This is a story inspired by the fairy pools on the Isle of Skye, a fantastic walk beneath the base of a mountain that looks like it’s been cracked in two. Well worth a visit. Just watch out for the fairies, they have a temper!
Alan stomped along the lake's shoreline. Those closed-minded cretins, he thought. He would prove them wrong. Moonlight shimmered on the mountain, glinting in the deep gash which ran up the middle, as if a hammer blow had struck its top. At its base, a steep valley of waterfalls and rivers roared to the stars. The light from his head torch shimmered in the water, catching the edges of the fairy pools; deep circular pits carved into the river bed. A tourist attraction. There were no actual fairies. Or so the sceptics in the Trust said. He knew better. He'd seen them across the stepping stones. Floating orbs of colour. How he wished someone had been with him. No matter. He had everything he needed to capture them now. He’d be famous.
Alan was fumbling with his tripod when a bright glow shone from the base of a fairy pool. He gasped and dropped to his knees, scrambling forward. The orb floated out of the water. He could almost touch it. A cold breeze found his skin, making him shiver. He could see something inside. The light shone brighter. It was a face, but nothing like he'd seen before. It was contorted, baring ragged teeth. Alan screamed and tried to push himself back but he couldn't move. An invisible force grabbed his throat, dragged him forward.
Soon, there was only the sound of water rushing from the waterfalls above the lake's moonlit shoreline.