Ominous Stories

Unknown

"It's like something out of The X-Files," I said, aghast. It was close to midnight and to my horror I'd been called out to investigate the death of a child, a seven-year-old boy by the name of William McLoughlin.

The boy's father, Patrick, had discovered the body after his son had failed to respond to his shouts following the preparation of supper. Concerned, Mr McLoughlin approached William's room tentatively. Rain was lashing down outside, making it difficult for him to focus on anything but the sound of it. He knocked and placed his ear against the door, but still, his son failed to respond.

Finally, he had flung the door open, hastily flicking the light switch. There on the floor in the centre of the room lay his son. William's face was pale, and there was no movement. In a panic, Patrick rushed over and attempted to resuscitate him. His attempts were unsuccessful.

Bizarrely, William's body was soaked, head to toe.

Mr McLoughlin had searched frantically for his mobile phone and proceeded to call the emergency services. While waiting for the ambulance to arrive, he noticed another oddity: a number of sodden indentations in the carpet next to William's body. The depressions seemed to lead to the window, though it didn't appear as though it had been opened.

The ambulance had arrived some minutes later, and the paramedics pronounced William dead at the scene.

I was called shortly afterwards.

The McLoughlins lived in a detached mid-seventeenth-century cottage at the end of a quiet street in the coastal village of Wren in the Scottish Highlands.

Me, a city detective for more than a decade, had earlier that month relocated to Wren from Aberdeen, having reached the grand old age of fifty.

After what I saw that evening, I wish I'd stayed in the city.

It was so very strange. The cause of his death, I mean. One of the paramedics, James Turner, had called to inform me the boy had drowned.

"In the bathtub?" I queried.

"Well, that's the odd thing detective, though he isn't anywhere near the bathtub, or any body of water, he's totally sodden."

"Where was the boy found?" I insisted.

"On the bedroom floor."

"No signs of a struggle?"

"No."

I hesitated before responding.

"I'll be right there."

It wasn't worth continuing over the telephone; I needed to see the body for myself.

And so there I was, trying to put the pieces together. A young boy drowned in his bedroom; unusual indentations on the carpet; and a father who claimed to have heard nothing out of the ordinary.

Andrea Nelson, a forensic investigator known throughout the region, was called to the scene due to the bizarre nature of the case. She was keenly analysing the indentations on the carpet.

"Jack, take a look at this," she said.

I approached and took a closer look at the depressions.

"Judging by the distance between these impressions – the general shape and distribution – I think we're looking at footprints."

I frowned, echoing, "Footprints?"

"Yes, footprints," she repeated. "Bare feet actually. I'd say whoever it was exited via the window there." Nelson motioned towards the window across the room. The trail of footprints led directly to it from William's body.