My phone vrrrped as it switched itself off. No battery. Strange, I know, as it had been at 67% only ten minutes ago. This was not an uncommon experience, and I paused – as I always did – to make a mental note of my specific position before continuing.

I had a theory I had been cultivating for some time.

I was only a few dozen yards from the overgrown broch in the field at the turn in the road and, as much as I could tell, it was exactly the same distance from the ancient monument as all the other times my phone had decided to give up the ghost.

Give up the ghost. What an odd turn of phrase.

The unseasonably warm January sun beat down, making it feel almost like spring. The edge of the Wild Wood was behind me, on the opposite side of the road to the broch. It was full of birdsong, more so than usual at this time of year, and momentarily I was distracted by a shot of concern that the birds might be caught out if the weather changed again.

There were other sounds as well. The low guttural thrum of a tractor working at the farm at the other side of the valley. The rhythmic whispers of the wind turbines in the field a short distance to my right. But there was something else, too. Something I couldn’t quite catch. It was coming from the direction of the broch.

Carefully, I crept closer, trying to make as little noise as possible so I could follow the sound. Yes, it was definitely coming the broch. A few feet away, concentrating so hard on craning my ears towards the sound, I carelessly trod on a twig. It made a sharp crack, and the noise stopped. I froze, holding my breath, trying to scan all around and over the broch without moving my head.

There! A slight movement to the left-hand side. A few blades of grass moving against the light breeze. I stared at the spot intently.

Tentatively, a small gnarled hand pushed aside the grasses and a wrinkled face with a large nose and piercingly bright eyes peered around the corner. Our eyes locked on each other, neither moving for a minute.

Then, in a flash, the figure darted back, disappearing from sight. I could hear the slamming of a door, and the sound of feet running down a passageway. I leapt forward to follow, but it was too late. He had gone, and the broch looked just like an overgrown mound of earth again, no sign of any door leading inside. The ground in one place was trampled, with indentations in the mud where a workbench must have been placed. Shards of metal were strewn on the floor, each glowing with a curious mix of colours. As I watched, they grew dull, the colours faded and, when I looked again, only scraps of slate lay there.

I sighed. The trows were active again, then, and clearly moving with the times. I made a mental note to return later with some fresh bread and a bottle of milk, possibly some homemade biscuits too, by way of a peace offering. Some things are traditions for a reason.

Halfway home, I paused. Probably best throw in a pack of batteries, too. That should go down well.

Originally shared in January 2025, written to the brief of writing a short story responding to the first three lines (highlighted).