The Price of Beauty

You are a visitor, a moth drawn to a flickering flame, arriving in Dunvegan. Nestled in the valley, it’s a forgotten dream - emerald hills and twilight-kissed skies. Cobbled streets snake between weathered cottages, their thatched roofs huddled together like gossiping hags. Smoke curls from chimneys, carrying the scent of peat and woodsmoke, a lingering fragrance. This village holds a thousand watchful eyes - windows veiled by lace curtains and flowerpots overflowing with crimson geraniums. Every rustle of your coat, every hesitant step on the cobblestones, is a whispered conversation carried on the wind.

At the heart of our village, lies Loch Mara, a dark jewel mirroring the bruised sky. Its surface is an unnatural stillness, broken only by the occasional ripple that expands outwards like a silent scream. No birds dare land, no fish disturb its murky abyss. Loch Mara is an ancient, malevolent entity, watching you with an unnerving intensity. Generations have gazed into its depths, some lured by its beauty, others by its secrets, all swallowed by its cold embrace. The water itself seems to hold its breath… waiting.

Beauty and danger are two sides of the same coin in Dunvegan, entwined like a rose with thorns. You are a visitor, yes, but a foolish one. Perhaps you’ve heard the whispers, the tales spun around the Loch? Tread carefully, for here, beauty is a beguiling facade, and danger lurks in the most unexpected places.

The peat fire crackled in the hearth, spitting embers that danced shadows on the faces of the children huddled around me. Little Morag, her eyes wide with a morbid curiosity, tugged on the hem of my woollen dress. "Gran”, she whispered, “Is it true what they say about the man they found in the Loch?”

I settled deeper into my rocking chair, the aged wood creaking a familiar, comforting tune. My gaze drifted out the window, where the full moon bathed Loch Mara in an ethereal glow. Its beauty was breathtaking, unsettling. “Aye, sweet child”, I began, a sigh escaping my lips like the mournful cry of a lonely bird. “A sad tale indeed, gather close, bairns and I’ll tell you all I can about it”.

Eilidh, the eldest at ten, shuffled closer, a furrow etching itself between her brows. Unlike Morag, whose wide eyes shone with anticipation, Eilidh seemed unsure about a scary story tonight. Paden, the youngest, scooted next to me, his thumb already wedged firmly in place. But Morag, bless her heart, was a different breed altogether. Curiosity and a hint of thrill warred in her bright eyes, a spark that almost made me reconsider. These babes were a curious bunch, they loved a good tale, even if it made their knees knock a little.

It began with the arrival of a young artist named Ewan. He wasn’t like the boisterous tourists who occasionally stumbled into our village, like magpies on a glittering trinket. Ewan possessed a gentle attentiveness. He moved with the soft touch of a summer breeze, and a glimmer of pure wonder ignited in his eyes. Dunvegan nestled amidst rolling emerald hills, a timeless tableau where ancient cottages huddled close, their windows glowing like warm amber eyes against the approaching twilight. The village seemed to unfold before him like a canvas waiting for his brush.
Ewan wasn't just enamoured by Dunvegan's quaint streets and warm hearths. It was the Loch that stretched before him, a brooding giant cloaked in twilight, that truly held him spellbound. Like a sheet of polished obsidian, its surface reflected the dying embers of the day. Ewan, captivated by its enigmatic beauty, felt a shiver dance down his spine.

Night after night, as the moon draped the Loch in a shimmering shawl of silver, Ewan felt an irresistible pull towards its restless surface. He'd find himself drawn to the lake's edge, his sketchbook clutched in hand, a meagre shield against the gathering dusk. We, who called Dunvegan home, knew the truth that slumbered beneath its depths - a creature we named Kelpie. Her name was whispered with a reverence laced with a sliver of fear. Legends spoke of her laughter, a haunting melody as alluring as wind chimes in a storm, that echoed across the water. This siren song promised oblivion to the unwary who dared to listen. Yet, entwined with the terror she inspired were whispers of unparalleled beauty, a seductive lure that seemed to emanate from the Loch's very heart. Ewan found himself strangely captivated by this sinister dichotomy – a creature both terrifying and captivating, a muse shrouded in mystery.

