The James Currie Film

It was never a dull moment’s drive. Scotland was, by definition, a beautiful country of inspiring scenery, majesty, and relentless weather. Evie’s old hatchback had taken a beating from the rain and protruding tree branches that flicked across the windshield on this dark and stormy night in late December 1996. A single peppermint sweet flicked between her cheeks, and the imposing view of her desired destination made her belly knot up. Over the winding roads across the blackened slick of sodden fields, a great stately home rested just next to the shore of one of the world’s most famous bodies of water: Loch Ness.

The sole of Evie’s aching foot in her red leather boot pressed gently to brake the car to a squeaking halt, stopped in a large puddle created by the elements only that same day. The occasional bolt of lightning sent an illumination that lit the entire landscape: the dark, busy water of the Loch, the breaking trees, and the ancient ruins of Urquhart Castle could be seen across the water opposite to this great hall. She wiped the fog from her thick-rimmed glasses and leaned forward to observe the wrought iron gate that lay open. It seemed to invite her into the grounds while two menacing stone grotesque heads gazed upon her, the creatures themselves resembling that of the elusive beast itself, the Loch Ness Monster.

Outside the confines of the warm car, the winds screamed down in a rapacious gale. No stranger to extreme Scottish weather, she took a swig of something lukewarm from her plastic travel mug before exiting the car, grabbing a small leather satchel from the boot, and walking down the snaking gravel driveway towards the foreboding dark residence. Her grandfather used to tell her there was no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing. He’d taken that from an old book of Scottish proverbs and lived firmly by it until his death. Her boots crunched the wet gravel and beads of heavy rain rolled off her hood. She noticed the old Victorian lamps that lit the driveway coming in just next to the glistening wet yet manicured lawns. Two rooms on the ground floor of the sprawling palace appeared to have lights on, one could be seen lit by the old fashioned red and greens of bulbs that flickered from a Christmas tree. She thought it was a very similar sight to something you’d see in one of those hammer horror flicks of the 1970s. Ivy tendrils crept up the walls pointing to cracks in the roof. The sounds of wind wailing and hissing from the shoreline could penetrate ears a mile away down the narrow path.

She grasped the antique iron knocker on the large oak door and banged three times. Her grandfather used to say it was the Devil’s three. He had a superstition about evil coming in threes.

A gold plaque encrusted on the brick wall above the post-box proudly read ‘The Ordained Society of Loch Ness Monster Hunters’.

The stiffened hinges on the heavily constructed oak door groaned when it opened and presented a handsome bearded man in a tartan-chequered sweater and salt and pepper hat. He put Evie in mind of Sean Connery only with more liver spots. He greeted her with a welcoming warmth.

“Let’s get you inside and out of the weather, young lass.” He politely exclaimed; the wind whistled a gale inside the echoed hallway when the door slammed firmly behind her.

She thanked her host and pulled back her hood to view her surroundings.

“The drawing room is just down the hallway,” The man said, “You can make yourself comfortable in there. Are you a smoker?”

“No, I don’t smoke.” She said with an awkward smile; satchel gripped tightly to her hip. She removed her red raincoat and watched him place it on some Nessie-shaped hangers by an umbrella stand. For a man in his seventies, he moved swiftly and energized.

“Pity, I have some excellent cigars I just had arrive this morning from a friend in Nicaragua. Early Christmas present. I’ll be with you in a minute, I must make a quick phone call.”

The wood creaked underneath his strong frame when he hurried down the hallway in his slippers. Evie walked down the opposing large hallway towards the lit room at the end, the water from her sodden boots absorbed by each step on the patterned carpet runner. Each wall sconce lighting the wood-paneled entrance was decorated in dark green and red tinsel, the yuletide merriment seemed like a façade to the dark history of this place that she questioned in her mind. Along each beautifully wainscoted wall were detailed wood carvings of the mysterious creature making its way towards the drawing room entrance. The ruby-tinged hardwood floor creaked with every step even on top of the carpet runner. The sheer grandeur of the place was imposing, and Evie tried not to feel vulnerable. Her prior research had suggested it was just the two of them to meet this evening, but with a place as vast as this, one could never be certain. Every room she passed along the way seemed to have shapes in them, shapes with eyes that watched her every move carefully.

