The Missing Children of Ettrick

The Tome

I never thought much of the paranormal. Not in the way ghost hunters on television or conspiracy theorists might. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe; it was more that the supernatural belonged in a realm that had no place in my everyday existence. At least, that was the case until the summer of 2019, when I stumbled upon the ancient tome in the library of the University of St. Andrews.

The St. Andrews Library is a place of quiet grandeur, its walls lined with centuries of accumulated knowledge. The weight of history hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the scent of old paper and polished wood. I was there under the guise of researching a paper on Scottish folklore, but the truth was, I was bored. I needed something more than dry academic papers to hold my attention.

It was in the darkened corner of the library, in a section that looked as though it hadn’t been touched in decades, that I found it. The book was lying on a dusty shelf, partially hidden behind a stack of neglected manuscripts. It was bound in weathered, cracked leather that seemed to hum with a life of its own. There was no title on the spine, no indication of its contents, just a strange symbol—a circle with an eye in the center—etched faintly into the cover.

Intrigued, I pulled it from the shelf, the leather cool and smooth under my fingertips. The book was surprisingly heavy, its pages thick and yellowed with age. There was something about it, a pull that I couldn’t quite describe, urging me to open it.

I found an empty table in a secluded corner and sat down. The library around me was hushed, the only sounds the occasional rustling of pages and the soft footsteps of the librarian on her rounds. I flipped the book open and was immediately greeted by a shock of cold air that made me shiver despite the warm summer afternoon outside.

The first page was blank, and so was the second. I flipped through several more, my anticipation growing with each turn, until finally, the text appeared—dark, dense script that looked as though it had been written by hand centuries ago. The language was archaic, a mix of Latin and what I assumed to be some form of Old Scots, the letters dancing across the page in a way that made my head spin.

But it wasn’t the text that caught my attention. It was what was tucked between the pages at the back of the book, as though someone had slipped it there in a hurry and forgotten about it.

A drawing.

The paper was brittle, the edges crumbling slightly as I carefully pulled it free. The image was faint, drawn in dark ink that had bled and faded over time. But the figure depicted was unmistakable—a tall, gaunt man with sunken eyes and a face twisted into an expression of pure malevolence. Beneath the drawing, scrawled in the same ancient script, was a name: Herbert Solomon.

I felt a chill run down my spine as I stared at the drawing, the man’s eyes seeming to bore into mine from across the centuries. There was something wrong about it, something deeply unsettling that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. But whatever it was, I couldn’t look away.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. I barely registered the passage of time as I pored over the book, trying to make sense of the text, my thoughts consumed by the image of Herbert Solomon. The more I read, the more I felt as though the book was trying to tell me something, trying to lead me somewhere. But to what end, I couldn’t yet fathom.

By the time the librarian came to inform me that the library was closing, the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, casting the room in deep shadows. I left the library in a daze, the book clutched tightly in my hands, the image of Herbert Solomon burned into my mind.

I didn’t know it then, but that day would mark the beginning of a journey into darkness that would change my life forever.

Children of Ettrick

The following days were filled with a growing obsession. I couldn’t stop thinking about the book, about Herbert Solomon and the dark, foreboding aura that surrounded his name. I found myself returning to the library at every opportunity, pouring over the tome with a fervor that bordered on madness. The text, though difficult to decipher, began to reveal its secrets to me, piece by piece, until a picture started to form.

Herbert Solomon had lived in the 16th century, in a small, isolated town called Ettrick. The town, nestled in the rolling hills of the Scottish Borders, was as remote as it was ancient, its history steeped in blood and superstition. Solomon had been an outsider, a man who lived on the outskirts of the town in a small, dilapidated cabin that was as much a part of the landscape as the trees and rocks around it.

The townsfolk had regarded him with fear and suspicion. He was a recluse, rarely seen in the daylight, and when he was, it was always in the shadows, his tall, gaunt figure looming like a specter. Rumors abounded about him—whispers of dark practices, of curses and hexes cast upon those who crossed him. But no one dared confront him, not openly. It was easier, safer, to keep their distance, to let the shadows of the woods swallow him up as he went about his mysterious business.

