The Ghosts of Tullybrae House by Veronica Bale

vans which the studio rented for them. Wherever she was in the house, as soon as she heard the crunch of those tires on the gravel outside, Emmie stopped what she was doing and scurried up to the nursery.
    It was not that she didn’t like the team, or didn’t want to see them. She couldn’t explain what it was, really, except that their constant presence out there, digging away at the Scottish soil, made her anxious. Uneasy.
    Occasionally, their voices would waft in through the open window. Their friendly conversation, Adam and Dean’s perpetual bickering, a shout of excitement when something of particular significance was unearthed—on these occasions, Emmie would feel the urge to shut the window and retreat to her bedroom. Then she’d stop, rub her face, and ask the question that had become a daily mantra.
    “What is wrong with me?”
    In the few short weeks they’d been at Tullybrae, the team had unearthed a number of utility items, broken pottery, rusted gardening tools and the like. But so far, they’d all been from the last hundred years. It was encouraging, yes, but not the find they were hoping to make. Although, just yesterday, they’d made a breakthrough when Ewan and Sophie uncovered the outline of the old kitchens which went back to the time the house was built.
    Emmie’s avoidance of them didn’t seem to bother her new friends much. In fact, it hardly seem to register with them. Ever since their night at The Grigg, they pulled her into their folds. It was no matter that she never came outside to see them, they were perfectly comfortable seeking her out in the house. With every discovery, they ploughed into her sanctuary, full of enthusiasm. And Emmie, not wanting to put a damper on their excitement, would force herself to adopt an air of eagerness, and follow them outside to see what the fuss was about.
    Really… what was wrong with her?
    This particular morning, she woke up feeling very off. The kind of “off” where there was an edge of the surreal to everything, like when a fever first makes itself known. Except that she was not suffering from a fever. On the contrary, she was fighting fit. Physically, at least. Her temperature was fine, she had no aches or chills. Nothing.
    She just felt spacy. Unaccountably, inexplicably… off.
    An early morning gloom had cleared, and a tentative sunshine struggled through the haze of fresh fog. Cool, dewy moisture pillowed the hills and the house. Emmie threw open the windows of the nursery and pulled in several deep lungsful of the Highland autumn air (an act which went against her curator’s instinct to preserve the house and its artefacts from moisture damage). It not only had a scent, the air, it had a taste, too. It was clean, restorative. Invigorating.
    She couldn’t get enough of it.
    She was still there at the window, absorbing as much of the Highlands as she possibly could, when Dean’s voice, then Adam’s, brought her back to the nursery. They were in the house, barreling down the corridor.
    Good Lord, please let them have wiped their boots this time.
    Not wanting to let them find her with her head hanging out the window, Emmie flung herself across the room and into her desk chair. She had just opened her laptop and was pretending to type furiously when they burst through the door.
    “Em, we need you.”
    She looked up into the flushed, beaming face of Dean. “What’s up, guys?”
    “We’ve found something,” exclaimed Adam, shoving Dean out of the way, even though the latter was a head taller and substantially less scrawny. “We need your opinion. None of us are sure what it is.”
    “Um… yeah, sure. I’ll be down in a bit. Give me a half hour?”
    “Nuh-uh. We need you now.” Adam grabbed her hand across the desk and gave her arm a tug.
    They ushered her out, pulling her along the narrow hallway nearly three abreast. Adam held tight to her hand, and Dean kept his hand on her lower back. Neither of them wanted to give an inch to