The Little People

The photograph was bleak, it's cold and descolate landscape seemed to creep through time itself and arrest it's audience in a numb and frozen embrace. It made me shiver, robbing all confidence and security of myself from within, stripping my nerves to the bone. From its depths, an eery glimpse of the past, Anthony Radley and his small expedition labouriously tackle the North face of Ben Macdui, navigating around mammoth towers of pale blue ice and motionless glacier flows. The mountain’s power chilled the very air around the frame. Slowly and surely, Ben Macdui was draining their lives. Soon after this picture was taken, my mind warned, the mountain absorbed them. Assimilated them. Yet still I insisted it be the first Munroe I tackled as an amateur climber. It might as well have been Everest.1

'There's a story to that picture you know', the receptionist broke in. I blushed, suddenly unsure as to how long the photograph had me under it's influence. My hotel surroundings were cosy and rustic, if a little expensive. I liked it though, it had a unique charm.2

'Yeah I know', I replied. 'The Radley expedition. A complete disaster.' She nodded in agreement, obviously impressed.3

'But did you hear about the Old Grey Man?' she asked. 4

I looked at her with suspicion. 5

'The myth you mean, the ghost on the mountain? I've heard of it,' I said, unsure what she was getting at. I’ll admit, I'm fairly open minded about the weird, wonderful and unknown, but I dislike being spoon-fed local lore for the sake of tourist amusement, and the receptionist looked ready to ask that I open wide for the choo-choo train. Instead she turned to the picture and stared at it, almost miles into it's flat depths.6

'You can see him in this picture,' she said. Her matter of fact tone was surprising as her eyes remained locked on the photograph. I followed their concentrated gaze to a large mound of sheet ice protruding from the slope around 30 feet behind Radley's huddled, determined form. I looked back at the entranced receptionist, who could obviously see something I was missing. I took one last glance at the ice, ready to dismiss our conversation and quietly head off to the bar, when a small shadow amassed on the slope. It seemed to gather the darkness around it, growing in stature so rapidly that I refused to believe my eyes had missed it's now obvious impression on the exposure. A tall and sinister shadow appeared to be stalking the team, radiating an inexplicably vivid sense of malevolence. A chilling idea slipped into my mind- could this figure be the prescence which held my attention so firmly in it's grasp, as it now was doing with her? Was it somehow, existing within this picture? The thought was ridiculous, though my relief was quite real when she returned her eyes to mine, breaking the spell. I became flustered. She was really quite pretty.7

‘The photographer was killed around the same time as the rest of the team, so the real mystery is not so much the phantom on the ice, but who delivered the film spool for processing?’ Her eyes were bright and damp with excitement. It was obvious that the question scared her as equally as it fascinated. I replied in jest.8

‘Who knows? Maybe a ghost?’ I smiled at her. The gesture was not returned. The ensuing silence reminded me of my lack of social grace- I am not what you would call a 'smooth talker'. It wouldn't take long to guess why I prefer to climb alone. Not much conversation up in them thar hills, but perhaps some company if this picture was anything to go by. 9

‘Not a ghost,’ she said. ‘The little people.’10

I looked at her, narrowing my eyes.'Little people? You mean, Fairies?' 11

Her face contorted with annoyance as she put her fingers up, indicating me to shush. 'They don't like to be called that! It's bad luck to upset them!'12

By now I was quite certain of the pretty receptionist's insanity. 13

'Of course- how insensitive of me.' I spoke slowly.'I meant to say 'the little people.'' 14

A mixture of relief and embarrassment flushed her expression as she hid her face in her hands. 'I'm sorry, you'll have to forgive me. You must think I'm an absolute lunatic.'15

'Not at all,' I said.16

She sighed. 'I was raised here, very traditionally. As stupid as it may seem to you, a lot happens up there. My grandmother called it mischief, my mother called it nature. But I can promise you this, there is something evil about that mountain, something... something very wrong.'17

'Have you ever climbed it?' I asked.18

She looked at me.'No,' she admitted, 'you couldn't pay me to.'19

'You're telling me you've lived here all your life and you've never climbed it? What makes you so sure there's something up there?'20

'I've heard enough from those who have climbed it to put me off. I leave well enough alone.'21

I couldn't help but laugh. It must have hurt her feelings, as her cheeks reddened furiously.'That mountain takes people. It knows-'22

'That's nonsense. Almost everyone who climbs it comes back down just fine.'23

She closed her eyes in frustration. 'An eagle doesn't always catch the mice, Mr...'24

Only then did it occur to me that I had still to check in. I stuttered, my voice still rather raised from our increasingly heated discussion.'Stuart,' I managed. 'Maxwell Stuart.'25

'I'm Rebecca,' she said, thrusting an old and rusted room key at me. Scribbling on the guest log at her desk, she turned her back and began fumbling in a cabinet of antique drawers. 'Third door on the left at the top of the stairs, Mr Stuart. Enjoy your stay.'26

Lugging my rucksack and boots up the creaking staircase towards my room, I risked a quick look back at the desk, to find Rebecca staring after me. I smiled. 'I think I will enjoy it here.' I whispered to myself. 'Very much indeed.'27