But in December of 1577, the delicate balance of fear and tolerance was shattered. It began with the disappearance of a young girl, Alana Sutherland, who had been playing near the edge of the woods one cold, gray afternoon. Her parents searched for her until nightfall, their voices echoing through the trees, but there was no trace of her. The only sign that she had ever been there was her small, worn shoe, found at the entrance to the forest, the leather stiff with frost.

Alana’s disappearance sent a ripple of fear through the town, a fear that only grew when, a week later, another child went missing, and then another. By the time the fourth child vanished, the town was in a state of panic. Mothers kept their children indoors, locking their doors and windows at night, and the men formed search parties that combed the woods, their torches casting flickering shadows that did nothing to dispel the darkness.

It wasn’t long before the townspeople’s fear turned to suspicion, and suspicion to paranoia. They needed someone to blame, someone to hold accountable for the horror that had descended upon their lives. And Herbert Solomon, with his strange ways and eerie presence, was the perfect scapegoat.

The whispers grew louder, more insistent. Solomon was responsible for the disappearances, they said. He had cursed the town, called upon dark forces to take the children as payment for some unspeakable pact. The more the children vanished, the more convinced the townsfolk became that Solomon was the root of all their suffering.

By February, the tension had reached a breaking point. The townspeople were desperate, driven to the brink by their fear and grief. And so, one bitterly cold night, they took matters into their own hands.

They gathered in the square, their faces twisted with rage and determination, and marched as one to Solomon’s cabin at the edge of the woods. They carried torches and pitchforks, their voices rising in a fevered chant that echoed through the trees. Solomon didn’t stand a chance. They surrounded the cabin, their faces lit by the flickering flames, and set it alight without hesitation.

The fire roared to life, the dry wood of the cabin catching quickly, the flames licking at the night sky. Solomon’s screams cut through the air, high-pitched and desperate, as the fire consumed him, but the mob only cheered, their voices mingling with the crackling of the flames. They watched as the cabin collapsed in on itself, the fire swallowing it whole, until there was nothing left but a smoldering pile of ash and the lingering scent of burning wood.

The townspeople believed they had rid themselves of the evil that had plagued them. They returned to their homes, their hearts lighter, their minds at ease. But their relief was short-lived.

The disappearances didn’t stop.

If anything, they grew worse. Children continued to vanish, one by one, without a trace. The fear that had gripped the town before now turned to despair, a deep, abiding dread that settled into their bones. And it wasn’t long before they began to realize that the horror they had unleashed wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

The Haunting

In the weeks that followed the burning of Herbert Solomon’s cabin, Ettrick was a town living in the shadow of its own guilt and fear. The townsfolk went about their daily lives, but there was a new heaviness to their steps, a haunted look in their eyes. They had believed that by destroying Solomon, they had destroyed the evil that had plagued them. But now, in the silence that followed his death, they were beginning to realize just how wrong they had been.

The first signs of Solomon’s haunting were subtle, almost imperceptible. A cold draft that would pass through a room where no windows were open, the feeling of being watched when no one else was around, strange noises in the dead of night—a creaking floorboard, a distant whisper. But as the days turned into weeks, the manifestations grew bolder, more terrifying.

It began with the children. Those who were still left in the town began to speak of a tall, thin man who would appear at the edge of the woods, watching them with hollow eyes. They described him with chilling accuracy—the same gaunt figure, the same malevolent stare that had been captured in the drawing I had found in the tome. Parents dismissed the stories at first,

attributing them to nightmares and overactive imaginations, but the children’s descriptions were too consistent, too eerily similar, to be dismissed for long.

Then came the sightings by the adults. Solomon’s ghost began to appear in the town itself, a shadowy figure that would materialize in dark corners and empty alleys, his presence always accompanied by a sudden drop in temperature and a sense of overwhelming dread. He was seen in the cemetery, standing over the graves of the children who had vanished, his head bowed as if in mourning. He was seen in the church, his tall figure looming in the doorway, his eyes locked on the vicar as he delivered his sermon.