The moon, a veiled eye peering in wispy clouds, cast an ethereal sheen upon the Loch. An eerie stillness had fallen, broken only by the mournful cry of a solitary loon. Drawn by whispers, and a burgeoning empathy for the lake’s rumoured creature, Ewan found himself at the water’s edge once again. The Loch itself seemed to beckon him closer, its surface rippling with an unseen energy. The air grew thick and humid, clinging to him like a shroud. The gentle lap of waves ceased abruptly, replaced by an unnatural quiet. On the surface, moonlight fractured, splintering into a million shimmering shards that danced in a hypnotic, unsettling pattern. Ewan, his heart a frantic drum in his chest, held his breath, a primal fear battling an unknown anticipation.

Then, from the depths, a figure emerged. Cloaked in moonlight and mist, Kelpie rose from the water, a vision that stole Ewan's breath. Her beauty was both stupendous and disquieting. Her white skin, at times almost translucent, shimmered with an otherworldly glow. Her hair, the colour of shifting currents, cascaded around her, each strand tinged with the green and blue hues of the lake. But, it was her eyes that held Ewan captive. Pools of liquid silver, they possessed a disarming beauty. Their wells shimmered with an otherworldly luminescence, reflecting the moonlight with an intensity that both drew him in and sent a cold shiver down his spine. Yet, within that captivating glow, Ewan sensed a hollowness, a vast emptiness that mirrored the fathomless vacuity of the Loch itself. It was a chilling contrast - eyes so beautiful they could steal your breath, though harbouring darkness that hinted at a power both alluring and terrifying.

Their first encounter was a tentative dance, charged with unspoken tension. Kelpie, expecting fear or disgust, found instead a glimmer of understanding and perhaps even a flicker of kinship in Ewan's eyes. With his gentle demeanour and unwavering gaze, he saw not a monster, only beauty, in Kelpie’s otherworldly form. He spoke to her not with desire or fear, but with a quiet kindness that startled her. He spoke of dreams, of beauty beyond the Loch's frigid embrace, and a yearning flickered in Kelpie's eyes, a longing for something she thought forever lost.

In that hushed moment, a fragile connection bloomed between them. The air, once heavy with tension, relaxed, replaced by a hesitant hope. Their meetings became that of a secret ritual, a stolen dance beneath the watchful moon. For Ewan and Kelpie, it was the beginning of the end. Ewan loved her with a love that defied all logic, oblivious to the flicker of hunger that danced in her eyes whenever he drew close. Kelpie, a creature of contradictions, found a strange comfort in his presence, a flicker of warmth that threatened the icy grip of her curse. Yet, even as this solace bloomed, the primal urges that clawed at her from within grew stronger with each encounter. It was a love story as forbidden as it was fragile, a warped reflection of fairytales, where beauty hid a monstrous truth.

Ewan, fuelled by his misguided affection, spent countless hours sketching Kelpie, meticulously capturing every detail of her form. Each stroke was a testament to his growing obsession, the paper a shrine to a creature both beautiful and monstrous. He saw kindness in her shimmering eyes, a longing for a life bathed in sunlight. His touch, a foreign warmth against her perpetually damp skin, sparked a thrill that danced between terror and exhilaration. It was a grotesque parody of love, a waltz teetering on the edge of oblivion.

One morning, as the sunlight speared through the window of my cottage, Ewan visited me, his eyes burning with a feverish intensity. He spoke of Kelpie’s beauty, of the way the moonlight seemed to dance in her hair, of the shared laughter that echoed across the lake; weaving a tale of love before me. Looking into his earnest eyes, I saw his youthful naivety.

“Ewan”, I began, each word carefully chosen. “It’s easy to lose yourself in beauty, to believe the stories our hearts want to hear. There are creatures in this world, beautiful to behold, yet bound by darkness. Their desires aren’t like ours; to get too close is to invite a fate worse than the stillness of the grave."

Ewan’s smile faltered briefly, a flicker of doubt crossing his features. But then, he brushed it aside. “No”, he insisted, his voice firm, “There’s a goodness in her, and I can help”.

Blinded by his infatuation, Ewan couldn’t, or wouldn’t, see the truth. He yearned for Kelpie, but this monstrous mockery of love, the very act that mirrored love's ecstasy – the touch, the closeness – was the same thing that fueled the darkness within her.

The fire had dwindled to embers, casting an orange glow on the children’s faces. Silence settled heavily, punctuated only by the occasional crackle from the dying flames. Morag’s bright eyes, though wide, held a flicker of understanding now. Eilidh, her brow still furrowed, seemed lost in thought, perhaps piecing together the tragic dance between beauty and danger. Even Paden, his thumb forgotten, leaned in closer, captivated by the unspoken horror.

