. She smiled sweetly.

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“Mavis, this young lady here needs a taxi, and it seems Jimmy is already on a job. I said she could wait here until he’s back,” said the ferryman.

“Why, of course,” Mavis was a young woman, barely out of her twenties. She was wearing a blue tightly cut suit over a white blouse. Around her next was a white neckerchief with pink spots. “Raasay Visitor Centre” was embroidered on her jacket’s right breast. She looked oddly like an air stewardess rather than a gift shop clerk. “Want me to call the taxi company for you ma’am? Make a booking?”

“Is there a company if its only one driver?” Beatrice asked, a puzzled look creeping over her face. She looked down at the counter, next to the till. Her eye had been caught by a necklace that was hanging there on a small stand.

“Well,” the ferryman said, “she means his wife Ethel. I think she takes the calls from her kitchen.”

“Right. Ok then, give her a ring,” Beatrice said. Her gaze didn't drift from the necklace. "How much are these?" she asked, her hand lifting one of the pendants.

The night air was cold, sneaking in through the thin lace curtains in Beatrice’s room. Raasay house was beautiful, and whilst it appeared outside to be the 18th-century building it claimed to be, Beatrice had been surprised to learn that it was relatively modern inside, a devastating fire a decade ago meaning it had been rebuilt mostly from scratch. Beatrice slipped off her duvet and sat up. She turned, slipping her feet into the slippers at the side of her bed. She stood up, her nightgown swishing against the sheets as she did. She wandered over, shivering against the cold. Her curtain was swaying in the breeze. Beatrice frowned. She was sure she had closed it.

She reached out into the night, her arm grabbing the handle of the window. She pulled, feeling its weight resist against her. The curtain fluttered in her face, causing her to let go of the window. Beatrice gripped the cloth and pulled it to the side in a sharp jerking motion, taking out her frustration on the soft fabric.

The curtain out of the way, she leant back through the open window, gripping it. She tugged, but nothing happened. Beatrice’s face wrinkled in confusion. She pulled again, harder this time. Nothing. She tried a third time, straining as she heaved. It was then she felt a cold across her skin, as something grasped it tightly.

Beatrice looked down to see a nightmarish figure. A twisted amalgam of man and beast, blood staining its flesh. Its legs were twisted at an odd angle, hooves gripping tightly to the wall, its chest laid flat against the stone. One hand gripped the bottom of the window frame, whilst the other was clasped again her arm. It shook its head slowly from side to side, antlers swaying as it did.

It pulled, heaving on her arm, sending Beatrice tumbling forward over the edge of the window. She flew clear, smashing into the garden beyond. Ribs shattered and legs broke with startling fragility. Beatrice had always been a strong healthy woman, even now in her eighth decade, but the impact had been too strong. She tried to crawl away, her breathing strained and ragged. Her legs refused to move, and her fingers slipped ineffectually through the slick mud. Tears were streaming down her face as there was a thump behind her, some heavy weight dropping to the wet earth. She could hear it, slowly advancing behind her, each step soft and gentle, the walk almost casual. Beatrice felt a hand clasp around her neck. She tried to scream, but her words were stolen, lost amidst the pain of her broken ribs, the blood leaking into her longs. There was a sense of weightlessness as she was lifted easily into the air, followed by a sharp pain at her ankles. Slowly, the pain spread, up her legs, across her back, as the creature's horns-shifting forward like blades-flayed her.

Gregor looked upon the carnage before him. A grim display covering the immaculate lawn of a large stately home. From what Gregor had gathered from a quick google on the ride up, the house had traditionally been the home of the local Laird, before being converted into a high-end hotel. Their meagre expenses budget didn't stretch quite that far, the two of them had taken up residence in a small hostel near the visitor centre. Elspeth was stood ahead of him, talking to the elderly gardener who had found the unwelcome surprise on his lawn. He had been crying, a dribble of vomit across his overalls. Gregor couldn't blame him.

The victim, a Beatrice Meadows, was a tourist to the island. Apparently arriving on the same ferry as himself, although Gregor didn’t remember her. Her bedroom window was open, and a large grove had been torn into the grass. A clear sign she had either jumped or been thrown from the window. It was what had happened to her next that had been truly sickening.

The grass was stained red, thick with blood. To one side was a loose pile, at first what looked like her clothes, although a closer inspection revealed it also contained her skin, which had been peeled off, torn from her frame like discarded orange peel. Something had then taken the time to remove all her muscle from her bones, placing it into a second pile along with her organs. Then every bone had been arranged in a pattern, the same square spiral of the first victim.

“He’s pretty shaken up,” said Elspeth, appeared behind Gregor like a shadow. “Can’t say I blame him. There’s no CCTV or anything. Apparently, people here think the island is too safe to bother. Can’t say I fucking agree right now. Whatever is doing this is some sick fucker.”

“It’s all so…ritual. This shape again. It has to be for a reason.”

Elspeth shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe it’s a compulsion? You know how supers can get. Sometimes they have to do things just right, can’t help it. I was talking to Gemma the other day. You know they found a murdered brownie and the fridge was entirely full of cream? Or that little fella we nicked for all those gold robberies? He was just storing it all a big pot, wasn’t even selling it.”

"I get your point, but why is this one different from the first? Why not just do the intestines thing? This is an escalation, which is worrying." Gregor sat down on a low stone wall that ran around the garden. Elspeth took a seat beside him.

“So, you think there’s going to be more?”

“I do. We do have one solid lead I think.”

“Oh yeah?” Elspeth asked.

“It’s targeting tourists.”