A gorgeous Christmas tree stood eight feet tall in the drawing room, wrapped in old fashioned tinsel with a Nessie head placed on top in place of the typical star or fairy. Next to the tree a large open fireplace snapped and crackled with dry wood; the smell of oak, leather, and fine cigar smoke topped off the seemingly relaxed atmosphere. It smirked of monetary tidings. Cozy would have understated the appearance; it looked just like a painting on a Christmas card, yet Evie was not so snug. She was very much aware of her surroundings and had a bound duty to be on her guard in the presence of this man. Her eyes were quickly drawn to the walls; each a gallery of pictures and photos with an air of mystery dedicated to the society’s supposed findings – black and white photography, art, newspaper clippings, and even what appeared to be dried reptilian skin samples. A large bureau and chair sat in one corner of the room that featured a crystal whisky decanter and behind that, a huge bay window with a wide view of the moonlit loch itself.

“It is Miss Gordon, I presume?” The heavy voice inquired stoutly and sent a chill through Evie when he entered the room behind her.

“It’s Miss Grant, Evelyn Grant,” she said, “We spoke on the phone earlier today.”

The man appeared to be taken aback. “Very good. I’m Doctor Alistair McKendrick,” he said and offered a firm handshake that enveloped hers, “I head the society. The Society of Ordained, sorry, the Ordained Society of Loch Ness Monster Hunters. Long title I know, and I forget easily. More so in my old age.”

His charming smile did little to comfort her. She laid down her satchel next to the large leather couch and kept her smaller purse on her within reach of her cold hands. She chewed upon the remains of the bony mint in her mouth and swallowed before scanning the walls in the room and keeping a watchful distance from the man. Doctor McKendrick checked the antique clock on the wall and saw its ticking hands soon to be at the eleven o’clock chime.

“It’s hard not to be captivated by this room,” he said, “It’s my favorite in the entire headquarters and as such, it’s where I conduct most of my business. This room is the center or rather the heart of the house. The mansion itself was donated to the organization by one of our benefactors, Lady Katherine Shaw. I try to let its walls talk and tell the tales of exploits past.”

Evie’s left eye vibrated slightly when she saw the fingernails on her hands chewed down from the sheer nerves upon coming here. She feigned distraction, but that acute stressing tell was visible, that was until a curiosity did capture her interest on the wall. It was a large painting depicting the giant grayish-brown monster facing down a priest, whose expression was fierce and determined. She removed her glasses to wipe away the steam from the room’s fiery warmth.

“What’s this painting supposed to be, Doctor?” She asked.

The Doctor scratched his beard with social satisfaction and Evie caught sight of the heeled shaving cuts on his face. He loved telling stories, and being invited to enlighten people on a subject he knew everything about provided him with endorphins worthy of spending money on.

“This is the beginning of the monster’s origins,” he said, “Saint Columba is the man in the painting. He was an Irish holy man who came to Scotland in the year 563 A.D. He’d been spreading the good word of the Lord to the Pictish tribes of that time creating a sense of unity among them of which those pagan savages sorely lacked. In the year 565 A.D, at the banks of the River Ness a few miles up the loch’s northern end, one of the tribesmen was being buried by the riverbank. Saint Columba asked the men what had happened, to which they told him he’d been partially eaten by a large water beast. After being told this, Columba sent one of his own companions out to swim across the river, and lo and behold, a great beast rose from the depths. However, Saint Columba was brave and determined. He made the sign of the cross and ordered the monster to go back to wherever it came. It then vanished, never to bother the saint or his tribe ever again.”

Evie turned from the painting and saw the Doctor was standing right next to her. She moved away to gather her bearings and gave a questioning look: “So, it just left?”

“Absolutely, yes. The will of God made it so. The tribes believed they had all witnessed a miracle that day and Saint Columba’s own legend grew among the church.”

“And your society of Nessie hunters believes this story?”

Doctor McKendrick chuckled dryly with an acid tongue. “Absolutely not. The problem with stories is that the original truth of them eventually dies over time. The original account of Saint Columba facing the monster was written over a hundred years after the event happened. And after that, for hundreds of years there was seemingly nothing to write about when it came to the creature.”

Evie felt the beads of sweat trickle down her head with the remnants of rain. The fireplace was hot, but her feeling of impending dread was getting tougher to mask.

“So, when did the modern-day sightings occur?” she asked.

“There were reports made in the late 1800’s of sightings. One of a large creature propelling itself into the dark waters just off the shore. It was only until the 1930’s that we had some extremely interesting witness accounts of the monster.”

“Such as?”