“But Gran”, Eilidh began, her voice barely a whisper, “This whole situation just doesn’t make sense. Ewan seemed so sure of their connection. Why wouldn't he feel the… danger, I guess? Like you warned him about?”.

A heavy sigh escaped my lips, like wind whistling through the barren branches outside. I patted the worn cushion beside me, silently inviting Eilidh closer. As she settled in, a silent plea for comfort in her eyes, I spoke, my voice raspy with age.

“Love can be a strange and powerful thing. Sometimes it makes us blind to the truth, deaf to warnings. There’s a saying, ‘There is a striking resemblance between the act of love and the ministrations of torture’. We become so consumed by love, that we fail to see the danger; a danger that can make us miss out on all the fun things, like forgetting your toys at the park."

The last sentence hung in the air, a quiet echo in the room. The fire, dancing merrily just moments ago, seemed to settle a bit, the shadows flickering less playfully on the wall. The story of Ewan and the Kelpie wasn't just a scary tale; it was true.

Morag, bouncing on the balls of her feet, scoffed. “Maybe boring old love just wasn't his style, maybe he craved some excitement. Like a forbidden romance in a book!” she exclaimed.

I chuckled softly, the sound of a dry leaf rustling in the wind. "There can be excitement in love, Morag, but true love shouldn't feel dangerous. It should feel like… a gentle flame, a warmth that sustains you”.

Paden, who had been unusually quiet, finally spoke, his voice small and hesitant. "So, are you saying the Kelpie didn't love Ewan AT ALL, Gran? Not even a little bit?" He tilted his head, his eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and a vulnerability I hadn't seen before.

I took a deep breath, the memories sharp and painful. "Perhaps, Paden," I said, my voice tender. "But it wasn't the kind of love that brings joy. It was a selfish hunger, a desire that could never be satisfied. Her beauty, like a ripe fruit, was meant to lure, to entrap. Her beauty is a symptom of her disorder, of her soullessness,'" I whispered, the words heavy with the knowledge of a truth far older than any of us.

Their questions, each a thread in the tapestry of truth I was forced to weave, choked me with sorrow as heavy as the silence that followed. Drawn to the window, I stared at the Loch. Ewan, a kind soul who'd wandered into our village seeking solace, had become another victim to a monstrous force.

Dread painted the scene in my mind. Ewan returned to the Loch. This time, the air crackled with foreboding energy, a storm brewing beneath a deceptively calm surface. Kelpie, her usual allure eclipsed, stood withdrawn, hesitant and almost pained. Perhaps, for a fleeting moment, a flicker of her humanity warred with the monstrous hunger that consumed her.

Unaware of the churning darkness, Ewan waded into the shallows, the water lapping at his ankles. He reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. In a heartbeat, Kelpie whirled around, her eyes hollowed with a chilling emptiness. She grasped his hand, a surge of power coursing through them both, and with a horrifying swiftness, dragged him under the water's surface.

Silence.

The memory tore through me, a jagged scar eternally open. Loch Mara, once a mirror reflecting a peaceful sky, now shimmered with a cold, malevolent light. Each life it devoured, Ewan included, added another ripple to its surface, like the ceaseless pull of the moon on the ocean. The weight of countless silent farewells pressed down on me, each a crushing burden of my futile warnings. Here I stand, a silent observer of a tragedy I could never truly prevent.

I turned back to the children, their faces reflecting a mixture of terror and a dawning understanding. I knelt before them. "The Loch," I said, my gaze lingering on the water's deceptive shimmer "holds a beauty that masks a monstrous hunger. Like Kelpie herself, it whispers promises but offers only a chilling embrace.” I paused, letting the weight of my words settle upon them. “Promise me, children”, I pleaded, my voice thick with emotion. “Stay away from its edge.”

“We promise, Gran”, the children whispered.

Silence descended upon the room, broken only by the soft crackling of the dying embers, a final whisper of warmth before the night claimed it. The wind outside picked up, carrying a mournful song across the loch's surface. A figure emerged from the path leading into the village, silhouetted against the fading sunlight. A man, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, a camera slung across his shoulder, approached with a family trailing behind him.

My heart clenched, a cold fist twisting in my chest. Loch Mara, our village's dark heart, mirrored not the sky, but an abyss colder than death. No life dared grace its surface, a silent testament to its power. It watched the approaching family, a predator eyeing its prey. Generations had been lured by its beauty, only to be swallowed whole.

Unbeknownst to them, its deceptive beauty had already begun to weave its spell.