The Cracked Spine by Paige Shelton Read Free Book Online

I argued yesterday, but I hope we mended things enough that today will be better.”
    â€œWhat did you argue about?” I asked. I sat up higher in the seat.
    â€œForgive me, lass, but I don’t think that would be appropriate tae share.”
    â€œI understand.”
    â€œHere we are anyway. Craig House. It was at one time home tae a psychiatric hospital. It’s a lovely old estate, and private. One of our members is a surgeon who acquired the room for us. We all donate tae the upkeep as a thank-you.”
    â€œSounds like an interesting place.” I looked up at the large, red brick and gray stone building that reminded me of a hospital from another time with its rounded window tops, domed corners, and differing wings, sectioned off but still one with the original architecture. It was perched on a green hill and though it was beautiful, with the appropriate dark sky and murky camera filter it would make the perfect set for a scary movie.
    â€œThis part is Craig House. The other parts are a university now.”
    â€œIt’s old but well cared for.”
    â€œAye, ’tis. There’s history on every corner in Edinburgh. This house, like many others, is thought tae be haunted by the ghosts of its past. Of course when the ghosts were once psychiatric patients from a time when mental illness was treated with cruel and unusual methods, those ghosts are bound tae be a wee bit livelier. But before the hospital owned it, others lived here too. One was John Hill Burton, who was a fascinating man in his own right. He was, among other things, a Scottish historian. He was also secretary to the Prison Board of Scotland and prison commissioner. The way he did and presented his research was unique at the time, and he was well respected. I’ve heard stories about his ghost being one tae haunt the old place, along with the distressed hospital patients.”
    â€œYou know your ghosts.”
    â€œI know my Scottish history. My … well, interests are a result of my love for my country. My country is as important to me as the oxygen I breathe. I will bore you at times, I’m sure.”
    â€œI doubt it. Have you ever seen a ghost?” I asked.
    â€œI have, but not with enough definition tae know exactly who it was when it was alive. For me the ghosties are like charged waves in air, there one minute and gone the next, but leaving one with an unmistakable and memorable jolt.”
    I studied his profile again. There was no glimmer of jest in his eyes, no pull of a smile at his mouth.
    â€œWhere were you when you saw them, or sensed them?”
    â€œMany places. I’m fairly sure we have one at The Cracked Spine, but he or she doesn’t show themselves all that much. Hamlet hasn’t seen them. I doubt you will. They seem tae be bothered by Rosie mostly. Sometimes things move of their own accord in her office. It’s all very harmless.”
    â€œOh. Okay.”
    Edwin laughed as he turned the key, silencing the engine to cooling clicks. “Have you never experienced something that made you wonder for a brief instant at its validity?”
    â€œHmm. Not things moving, really. When I was a kid I remember sensing some strange things, but that might have just been because I was a kid. And sometimes I hear books.” I’d said the last part quickly and casually, and then held my breath.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œOh, just lines from books I’ve read, characters’ words. They play in my head sometimes. Nothing really. I hope to run into a harmless ghost or two here. Maybe someday.”
    â€œInteresting,” Edwin said.
    I nodded but didn’t say anything more as we both turned our attention to a burly gentleman walking our direction. He trod heavily, as if he was perturbed, and was dressed in a green and yellow kilt with, as I’d come to think of it, all the trimmings—a sporran around his waist, kilt hose that I would have just