Howard McBride had many eccentric habits, but the biggest and, admittedly, most tolerable of them all was his obsessive need to enter every contest he came across. Growing up, Howard was a scrawny boy who always favored more feminine pursuits, such as baking and crocheting, which put him at odds with the other boys. They picked on him, called him hurtful names, and shunned him on the few occasions he tried to fit in with their groups. "They called me a faggot long before I even knew I was gay," Howard once remarked. "Had I known that I actually was a faggot, it wouldn't have bothered me so much."
That was Howard for you. As an adult, he didn't let anything bother him. He had a college education, made good money working from home, and was accepted by most of the people he met in his daily life. Beyond that, he didn't care if someone called him names or hated his existence. "I'm totally free to call them names and to hate their guts too," he explained with a shrug, "so that makes us even, and that's all I ever wanted."
As well-adjusted as he seemed, however, he was still dealing with the effects of a lonely and isolated youth. His parents were both too busy to pay him much attention, the other kids ignored him when they weren't dunking him like an Oreo, and for many years, he had no one but his favorite stuffed bear and a poster of Brad Pitt to keep him company. "His shirtless body really helped me through those times. In fact, it was that poster that helped me realize that I might be a fag after all."
Harold always shot him a dirty look when he used words like that. Howard believed something along the lines of "reclaiming hurtful slurs" or something. He never fully articulated his point in front of Clyde, but Clyde was able to gather that he was doing the same thing a lot of black people did by using the word "nigga." Clyde also suspected that Howard, like a lot of black people, delighted in openly using slurs because they were special words that no one else could say.
Then again, maybe now. Clyde didn't know and he didn't really care. He didn't put stock in things like race and gender. A lot of people on Twitter and Instagram went on and on about their sex and skin color, and the sex and skin color of everyone else, and Clyde honestly couldn't be bothered. He just didn't care. He grew up in a series of orphanages, foster homes, and residential facilities for kids who had nowhere else to go. He knew great white people, great black people, and shitty people of all races. No one in a position of power had ever treated him unfairly because of his blackness, and he never got the sense that he was viewed as less than or being held back from achieving his full potential. With that out of the way, he could focus on the real important stuff: Like collecting comics and hanging out with his best friend Lincoln Loud.
Anyway, Howard put on a tough exterior but he was still dealing with some leftover feelings from childhood, feelings to which Clyde could totally relate. Clyde knew what it was like to be lonely and isolated too. It sucked the big one. Thankfully, Clyde had Dr. Lopez to help guide him through his emotions and to help him look inward. Howard didn't have that. That's not to say that he couldn't have had it if he really wanted it - therapy was considered fairly normal and acceptable when Howard was a kid - but maybe he couldn't for some reason. Either way, he never got around to lying on a shrink's couch, and his he grew, those dark emotions sank further and further into his psyche. They never entirely faded, however. He never cried or felt sorry for himself, never threw elaborate pity parties to which everyone within earshot was invited, no, he coped quietly.
By compulsively entering contests.
Growing up the way he did, Howard missed out on attention and approval, two things that are absolutely vital to a healthy ego and id (Clyde didn't know exactly what an id was, but Dr. Lopez talked a lot about it).There was, in essence, a void inside of him, and nothing would be able to properly fill it. That's where the contests came in. The chance of winning something, of being handed one of those comically oversized checks while everyone clapped and cheered for him was, for Howard, the greatest thing in the world. Winning, to him, somehow made up for being an isolated kid. Clyde figured it had something to do with luck: Howard previevred himself as unlucky, and winning contests proved to him that he wasn't.
Maybe that wasn't the reason at all, maybe it was. Clyde had pieced this theory together over the past several years, and while it made perfect sense to him, he was smart enough to know that he wasn't some kind of genius the way Dr. Lopez was. He sometimes liked to think that he had it all figured out, but he did not, and he could certainly be wrong on this. Either way, Howard most certainly, 100 percent had an addiction to entering contests. He would scour the internet and throw his hat into the ring (he had a lot of hats) whenever he found one. Clyde supposed it could have been worse, he could have been a gambler. At least entering contests was (usually) free. And if he won, there was a prize, though, for the most part, the prizes always stank. A year supply of toothpaste, a gift card to Wal-Mart, a case of non-seltzer seltzer water, things like that. The greatest prize he had ever won was a thousand dollars that he put into savings for a rainy day. It wound up in Clyde's college fund. Clyde appreciated that, but with the way things were going, by the time he shoved off, that would probably buy him a text book or two.