The vicar, a man named McKenzie, was the first to speak openly of Solomon’s haunting. He told his congregation that the spirit of Herbert Solomon was not at rest, that the violence and injustice of his death had bound him to this world, unable to move on. He urged the townspeople to seek forgiveness, to pray for Solomon’s soul, in the hope that it might bring peace to both the living and the dead.

But the hauntings only grew worse. Solomon’s ghost became more aggressive, more vengeful. Doors would slam shut on their own, objects would be thrown across rooms by unseen hands, and at night, the sound of distant, tortured screams would echo through the town—screams that many recognized as the same they had heard on the night of Solomon’s death.

The townspeople were terrified, paralyzed by the knowledge that the man they had killed was now tormenting them from beyond the grave. They tried everything they could think of to rid themselves of his ghost—exorcisms, blessings, even attempts to dig up the charred remains of his cabin and bury them in consecrated ground. But nothing worked.

And still, the children continued to disappear.

By the time February gave way to March, the town was a shell of its former self. The streets were deserted, the shops and homes boarded up, the few remaining residents huddled inside, too afraid to venture out after dark. The once-vibrant community had been reduced to a ghost town, haunted by the specter of the man they had wronged.

But Herbert Solomon’s vengeance was not the only threat that lingered in Ettrick. There was something else, something darker, that had been hiding in the shadows all along, and it was about to reveal itself in the most horrifying way imaginable.

**Chapter 4: The True Horror**

As the hauntings intensified, so too did the tension in the town. People were on edge, snapping at one another, quick to anger and even quicker to retreat into their own private hells. The vicar, McKenzie, was at a loss. He had tried every holy rite he knew, every prayer, every blessing, but Solomon’s spirit remained as restless as ever. The ghost seemed to grow stronger with each passing day, as though feeding on the fear and misery of the townspeople.

Then came the night when Solomon’s ghost made its most terrifying appearance yet.

It was during a Sunday service, the church filled with the last few faithful who still dared to seek solace in the words of the Bible. McKenzie stood at the pulpit, his voice trembling as he read from the Psalms, when the temperature in the room suddenly plummeted. The candles flickered, their flames sputtering as if they were being blown by an unseen wind. The congregation exchanged uneasy glances, their breath visible in the cold air, but McKenzie continued, his voice growing louder, more desperate.

And then, without warning, the doors of the church flew open with a deafening crash. The wind howled through the room, extinguishing the candles and plunging the church into darkness. Panic erupted as people scrambled to their feet, but their cries were silenced by a low, guttural growl that reverberated through the walls.

In the darkness, a figure appeared at the entrance of the church—a tall, gaunt man, his eyes glowing with a pale, sickly light. Herbert Solomon.

The congregation froze, their terror paralyzing them as Solomon stepped forward, his presence filling the room with a suffocating sense of dread. His eyes swept over the crowd, lingering on each face as if he were searching for something—or someone. When his gaze finally settled on McKenzie, the vicar felt a cold hand close around his heart, squeezing until he could barely breathe.

Solomon raised one hand, and the church doors slammed shut, sealing everyone inside. McKenzie tried to speak, to offer some word of comfort or prayer, but the words died in his throat. The ghost took another step forward, his eyes locked on the vicar, and the air grew colder still.

It was then that McKenzie realized the truth—the awful, unbearable truth. Solomon wasn’t just seeking vengeance. He was searching for something, something he believed had been taken from him. And until he found it, he would never rest.

The vicar’s voice finally returned, but it was not a prayer that escaped his lips. It was a scream, a scream that echoed through the church, mingling with the cries of the terrified congregation. Solomon’s figure flickered, like a flame about to be extinguished, and then he vanished, leaving the church in darkness once more.

When the lights were finally restored, McKenzie found himself alone. The congregation had fled, the church empty save for the cold wind that still whispered through the rafters. And in the silence that followed, the vicar knew that the time for half-measures was over. If they were to rid themselves of Herbert Solomon’s ghost, they would need to confront him directly, to face the darkness head-on.

It was the next day that McKenzie gathered a group of the bravest men in the town—those who had not yet fled or been driven mad by the hauntings. Armed with torches, crosses, and whatever sacred items they could find, they made their way to the edge of the woods, to the place where Solomon’s cabin had once stood.