“In 1933, George Spicer and his wife reported a dragon-like creature crossing the road in front of their motorcar carrying a dead animal in its mouth. Then in 1934, a Mr. Arthur Grant described nearly hitting the creature while riding his motorbike down the same stretch of road. This stretch of road being the same one you would have taken coming here tonight. This stretch of road was originally paved in 1933, and therefore has led to many sightings. Before then, nobody came handy to walking that close to the shore down this way. Mind you, like all stories, the written word can also be unreliable. Once you hear one report, it creates a ripple effect of people seeking fame and fortune, and others who just want some attention to take away from their sad and pathetic lives. In this society, we mean to seek hard proof.”

The Doctor kept his eyes locked onto Evie’s at every opportunity, chipping away at that stone wall.

“Then I have exactly what you’re looking for.” She stated firmly, the reason for her visit was about to bear fruit.

“You have something to show me in that satchel you packed with you?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“Irrefutable evidence of the creature’s existence.”

Doctor McKendrick saw the look in her eyes and paused for a moment. He then made his way over to the desk and poured up a dram of whisky for himself in a delicate crystal glass, all the while Evie was sure she heard a thudding noise coming from somewhere upstairs.

“Would you care for a glass of Islay’s finest?” He offered.

“I’d love one.” She said, knowing it might settle her nerves a bit.

Evie listened to that delicate clink of the glass and accepted the warming neat double to temporarily subside her anxiety.

“Excellent choice,” The Doctor said, “That’s the drink of a young lady who has a lot to say.”

Out of the corner of her scrutiny, she saw a proud smile materialize on the Doctor’s strong face – a reaction to one of the photos on the wall; she knew he was eager to say something about it. Even more so than seeing what she had come here for. She held the whisky glass to her nose for a second to sample the smoky scent of the undoubtedly expensive scotch before measuring the very odd black and white framed photograph of a blurred shape in the water.

“This is one of the very first photographs taken of the creature,” he said, “the original negative was lost, and this picture has deteriorated over time. Nothing to get excited about anyway.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s actually a close-up picture of an otter.” The Doctor spoke with an expression of harshness.

“Why is that so important then?” Evie asked.

The Doctor didn’t respond immediately. He was unreadable, almost as though the layers of warmth and hospitality were peeled back to reveal a mold behind the wallpaper, a dirty, disgusting ruination. Instead of answering the question, she watches his finger point to the next gold framed photograph on display.

“This next one here I’m sure you’re aware of. It was the first photograph to show the creature’s full head and neck above the surface.”

Evie placed her whisky glass on the small table next to the couch and rubbed her eyeglasses once again. She recognized the image immediately of the infamous “surgeon’s photograph”, a classic fake taken in 1934. Why the Doctor would mention these fakes to her in such fashion made her skin crawl, almost to build up to something else. That’s when she heard that thud come from upstairs again.

“Doctor, what’s that noise coming from upstairs?”

Evie’s tone was nervous; the look on his face was like a man possessed with pure animosity. It didn’t fit the tone of his voice at all. It was like one of those Italian horror films where the dubbing didn’t quite match the facial expressions.

“Old houses sometimes make noises. I can assure you, you are very much alone here, young lass. Now, look at this next photo.”

Evie took another step back. The next photograph in this curious selection wasn’t like the others. Not only was it in color, but it was also very clear. Appearing alongside a wooden deck chair of sorts on a stony beach by the water was a crystal-clear shot of the monster, only this one was different. A gigantic, sloped head resembling that of a large horse complete with a brown mane baring sharp canine teeth attached to a long muscular neck. You could almost see the liquid glistening from its skin. The body was like that of a walrus, blubbery, and with massive diamond-shaped flippers. It appeared to be facing right at the camera; its black eyes practically staring you down upon viewing it. Evie felt her entire being shiver as if the thing was stood directly in front of her, looking down on her like some sort of plaything.

“This photograph is only on display here at the society. You’ll never see it in any express newspaper or hear about it on any radio. This photograph here is only one in existence that shows the real creature,” The Doctor was deliberate in his words, and despite the whisky he’d been so heartily pouring, he was stone-cold sober in his tone, “And I think you already know that. Now, I want to see what made you drive all the way from London in the wee ungodly hours of the morning. What do you have to show me?”

She was careful to take stock of the Doctor while she picked up and unbuckled her satchel. Fragrant in its snug confines was the musty smell of something from the past. Her hands firmly rifled through, and the Doctor’s facial expression became one of mute officiousness. From the satchel to the oak table, Evie laid out a single VHS cassette tape in a tattered cardboard slipcover.