One day in late March, Clyde was hanging out with his dads in the living room. Harold was reading the anointed Hunchback of Notre Dame and Howard was perusing his laptop. He wore pink silk pajamas and had his legs folded under him, looking for all the world like an excitable girl from a fifties musical. Not every gay couple conforms to traditional gender stereoytpes, but in this relationship, there was undoubtedly a man and a woman. Harold was the man - a bookish and academic man, but a man nevertheless - and Howard was the woman. He did most of the cooking, baking, and housework, and loved to gossip with his friends on the phone. Howard referred to himself as "flaming" and as "a screaming queen." That meant he was effeminate and happily so.
Clyde was playing a game on his phone and just about to beat his high score when Howard let out a womanish shriek of delight, making both him and Harold jump. "Oh, my God, that's perfect."
"What's perfect?" Harold asked and adjusted his glasses as though Howard's sonic outburst had knocked them askew on his face.
"I can't believe it," Howard went on, ignoring him. He waved one limp hand. "One of you should pinch me, because I must be dreaming."
"What is it?" Harold asked again.
"I just can't wrap my head around it," Howard marveled. "I am shocked, I tell you, simply shocked."
Harold sighed. "Honey, spit it out."
Seeming to realize that he was babbling, Howard spun the laptop around so that his son and husband could see it. "Look," he said. 'It's a contest, and the grand prize is an all expenses paid trip to Scotland."
Clyde and Harold both replied with blank expressions. "Scotland?" Harold asked.
"Yes, Scotland. It's part of the United Kingdom."
"I know what it is," Harold said, "I just don't see the appeal."
Howard's jaw dropped and his hand fluttered to his chest. "What do you mean?"
"Scotland isn't somewhere I've been dying to go," Harold said with a shrug. "It's cold, rainy, and, from what I've seen, ugly."
A shocked gasp burst from Howard's throat. "Ugly? Dear, you are woefully mistaken. Scotland is a lovely country. Here." He typed SCOTLAND into Google Images and pictures of rocky coasts and treeless, wind-swept moors popped up. "See," he said with a smug little inflection, "this scenery is simply breathtaking."
"I don't see any trees," Harold stated, "all I see is empty space. It reminds me of a Playstation game where the developers were too lazy to add any features to the landscape."
That analogy, coming from bookish Harold, made Clyde laugh, and Howard's brows furrowed dangerously. "Of course there are trees in Scotland." He plugged TREES IN SCOTLAND into the search engine and came back with photos proving his point. Clyde saw lush hillsides and tree-crowed glens, misty mountains and lakes so clear that they reflected the sky above like panes of polished glass. Harold hummed and stroked his chin in contemplation of the scenes before him. "Not bad," he admitted. "Still, Scotland hardly seems like the best vacation destination. I'd prefer the beach."
"Remember that bed and breakfast we stayed at in Vermont?" Howard asked. "You enjoyed that."
Harold lifted and lowered one shoulder. "It was nice, but there was so little to do. One can only hike so far and make so much maple syrup."
"I think Scotland is lovely and I would love to visit it at least once before I die," Howard stated. "With things the way they are in the world, who knows when that will be? I could catch COVID or be drafted to fight when the Russians invade. I would make an awful soldier. I'd get my entire unit killed and set gays in the military back a hundred and fifty years."
Oh, boy, here he went again. Howard could be such a drama queen sometimes. "Russia isn't going to invade us," Harold said patiently.
"They might nuke us," Howard countered. "Or I might slip in the shower and die. Either way, I want to see Scotland before that happens. Tomorrow is promised to no man." He said that last part in a singsong voice. He spun the computer back around and blazed his fingers across the keyboard, presumably filling out the contest's entry sheet. "Scotland, here we come."
While his utter confidence that he would win was endearing, Howard lost more contests than he won. Of course, if you enter a thousand contests a year, the law of probability says that you're going to lose most of them. No one can always bowl a perfect game and not every football player can always be the MVP. Howard, however, had the ego of Ye and the determination of a Terminator. He would never give up and he would always see himself as having a 99.9 percent chance of winning. He took losing graciously enough, but he was always a little taken aback when he didn't win. "Well then," he'd say in a snotty tone, "okay."
For this reason, Clyde didn't have much faith that Howard would win. In fact, the moment Howard signed up and stopped talking about it, Clyde completely forgot about the matter. Despite what his haters might think (and yes, he had haters), he had a full and complex life. He had friends, hobbies, and even a crush who had a crush back on him. Her name was Kyla and she was in the fifth grade. They hung out after school at Gus's and occasionally had dinner or went to the movies. He didn't give any thought to Howard's contest until the day Howard won.