The night was dark, the moon hidden behind thick clouds, as they reached the site. The air was heavy with the scent of ash and decay, and the ground where the cabin had stood was blackened and dead. But as they approached, the temperature dropped once more, and a familiar figure materialized before them.

Herbert Solomon, his eyes glowing with that same sickly light, his face twisted into a mask of rage and sorrow.

The men hesitated, fear gripping them, but McKenzie stepped forward, holding up a cross and muttering a prayer under his breath. The ghost recoiled, hissing like a wounded animal, but it did not disappear. Instead, it advanced on them, its presence growing more oppressive with each step.

The men raised their weapons, but Solomon’s ghost was faster. With a sweep of his hand, he sent them flying, their torches and crosses scattering across the ground. McKenzie scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding as Solomon loomed over him, but before the ghost could strike, a cry rang out from the woods.

The men turned, and there, at the edge of the trees, they saw a group of children—pale, frightened, but alive. The missing children of Ettrick.

Solomon hesitated, his eyes flickering between the children and McKenzie, as if torn between his desire for vengeance and his need to protect them. It was in that moment of hesitation that the vicar saw his chance. He lunged forward, thrusting the cross into Solomon’s chest, and shouted the prayer with all the strength he could muster.

The ghost screamed, a sound so terrible that it seemed to shake the very earth beneath them. But instead of vanishing, Solomon’s figure began to waver, his form flickering like a dying flame. McKenzie could see the pain and sorrow in the ghost’s eyes, and for a brief moment, he felt a pang of sympathy for the man who had been so wronged in life.

But then, with one final, ear-splitting scream, Herbert Solomon’s ghost vanished, leaving only a cold wind and the faint scent of burning wood in its wake.

The men stood in stunned silence, their breath visible in the frigid air. The children, still trembling, slowly made their way out of the woods and into the arms of their waiting parents. But as they did, one of the men noticed something strange—a dark figure, lying motionless on the ground near the edge of the trees.

They approached cautiously, and as they drew closer, the truth was revealed in all its horrifying clarity.

The figure on the ground was Tom Sutherland, Alana’s father. His face was twisted in a grimace of pain, his hands clutching at his chest as if he had suffered a heart attack. But it was the items scattered around him that drew the men’s attention—clothes, toys, and other belongings of the missing children.

And there, in the shallow pit he had been digging, they found the remains.

Tom Sutherland had been the one behind the disappearances all along. Driven mad by grief over the loss of his daughter, he had kidnapped and murdered the other children, hiding their bodies in the woods where he believed no one would find them. The guilt had eaten away at him, driving him to madness, and in the end, it had killed him.

But Herbert Solomon had not been the monster they had feared. He had been a victim, a man wronged by the town, forced to suffer in death for the sins of another. And now, finally, he could rest.

**Chapter 5: Redemption**

The revelations of that night rippled through Ettrick like a shockwave. The townspeople, who had once feared and despised Herbert Solomon, now found themselves consumed by guilt and regret. They had allowed their fear to blind them, to turn them into a mob that had

wrongfully condemned an innocent man. And in doing so, they had unleashed a horror upon themselves that they were only now beginning to understand.

The ghost of Herbert Solomon had not been seeking vengeance. He had been trying to protect the children of Ettrick, to save them from the true monster that lurked among them. But the town had been too consumed by its own fear and hatred to see the truth until it was too late.

McKenzie was the first to publicly acknowledge the town’s guilt. He stood before the congregation the following Sunday, his voice trembling as he recounted the events of that fateful night. He spoke of Solomon’s innocence, of the torment the man had suffered in life and death, and of the need for the town to seek forgiveness for the terrible wrong they had done.

The townspeople listened in silence, their faces pale and drawn. Many wept openly, their tears mingling with the rain that pattered softly against the church windows. And when McKenzie finished, they bowed their heads in prayer, asking for Solomon’s soul to be at peace and for the strength to atone for their sins.

But the town’s repentance was not the end of the story. There was still one final chapter to be written, one that would reveal the true nature of Herbert Solomon and the legacy he would leave behind.

