The Stag & Thorn

In Glencoe, where the memory of massacre has faded into little more than an old Highland story, there stands a private gentlemen’s club of dark wood, leather chairs, cigars, and good whiskey. Most nights, its ghosts keep to the walls and the window glass, no more than cold drafts and half-heard steps in the corridor. Tonight, they come in openly. One by one, the dead take their places by the fire as if returning to their own club. They smoke. They drink. They speak. Some died in the massacre. Some came later, drawn to the same old ground. Each has a story to tell, and each story leaves something behind. By dawn, you will know Glencoe better than the living ever meant you to. Whether the dead mean only to pass the time with you, or mean to keep you with them, is another matter.