He and his dads were sitting on the couch again, Harold reading Dante's Inferno and Clyde playing League of Legends on his phone. Howard let out a high-pitched, ear-piercing screech and threw his arms into the air like a man on an epic roller coaster. Harold and Clyde jumped in surprise, and Harold's book dropped to the floor. "I WON!" Howard cried. "I WON! I KNEW IT! I KNEW I WAS GOING TO WIN!" He pumped his fist and flashed a competitive, man-eating grin. "Who's your daddy, bitches?"
Harold gasped. "Howard!"
Realizing what he'd said, Howard coughed into his hand. "I mean, I won. We're going to Scotland!"
Harold and Clyde exchanged a sneaky look. Clyde sensed that Harold really didn't want to go to Scotland. It had less to do with Scotland being dumb or boring and more to do with Harold being a homebody. He was like a Hobbit, happiest at home by the fire with a good book and a cup of hot tea. He didn't like traveling and hated being away from his own bed and belongings. He would travel to the right destination - Cancun, for instance - but even then, he was always more excited on getting home than he was on getting to the resort. Clyde, on the other hand, really liked the idea of traveling and seeing the world. There was nothing wrong with Scotland but it was a case of "so many places to see, not enough time to see them all." He and his dads took more international trips than the average family, but even then, they didn't exactly do it every other day. Clyde had a whole list of places he wanted to see, and every single place in the UK was near the bottom. Harold was right about the place being cold and dreary. Clyde had only ever seen the British Isles on TV but there was something about it that he just didn't like.
Still, he wouldn't turn down a chance to explore a new land.
"When?" Harold asked. It was clear that he would go along with whatever Howard wanted, whether he was particularly enthusiastic about it or not.
"July," Howard said. "We'll be at a hotel in Glasgow for six nights and five days."
"How much of the country can we see from Glasgow?" Harold asked.
"A lot, I'm sure," Howard said. "Scotland is a very small country. Did you know that if it were part of the US, Scotland would be the same size as South Carolina?"
Harold hummed. "Interesting. South Carolina still isn't a small place. We'll be limited in what we can do."
"Nonsense," Howard scoffed, "we can always stay at a lodge if need be. It's not like they'll throw us out of the hotel if we aren't constantly holding down our suite."
"Sounds expensive," Harold sniffed.
Howard rolled his eyes. The McBrides weren't exactly what Clyde would call wealthy or even rich, but they had money, Between the two of them, they brought in over a hundred thousand a year. Clyde didn't know the exact amount and was too shy to ask (not that it really mattered) but it was a lot. They showered him with gifts on a weekly basis, and we're not talking Dollar Store stuff either. Whatever Clyde wanted, it was his for the asking. Luckily for his dads' bank accounts, he wasn't a very materialistic person. That wasn't to say he was some hippie who hated possessions and totally "vibed on a more spiritual level, man," but there weren't many things that made him sit up and take notice. Video games, maybe, and nice clothes, but he didn't sit there and collect either one. If he saw something and liked it, he liked it. Half the time he didn't ask his dads to buy it for him because he was always sure that there would be something bigger and better (and likely more expensive) just around the bend, The McBrides were generous, but if he tried pissing through their money, they might have to give him a talking to, and that would just be awkward for everyone involved.
Anyway, that's to say that money was no object, and therefore not a legitimate gripe. Harold just wanted to crap on the idea of going to Scotland because he personally didn't want to do it. Howard shot Clyde a knowing look, and Clyde sheepishly lifted and lowered one shoulder as if to say I don't know what to tell you. And that was true, he didn't. Harold, though barely into his forties, could be just as big a curmudgeon as any salty eighty year old man.
"It won't be," Howard said, "and if it winds up being expensive, I'll pay for it out of my own purse. Heavens forbid you have to give up any of your megar paycheck."
"My paycheck is anything but megar," Harold pointed out, "but it's also not so big that I'm comfortable whiling it away on nonsense."
Howard let out an exasperated sigh and threw his hand up. Talk to the palm, sister, not the face. "Look," Harold said, softening his tone, "if we have to stay overnight somewhere that isn't the hotel, why don't we make a camping trip out of it? We've been promising to take Clyde camping since we adopted him. Would you like that, Clyde?"
"Sure," Clyde said honestly, "that sounds fun."