“What’s on this video tape has been canvassed from the original negative,” she said with a deep breath, watching the Doctor pick it up from the table, “undoubtable proof of the creature.”

The Doctor’s eyes slowly locked onto Evie’s after a brief analysis of the item.

“How old is this footage?” He asked.

“Doctor McKendrick, this is the James Currie film.”

The old man was finally taken aback, almost spooked. In a reversal of moods, Evie noticed the reaction and felt her confidence grow in seconds despite the fear she harbored. The Doctor’s esoteric mannerisms were hard to predict; Evie was brought back to nightmares of her uncle when his dementia in later life caused violent outbursts. This, teamed with the noises she heard coming from upstairs caused her to keep her hand firmly lodged next to her purse in defense.

“The James Currie film is a myth.” The Doctor stated.

“Doctor, you’re heading an organization dedicated to a lake monster. I hope you realize the irony in that statement.”

The Doctor seemed like a man used to having his own way for so long, that he would barely see the rug pulled from underneath his feet.

“Well said, little miss,” he said, “It’s just that Mr. James Currie was the biproduct of a local newspaper desperate for a story.”

Evie smiled assuredly. The Doctor was surprised by her confidence, until he looked down and saw the pistol, she held firmly pointed at him.

“Tell me the whole story. Enlighten me.” She said, wide eyed.

“You’ve barely been able to contain your nerves all night. Who are you?”

When the cylinder ratchet clicked into place, it was as though the Doctor finally took note of his own mortality.

“Okay, have it your way,” he said with a huff, “This is what we know here at the society, the Aberdeen Evening Express published a story about a bank manager named Mr. Currie supposedly having captured video footage of the creature in the 1930s. He said he had over three minutes of the most incredible proof, certifiable evidence of the creature’s existence. He then locked away the footage in a London bank vault claiming that he wouldn’t release it until I quote ‘such matters were taken seriously’. The problem we ran into with this whole tale was that there was no actual record of a James Currie ever existing. The article said he’d been dead over twenty years but there was no trace of a James Currie at any bank in London. The whole article was filled with irregularities.”

“That’s because his name wasn’t really James Currie,” Evie said solemnly with a grown intensity in her movement, “I got the original footage from a bank vault in Great Portland Street, London. The vault was my grandfather’s. His name was John Douglas.”

The Doctor’s mouth seemed to drop along with his eyes, drawing recollection. Evie’s expression had become one of deep-rooted anger.

“In about ten minutes, the other members of the society will be here,” he said firmly, “And my staff upstairs won’t be too happy getting awoken by gunshots.”

Evie stood her ground.

“Let’s watch the tape, shall we, Doctor?”

The video cassette slid comfortably into the mouth of the whirring tape player. The Doctor’s thick shaking fingers struggled momentarily to find the channel; Evie’s heart raced like a fluttering hawkmoth.
The glass screen on the hefty television loaded into play and bestowed a line of graininess to a suddenly clear and disturbing black and white silent first image. The Doctor let out a sharp breath while Evie ordered him to not take his eyes off the screen.

The image opened to display a beach at the edge of the loch. A bit of flare showed the bright and sunny silhouette and imposing face of Urquhart Castle visible in frame. It would have made a lovely postcard image, if it wasn’t for the movement on the rocks in front of the water. The unsettling contour of a bare-skinned woman laid down bound and blindfolded, evidently screaming her lungs out.

“Three minutes of evidence, Doctor.”

With the screaming woman laid just before the loch, a large disturbance appeared in the water, turning the liquid a rolling white color. Seconds after, an enormous horse-like head emerged from the lake, and slowly moved towards the shoreline. The shallower the water, the more of the creature appeared on screen, and before long, the frightening giant was fully revealed and realized in all its monstrous size. The monster appeared to analyze the woman for a moment under its rasping mouth, before ripping her away into the lake by her torso, her arms still attached to the ropes nailed into the rocks. The creature’s torrent in the water subsided slowly on screen, and two men could then be seen walking into frame: John Douglas, and Doctor McKendrick.

The tears that streamed her cheeks paled in comparison to the internal rage that festered. This dark country trip had changed from one of discovery, to one of astute vengeance.

“I have to say,” she said, “you’ve aged incredibly well. Unnaturally so.”

The television screen buzzed to the view of tape static and Doctor McKendrick turned to face Evie with his hands up where she could see them.

