David MacPherson has just lost both his parents in a tragic
accident, and has to accompany their coffins all the way from
Victorian London to an isolated estate in the Scottish Highlands,
where they are to be buried, and where he is to live with his
Auntie Mary and her two children, Paul and Sarah. 'After lunch,
David decided to take some flowers to place on his parents' graves.
As he came to the tiny track that led from the road down to the
shore of the loch, he had a clear view of the burial plots. He
could hardly believe his eyes. A stag... a pure white stag with
magnificent antlers was standing in front of his father's grave,
pawing at the newly filled-in soil with one of its front hooves.
What was it trying to do? To dig up his father's grave? Why? Surely
deer were herbivores, weren't they? "Hey " he cried. The stag
looked up at him. Even at that distance, David knew that it was the
creature that had been spying on him from the undergrowth during
the burial service. Although wild deer tend to shy away from
humans, this particular stag stood its ground; even turning its
attention back to the grave, its hoof still pressed on the freshly
laid turf. David picked up a stone and started to descend towards
the shore line. He checked the grave for any signs of damage. All
he could see was the unmistakeable imprint of the animal's cloven
hoof set in the lower right hand corner of the grave.' Little does
David realize that his life is to be bound up with this uncanny
creature as well as a mysterious cairn on the summit plateau of
Creag Meagaidh (a huge mountain on the opposite side of the loch).
The answer to the mystery of the cairn lies in the far North-West
Highlands, 'Where Black Wings Rest'. - - - - EXCERPT FROM BOOK. In
the darkness of the forest, something moves - shadows amongst
shadows; shadows with glimmering eyes. Slinking, skulking, silently
running - grey phantoms in a ghostly wood. Tree boughs creaking,
bending, wildly waving about the creeping enemies. Sprinting,
stalking, stealthily rushing; powder spindrift shooting high
beneath preternatural paws. Cutting, carving, curving snakelike,
through snow-shrouded night-wastes - deadly hunters in a lonely
wood. Pray that nothing be out tonight Yammering, yowling, wildly
yawping, their chilling howls calling; summoning the cold, railing,
tree-shredding north wind. Tracking, trailing, relentlessly tracing
- a deadly pack, in pursuit of their prey - their ravening, demonic
werewolf hearts beating ever as one. At the edge of the clearing,
shady halting - triumphantly surveying their defenceless prey. For
the House lies before them - dark without and dark within, as if
trying to hide, veiled in curtains of swirling snow. Bounding,
leaping, almost flying; these fierce, slavering creatures of the
night, eagerly ploughing through the ever-deepening, drift-crawling
snow - bearing the ravenous Terror. Three to the left, three to the
right - perilous encroachment. "Are we all agreed? Is this where
the fear is strongest?" "Yes - Yes - This is the place Fear dwells
here - but something else too." "They are here, my Captain," growls
one of the pack-members, his eyes glinting with silver light. "We
are expected," said the Captain. "Do they think that mere barred
doors will protect them?" A hand grips the trunk of a young Scots
pine tree. "Come, my children " says the voice of a woman. "We must
enter."
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