Because he spent most of his childhood in state care, Clyde had never been camping before. He'd seen characters do it in movies and on TV shows (like Camp Lazlow, an all-time classix), and it always looked fun. Harold and Howard were both lovers of the outdoors, though their idea of "the outdoors" usually included a fully equipped RV parked somewhere close by. Harold promised to take him "real" camping one day, and Clyde had been patiently waiting for the day to come. Now that Harold brought it up, he really hoped it happened. Granted, camping in Scotland seemed kind of like traveling to an exotic locale and eating at McDonald's, but whatever. The point of going to another country is to experience its unique culture, so doing something like camping, which you could pull off in your very own backyard, seemed like a wasted opportunity, but really, they had…what, five days? Six? That was a lot of time to fill, so Clyde was sure that he and his dads would have plenty of time to do whatever one does in Scotland.
"I can live with that," Howard said.
So it was settled. In a few short months, they would embark on their Scottish adventure. Howard, for whatever odd reason, swore Clyde and Harold to secrecy. "Don't tell anyone where we're going," he said, "at least not yet."
He probably did it so that he could spring it on his Facebook friends as a surprise or something. He was like that: He'd post a random update from Scotland and expect a huge response…which he'd probably get, to be honest. His Facebook friends were total normies, but then again, who on Facebook isn't? The only people who used Facebook anymore were boomers and late stage GenXers who constantly complained about how soft their kids were. Okay, but that reflects poorly on your parenting. Maybe if you spent more time being a parent than blasting hair metal and sharing Minions memes, your kids wouldn't be such overly sensitive attention whores doing cringy dances on TikTok.
But hey, blame the kids.
It's always their fault.
Anyway, Clyde kept his promise to not tell anyone. Unlike a lot of people out there, he took his word seriously. If he said he was going to do something, he was going to freaking do it. All a man has in this life is his word. He heard that in a movie (or maybe read it in a book) and it stuck with him. As the weeks passed and the weather began to warm up, however, he started to get really excited. His big summer trip was hurtling toward him like a rock and keeping it all to himself was getting harder and harder. He made a promise to Howard, though, and he intended to hold it down.
The only person he told was his girl, and even then only a couple weeks before they left. Clyde was stoked for this trip, but he wasn't entirely happy about the idea of not seeing Kyla for a week, but honestly, that was a bullet he was willing to bite. Cone on, it's Scotland. He couldn't just walk down the street and be in Scotland any old time he wanted. This was, like, a once in a lifetime thing. She wasn't over the moon about it either, but she didn't say so out loud. She expressed happiness for him and asked him to take lots of pictures for her. Oh, he'd take pictures alright, but not of the scenery.
Of his junk.
LOl no, he wasn't going to do that, but he'd totally take a few shirtless selfies. Maybe he'd even reverse appropriate some white culture and put on a kilt. Hey, you know what they say: When in Rome, do as the Romans.
How would he look in a kilt anyway? Probably handsome like always. It's hard to look bad when you're dead sexy like he was *rubs nipple*
A couple days before leaving for Scotland, Clyde finally let his best friend Lincoln Loud in on where he was going and what he was doing. It was a blisteringly hot Saturday afternoon in July and Lincoln had made the long and dangerous trip over from his house six blocks away. By the time Lincoln turned up at the door, he was red faced and sweating profusely; Clyde rushed him into the kitchen and gave him a Rocket Pop to cool him down. "You're a brave man going outside on a day like this."
"Or a stupid one," Howard called from the living room. He sat on the couch with his laptop, dressed in his silk PJs. The A/C was on full blast and Howard had declared his refusal to step foot outside until the temperature became more "humane."
"Probably stupid," Lincoln admitted.
After bringing Lincoln back from the verge of death, Clyde took him into his bedroom to hang out while Clyde packed. Clyde got his suitcase out from under his bed, tossed it on, and unzipped it. Lincoln sat on the desk under the window, legs dangling over the side, and watched. "Where are you guys going?" he asked casually.
The McBrides were always going on summer vacations, even if it was only a few hundred miles down the road. Nothing out of the ordinary there. "Well," Clyde said and began to pack the suitycase with clothes, "my dad entered a contest…"
"Ah," Lincoln said, "say no more."
He knew all about Howard's obsession. In fact, he knew the McBride men so well that half of the time, all Clyde had to say was "my dad" and Lincoln could piece together which dad he was taking about from context clues alone.
"Yeah," Clyde said. "And this time he actually won the grand prize."