It happened on a crisp autumn afternoon, several weeks after the ghost had vanished. The town was slowly beginning to heal, the wounds left by the hauntings and the disappearances still fresh but no longer bleeding. The children had returned to their homes, their laughter once again echoing through the streets, though the shadows of their ordeal still lingered in their eyes.

It was on this day that I received a letter from an old friend, a colleague from my university days who had been following my research with interest. She was visiting St. Andrews with her young daughter, and she invited me to join them for a walk along the river that ran through the town.

I accepted, eager for a distraction from the dark events that had consumed my thoughts for so long. We met by the riverbank, the golden leaves of autumn crunching underfoot as we strolled along the water’s edge. Her daughter, a bright and lively girl of seven, skipped ahead of us, her laughter filling the air.

For a while, we talked of mundane things—our work, our lives, the changing seasons. But as we reached a bend in the river, my friend grew quiet, her eyes fixed on something in the distance. I followed her gaze and saw her daughter standing at the edge of the water, her reflection rippling on the surface.

Before I could react, the girl slipped on the wet rocks, her arms flailing as she fell into the river with a splash. My friend screamed, and we both rushed forward, but the current had already swept the girl away, her small figure disappearing beneath the water.

Panic gripped me as I tore off my coat, preparing to dive in after her. But before I could, something incredible happened.

The water, which had been churning and frothing with the girl’s struggles, suddenly stilled. And then, rising slowly from the depths, came the figure of a man—tall, gaunt, with hollow eyes that glowed with a pale, ghostly light.

Herbert Solomon.

I froze, my heart pounding in my chest as I watched the ghost reach down into the water, his hands closing around the girl’s small body. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the world holding its breath as Solomon lifted her from the river, cradling her in his arms as if she were made of glass.

And then, with the gentlest of movements, he laid her down on the riverbank, his eyes meeting mine for a brief, poignant moment before he vanished, leaving nothing but the faintest ripple on the water’s surface.

The girl coughed, sputtering as she expelled the water from her lungs, and my friend fell to her knees beside her, tears streaming down her face as she hugged her daughter tightly. I stood there in stunned silence, my mind reeling from what I had just witnessed.

Herbert Solomon, the man who had been so wronged in life, had saved the life of a child in death. He had been a protector, a guardian, even after all he had suffered at the hands of the living.

In that moment, I understood the true nature of the man whose name had been whispered in fear for centuries. Herbert Solomon had not been a monster. He had been a man, flawed and misunderstood, but ultimately kind and protective.

And with that understanding came a deep sense of peace, a knowledge that Solomon’s spirit had finally found the redemption he had sought for so long.

**Chapter 6: Conclusion**

The story of Herbert Solomon became a legend in the town of Ettrick, a cautionary tale of the dangers of fear and the power of redemption. The townspeople, once so quick to judge and condemn, now spoke of him with reverence, their voices hushed and respectful.

The children, too, remembered him, not as a figure of terror, but as a guardian who had watched over them in their darkest hour. They would leave small offerings at the edge of the woods—flowers, toys, tokens of gratitude—for the spirit who had saved them from the true evil that had lurked among them.

And as for me, I returned to St. Andrews with a renewed sense of purpose. The ancient tome that had started it all was now safely locked away, its pages filled with secrets that the world was not yet ready to uncover. But I carried the story of Herbert Solomon with me, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is always a chance for redemption, for forgiveness, and for the truth to come to light.

In the end, Herbert Solomon was not a monster, but a man—a man who, in death, had found a way to right the wrongs done to him, and to protect those who could not protect themselves. And it was in that final act of kindness that he had finally found peace, leaving behind a legacy of hope and redemption that would be remembered for generations to come.

The town of Ettrick would never forget the name Herbert Solomon, nor the lessons his story had taught them. And neither would I. For in the shadows of the past, I had found a truth that was far more powerful, far more enduring, than any fear or superstition.

I had found the story of a man who, despite everything, had chosen to do what was right. And in that choice, he had become something far greater than the monster they had once believed him to be.

He had become a legend.

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Chilling Creepy Dark Fantasy Ghost Stories Gothic Horror Haunted Horror Fiction Horror Stories Paranormal Psychological horror Scary Tales Supernatural Suspense Terror thriller

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