The wind hit my face with menacing might. I gripped my coat tightly, hoping in vain that it could keep me dry against the rain. I walked as fast as I could following the three men, but with enough caution as to not slip on the wet rocks.

“Sorry to be a bother, but is it going to take much longer before we arrive?” I yell, trying to make myself heard above the roaring sound of waves and howling winds.

“Just a few ways ahead, laddie,” the old man at the front said without looking back.

I was grateful, really. The storm had caught me completely unprepared, and with every hotel in Westray fully booked, the old man had come as a saviour. Mr. MacDermid, as he had introduced himself, informed me that he had a farm just north of town, with plenty of space to spare for the night.

We reached an agreement, and after a few shared pints, we headed for the property alongside his farmhand, a pair of heavy men who went simply by Smith and Murray, before the storm reached its peak. Still, we found ourselves plunged in a heavy downpour, made all the worse by the uneven consistency of the trail that led to the farm.

While I hadn’t been expecting Buckingham, I was still somewhat put off by the rundown appearance of the house. A small, two storey mishap of wood and stone held together by sheer stubbornness by the look of it, but far be from me to criticise when help is being offered so readily, especially when the alternative is sleeping in a park.

I shook the coat off of me as soon as I entered, the garment had been so thoroughly soaked that it eliminated any chance of providing warmth.

“Up for some scran?” Mr. MacDermid said.

I doubted for a moment, trying to make sense of the slang, before nodding. “If it’s not much of an inconvenience, I’d love to eat something before heading to sleep.”

“That’s a cannie lad,” the old man said.

Before long, we found ourselves sharing a modest meal of fruits and sandwiches. Simple but it did the trick. The trio seemed to be nice fellow, and for a moment I was able to ignore the chilling cold that came with the storm.

Just as I downed a slice of pear, the entire structure shook with unabated anger as the storm picked up strength.

“That ain’t well,” Murray said, standing up from the table.

“Easy there, boy,” Mr. MacDermid whispered in a calm tone, but I noticed he too was eyeing the roof with wariness.

“I think it may be for the best if we call it a night,” I suggested, and my partners nodded in approval.

I reached forward to grab one of the sandwiches from the plate. Or at least tried to.

Thunder roared outside, and with it the house itself seemed to quiver in fear. The four of us were frozen in our spots, eyes darting from one to another, expectant of what would happen next.

As if to taunt us further, the house shook once again, and now the walls themselves shook, as did we once dread settled.

“Smith, Murray, hold ‘er still,” the old man yelled, and the younger men immediately ran to opposite sides of the kitchen, pushing their weight against the walls. Mr. MacDermid for his part ran to the door and stood under the frame, sparing nary a thought before ordering me to do the same.

I scrambled to my feet in fear, knowing I didn’t have much of a choice.

“Blast it all!” I scream as I leaned on the fourth wall, “I just wanted a sandwich!”