"A trip?" Lincoln asked, sounding interested. "That's awesome. That's got to be, like, the biggest prize he's ever won."
"It is," Clyde said. "Anyway, his prize was an all expenses paid trip to Scotland."
Lincoln's jaw dropped. "Scotland? Dude, that's so awesome. Scotland's amazing. I love it there."
He sounded like he had been to Scotland before. As far as Clyde knew, however, he had not. Clyde turned and looked at him, his brow arching critically. "You've been?"
A shadow flickered across Lincoln's face and he suddenly looked uncomfortable, as if he had accidentally revealed a secret he wasn't supposed to. "No," he said quickly, "I mean, I've seen pictures of it. It looks really nice."
Okay, something was up. Life wasn't a cartoon where you could act totally strange like that and no one would notice. He might as well shove his hands into his pockets, rock back and forth on his heels, and whistle. Nothing to see here, guys, totally innocent. Clyde turned around to face his friend full on and furrowed his brows. "You're not being entirely truthful," he said. He didn't want to come right out and call him a liar, but he was a liar.
"No, I'm telling you the truth. I watched a documentary on it and it looks great. You'll have a good time." His words came out in a nervous rush, and he jumped up. "I gotta go, I hear my mom calling me."
Clyde's brows lowered even more. "You live six blocks away, you don't hear -"
But Lincoln was already gone. The front door slammed closed, and Clyde went to his window just in time to see Lincoln running up the sidewalk like the devil was chasing him. Clyde scratched his head in puzzlement. Why was Lincoln acting so weird? Did he visit Scotland before? He sure acted like it. If he had, then why was he hiding it? Why didn't he just say so?
White people are strange.
When the big day finally arrived, Clyde and his dads went to the airport around 6am and boarded their flight after a grueling trip through TSA. An agent pulled Howard out of the line at random and patted him down. They tried to make him go into the back for a strip search, since Howard apparently looked like the type of guy who'd hijack a plane, but he kicked up such a stink that the agent eventually gave up and let him go. On the plane, Clyde sat between his dads while they both napped. He was too excited to sleep, so he watched the in-flight movie and read comic books. Occasionally, he'd lean over Harold to peer out the window. All he could see was the cloud over below punctuated by flashes of the North Atlantic.
The stewardess brought him as many cups of Coke as he could drink, and when dinner time rolled around, she wheeled a cart down the aisle. Clyde and his dads ordered their meals when they originally booked the flight: Clyde got baked chicken, broccoli, and mashed potatoes. It was either that or steak, asparagus, and russet potatoes, and Clyde wasn't a big steak guy. He loved ground hamburger meat, but outside of that, he didn't go crazy for beef.
After what seemed like a journey of a million miles, the plane touched down in Glasgow. A driver was waiting for them with a sign reading MCBRIDE, and he helped Clyde and his dads carry their luggage to the car. As Harold feared, the weather was cool and rainy, more befitting November than July. On the ride of the hotel, Clyde pressed his face to the window and stared out at the city with wide eyes. Glasgow looked very much like any American city, but…different. The aretecture had a more gothic vibe and all the signs he saw were different colors and shapes than the ones in the US. The streets were cobblestone in places and the cars were smaller than those stateside.
The hotel wound up being a boxy modern structure with ranks of windows marching across the brick facade like an army into battle. Clyde couldn't lie, he was a little disappointed. He was hoping for something a little more…Scottish? He had no idea what exactly that meant. Did he want it to look like one of the many cathedrals they had passed on the way? Maybe that would have been nice, but whatever. Harold and Howard checked in at the desk and a bellhop loaded their bags onto a cart for the trip up the elevator. As soon as they had tipped the bellhop and he was gone, Harold pushed the cart into the room and closed the door. "Let's check out the restaurant," he said, "I'm famished."
The restaurant, which was attached to the hotel, was, in actuality, a pub. That's short for public house. As per Wikipedia, a pub is defined by law as a place that:
is open to the public without membership or residency
serves draught beer or cider without requiring food be consumed
has at least one indoor area not laid out for meals
allows drinks to be bought at a bar (i.e., not only table service).
Basically, it's a bar. The McBrides sat in a booth and perused the menu, the adults having beer and Clyde enjoying a refreshing glass of chocolate milk. All three of them wound up ordering fish and chips; it wasn't a particularly Scottish dish, but they were hungry and not in the mood to explore or try new things. The waitress brought them their food and they dug in. The fish was flavorful and crisped to golden brown perfection. The fries were salted just right and were in that beautiful state between crispy and, uh, not crispy. Clyde ate every last morsel of food, and finished off the remains of Howard's fish. "I love fried fish," the white man said with a mournful hilt, "but it goes right to my thighs."
In the corner of Clyde's eyes, Harold waggled his brows suggestively at Howard as if to say I know where it goes and I like it. "Oh, stop," Howard said.
"What?" Harold asked. "I didn't say a word."
"You thought more than a word," Howard said.
Harold lifted and lowered one shoulder.
When they were finished eating, they walked six blocks to a car rental agency. While Harold rented the car, Clyde and Howard went shopping. Now, it's kind of a stereotype that gay men love shopping. A lot don't. Howard, however, did. Luckily for the family finances, he was more of a window shopper than anything else, but he did enjoy the hunt and thrill of finding nice things and buying them. Honestly, Clyde did too. Like Howard, he was picky about what he actually spent money on, but he did enjoy walking around stores and seeing what there was to see. The shops they hit up while waiting for Harold were all high end boutiques that catered to wealthy tourists. They were elegant and richly lit, but soulless, lacking a local character and identity that defined the smaller shops flanking the cobblestoned side streets nearby. All during this excursion, Clyde was on the look out for men in kilts but didn't cross paths with any, which was kind of strange. He'd expect to see at least one or two.
Ironically, the only thing he wound up buying that day - rather, the only thing Howard simply insisted on buying him - was a plaid kilt. Howard got one for himself and one for Harold, all boasting the same colors and patterns: Green. When they finally met up with Harold later, Howard showed him. "We match," he said proudly.
"I'm not wearing a kilt," Harold said.
Howard blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I prefer pants," Harold said.
"You're wearing this when we go sightseeing tomorrow, and that is final."
Harold sighed. Clyde knew his father well enough to know that he would relent to Howard's demands.
He always did.
That night, Harold and Howard slept in the bed while Clyde slept on the pull out couch in the next room. The city was dark and silent by the time they went to bed, and Clyde was surprised by how quiet it was. The only sound, save for the patter of rain against the window pane, was the distant weee wooo weee wooo of a police car, or maybe an ambulance. Why did European EMS vehicles have such obnoxious sirens? God, they grated on Clyde's nerves. Then again, why were so many terms and words different here than in America and vice versa? Take elevators. In America, they were called elevators. Here they were "lifts." Oh, and why do they drive on the opposite side of the road here? It's like America and the UK were going out of their way to be different from one another. They were kind of like Lana and Lola: They kind of looked the same, but they were vastly different…and seemed to revel in that fact.
That thought carried Clyde into the land of sleep, and in his dreams, he walked the streets of Glasgow in a kilt, a pipe band marching behind him.
Weird.
The next morning, Clyde, Harold, and Howard set out for a meandering, day-long drive through the storied Scottish Highlands. The roads out of the city resembled American interstates and were clogged with traffic. The buildings fell away gradually, and barren green hills took their place. The closer they got to the Highlands, the more it began to remind Clyde of the American South. There were, shockingly enough, forests, also pastures, fields, and small towns where all of the houses were made of stone and put Clyde in mind of Pueblo Indians. They built little houses, especially in hillsides, out of clay and adobe. The Scots did pretty much the same thing. In one small town they passed through, the road was level with the roofs of the houses, and anyone peering out of a second story window would have a road kill's eye view of the pavement. Steep hills and vast lakes appeared in the distance, and the landscape became more and more rugged. "It reminds me of West Virginia," Howard said from the passenger seat.
"We could have just gone there instead," Harold pointed out.
"Oh, hush," Howard replied.
"The weather would have been better."
Probably. It was dry and sunny today, but only in the high fifties. Clyde picked up a guidebook to Scotland in the hotel lobby and it said that the max temp in July was 60. 60 degrees. That was as hot as it got in the Highlands during the hottest month of the year. Unless he was reading it wrong. Maybe, since it blew his mind that somewhere below the Arctic Circle would be that cool in flipping July.
At just past noon, they stopped at a small restaurant in a small town for lunch. They sat at the counter and the owner chatted with Harold and Howard about local legends and landmarks.
That's when Clyde first heard of Loch Loud, one of the most ominous and spooky places in the was apparently a castle there that was reputed to be haunted. On hearing the name, Clyde thought of his friend Lincoln. Did Loch Loud have anything to do with the Loud family? As far as Clyde knew, they were the only people on the face of the earth with the last name Loud. Of course, he didn't know everyone in the world so he couldn't say for sure. He went back to how strangely Lincoln had acted when Clyde asked if he had been to Scotland, and deep in his brain, two previously loose ends touched together and produced a spark. Yes, Loch Loud must have something to do with Lincoln.
Clyde suddenly wanted to visit the castle.
Luckily for him, so did Howard and Harold. Harold was a massive history buff so the thought of visiting a real live castle was right up his alley. The McBrides piled into the car and set out in the direction the restauranter indicated. Loch Loud was twenty-five kilometers to the southwest, sheltered in a cove formed by tall mountains that sloped up from the lake and swept back toward the leaden sky. The castle itself stood on the shore of the lake, all spires, ramparts and moats. The groundskeeper, a beefy old man in a thick sweater and Andy cap, lived in a little cottage on the castle grounds, and when the McBrides pulled up, he was raking the grass. The McBrides got out of the car and Harold talked to him about touring the castle while Clyde walked around. A cold wind blew off the lake and the sound of it stirring the trees was so much like the low whisper of voices that a shiver went down Clyde's spine.
For a nominal few of ten dollars American, the groundskeeper - Mr. Angus Young - agreed to show the McBrides around the castle and grounds. "Since we're already out here," he said in a heavy accent, "we might as well start with the estate." He put the rake away and led them around the grounds, pointing out landmarks and interesting stories behind them, Clyde shoved his hands into his pockets and followed behind his dads. As they walked, Angus related the long and sordid history of the Loud family.
Clyde listened intently.
The family Loud came to the valley sometime during the Crusades. The earliest written record of their presence in the area dated to 1098. The patriarch of the family was a Norman noble with ties to royalty and was granted the land encompassing the loch by King William II, to whom he was supposedly related. The castle was built between 1098 and 1109. The Louds were a very large family with fifteen children who were said to be extremely close with one another. They never left the castle or married into other families, but remained behind the walls of their fortress home, rarely leaving the valley. Several of the sons would fight in the Holy Land during the Crusades but those who lived inevitably returned to Loch Loud.
For several hundred years, generations of Louds rose and fell behind the castle's forbidding stone walls. As time passed, each successive generation came out less and less, seldom glimpsed beyond the walls and almost never seen in town. Dark legends naturally grew up around the increasingly reclusive family. Tales of incest, murder, and black magic passed from lip to ear in firelit taverns and the Louds eventually came to be regarded with fear and suspicion. The villagers blamed every cruel turn of fate on the Louds, who were said to hold dark rites and to consort with Satan. The women were said to be witches, and the men warlocks; their deformed and feral incest children supposedly lived in the walls of the castle, and came out at night to attack sheep and wayward travellers. For years, the people of Loch Loud feared the coming of the night, and would rush home to hunker behind locked doors before the sun set.
The groundskeeper told the McBrides that vampires, ghosts, and werewolves were said to haunt the hills around the castle and that every death in the village was ascribed to something the Louds had done. The family eventually began to die off, the castle decaying around them, and the last surviving members emigrated to America before 1800. The castle had stood empty ever since, kept in repair by the Crown. It was renovated in the 1920s and served as a mesum until 1965, when it was closed up after a series of freak accidents and mysterious disappearances.
Clyde didn't know if any of the story was true or not, but it was spooky and fascinating nevertheless. Angus said that he had been the caretaker here since 1972 and that he had had his share of ghostly encounters, mainly in the form of unexplained noises. "There's thumping in the walls," he told them in a low, ominous tone. He said that it was the leftovers of the Loud bloodline, the incestous offspring who had been living in the tunnels and warrens beneath the castle since time out of mind. They were at the entry way to the building now, and as if on cue, a cold, stale wind washed over them.
Though he wasn't superstitious and didn't believe the story - any of it - Clyde gulped.
Inside, the walls and floors were made of stone that radiated a deep chill. Rich tapestries hung from the walls, along with decorative swords and crests, and a suit of armor stood at the bottom of the stairs, one hand curved around a wickedly sharp lance. As they passed, Clyde craned his neck to look up at it, his heart beginning to pound. He was suddenly sure that there was someone in it and that if he strayed too close, it would grab him.
The armor made no move against him, and Clyde was able to get past without being attacked. Angus led them up the stairs and along another cave-like corridor. He showed them all the rooms opening off the hall, each one of them seemingly bigger than the last. There were fireplaces, canopy beds, and other stereotypical medieval trappings. Harold was enraptured by his surroundings, and Howard gushed over the Persian rugs. In the great banquet hall, a giant painting of an old man with a cruel face looked down at the long table, his body covered in armor and his hand resting on the hilt of a sword thrust blade first into the ground. Clyde stood in front of it and stared up at his face. It looked kind of like Lincoln's grandfather.
Kind of.
But not exactly.
A loud thump sounded behind him and Clyde spun around. A series of muffled thuds and knocks traced the length of the wall, then petered out. Clyde's blood turned to ice water and for a moment he was frozen in place, pictures of twisted and terrible gremlins flickering hatefully through his head. When his paralysis finally broke, he ran away and rejoined the others, who were walking through the library. Clyde eventually mustered up enough courage to wander off on his own again. He threaded his way through all of the rooms, some of which Angus had showed them and some that he hadn't. He found all sorts of things that had belonged to members of the Loud family, all of them perfectly preserved and seemingly untouched by time. Brushes, mirrors, clothing - they all looked brand new, not hundreds or even thousands of years old.
Stale drafts blew through the halls and moaned like the dry voice of dead things risen from the grave. Clyde listened intently, expecting to hear the scrape of shuffling footfalls, but none ever came. Clyde peered out one of the narrow slitted windows and gazed at the steely surface of Loch Loud. Mist swirled over the water and moved through the trees like ghosts, and as Clyde watched, something dark and humped slithered into the lake and disappeared beneath the surface. He swallowed and turned away. Did he just see a lake monster? He felt like he saw a lake monster.
He turned away from the window and made his way back into the hall. He found a spiral staircase that wound up and up to one of the spires, and he followed it, pausing to listen to the wind whipping off the lake. At the top was a door. He pushed it open and the hinges creaked eerily. Beyond was a tiny, Spartan cell with only a bed and a desk. A giant painting adorned the wall, covered by a white sheet. Clyde stared up at it, and a strange feeling came over him. His palms began to sweat and his spine tingled. His throat felt thick and his heart throbbed achingly in his chest. Something told him to turn around and walk away, but instead, his feet carried him to the painting almost against his will. He felt like he was on the verge of making a great, profound discovery, on the edge of learning a great and terrible revelation.
He might not like whatever was beneath this sheet.
Steeling himself, Clyde reached up, grabbed the sheet, and pulled it off.
What he saw made his jaw drop.
The portrait was of a large family, two adults and eleven children. They were all dressed in medieval finery: Ruffles, frills, dresses, and pantaloons. The father wore an armor breastplate and the mother a pointed cap with a long ribbon dangling from the tip.
It took Clyde a few seconds to realize that he recognized them.
He knew each face intimately, had seen them a million times over the years. There was Luan (sans braces); Luna and Leni; Lori; Lucy. His eyes fell on Lincoln and the air left his lungs in a rush. It was undoubtedly Lincoln. Every feature was exactly the same from the chipped teeth to the freckles; even the cowlick was identical. It was like looking at a snapshot that had been taken days ago.
"What the flip?" Clyde maeveled.
He caught a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye and wheeled around with a gasp. The door slammed closed and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The wind picked up and whistled through the window, chilling him to his core. The sound that it made was like the low whisper of a dozen voices and Clyde could almost make out words. He turned back to the painting and a hammerhead of fright struck his heart. The eyes of all the Louds seemed to be looking directly at him, their gazes fixed and their smiles too cold, too sharp. He fell back a step and a loud thud echoed through the tower.
Breaking, Clyde hurled himself at the door, clawed at the handle, and got it open. He ran headlong down the steps, tripping and stumbling all the way. He didn't dare look back, even when the high, hitching sound of mad laughter rose behind him.
He found the others in the dining hall. Howard and Harold took one look at him and were instantly worried. "Are you okay, honey?" Howard asked. "What happened?"
Clyde caught his breath but couldn't speak.
"You saw something, didn't you, boy?" Angus asked. He squinted, one eye seeming to bulge from his socket.
Clyde swallowed. "N-No," Clyde lied. "I-I just…I didn't see anything."
The old groundskeeper grinned.
As Clyde lived and breathed, it was the exact same grin as the ones he had seen in the painting.
Angus had to be a Loud.
Shortly after Clyde's encounter, the McBrides rushed out of the castle and drove off. In the back of the car, Clyde stared out at the castle and watched as it faded into the misty, early afternoon twilight.
What was this place, he wondered.
And what were the Louds?
He swallowed hard.
He didn't know, and to be honest…he didn't think he wanted to know.