“To get ahead in life everybody has to make sacrifices,” he said, “even if those sacrifices are of other people.”

“You’ve been doing this for years. Feeding people to that thing so you can carry on living? What kind of satanic magic is that?”

“That newspaper article was a warning to me, no doubt. John knew I would read it; he was probably trying to blackmail me with it to put a stop to it. Using the name “Currie” in the article was a nice chef’s kiss. Currie was the name of my pet dog back in the day. John wasn’t too happy when the creature ate it.” He laughed.

“You fed your dog to that creature?”

“Well,” he giggled, “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“She was a beagle. She would have run away eventually. Besides, I learned from her that animal sacrifices offered no benefits in terms of a long life. To truly preserve the aging process, you must use people. The fresher the better,” he said, “Do you know how old I am, dear?”

“You are one hundred and thirteen years old.” Evie stated knowingly, causing the Doctor’s nerves to show once again, her own research matching the firepower in her hand.

“How do you know that?”

“It was in my grandfather’s diary.”

The Doctor’s face was awash with sweat, and he could feel the back of his shirt sticking to his shoulder blades irritatingly. His heart murmured as if old age had somewhat agreed to catch up with him, something he hadn’t felt in years. He thought there was no way this could be happening, not naturally. It was all made clearer when Evie lowered her gun and eased off the trigger.

“You told my grandfather that the monster was there to heal my grandmother. She had cancer. He believed the ritual was a healing one, just like the miracles your Saint Columba performed. My grandfather drank himself to death in front of my family. He never got over that sacrifice you made, but he told me about the footage just before he died. The rest was in the diary.”

Evie heard a distinct whine that seemed to swell inside the Doctor from his stomach region. Red-faced and keeled over, his voice wept in pain.

“What is happening to me?” He cried.

The Doctor’s vision swirled until a short spew of translucent bile erupted from the corners of his mouth onto the tartan rug underneath his knees. His complete loss of control caused him to drop and thud against the hardwood floor awkwardly, all two-hundred- and fifty-pounds worth of him. Evie breathed a sigh of relief and pocketed the gun in her purse.

“I spiked your single malt a while back, Doctor. I certainly timed it well; it was nice seeing you sweat like that.”

The air on the upstairs landing was different from the rest of the house downstairs. It was like every sap of coziness had decayed and left just a barren dark hallway with a sickly golden-colored carpet that looked stained from time. The wooden shelves on the walls were empty, save for the dust, and dead flies packed between the glass in each picture frame representing the deep lake. Every door down this hallway was shut, and Evie’s sense of location couldn’t pinpoint where those noises came from. She took out her gun and approached the first door on the left.

The door brushed open slowly and scuffed across the heavy carpet. Within seconds, Evie’s nostrils were assaulted with a wretched scent of something sour. She moved her free hand to cover the lower part of her face, but her stomach rolled uncomfortably. In the pitch black, she wrestled her arm against the wall to find the light switch.

Once the large chandeliers on the ceiling filled the room with light, Evie could barely stand up. Every sense in her was paralyzed from shock.

The smell. The malodorous air of fabrics rinsed in ulcers and bodily evacuations.

The spectacle of this grand sized former dining room was replaced with a ward of sickening debilitation. Fifteen queen beds lined up. The women in them drugged into a semi-permanent state of sleep, save for some occasional twitching. They were all heavily bloated, without a stitch of clothing, and riddled with bed sores. Evie could tell they probably hadn’t moved in some time. If they did, it’s not like they could go anywhere. Their legs all appeared amputated at the knees.

Those people, those poor people, she thought.

It took Evie another moment to regain her strength and sight from the tears in her eyes and sorrow she expressed. When it finally registered to her that each of these young suffering women was also heavily pregnant, the Doctor’s statement regarding “the fresher, the better” dawned on her. This wasn’t a ward; this was a farm.

The Doctor’s bodily pain intensified when he started to wake. Icy cold and raw, scarred by the jagged teeth of the rocks against his bare skin, a storm of freezing rain showered down and frosted over his thick eyebrows, his thick sweater hefty with absorbed water. He was able to move his head and neck enough to gauge being outside, on the beach, and barely able to register a struggle to escape the tight lashes of dock-line rope around his wrists. The storm was bountiful and loud, and his shock and awe grew with each clap of thunder. His soaking wet ears could barely hear the slumping on the rocks next to him, the slumping and slapping of something massive. It was a small distance away but after arching his back sharply onto the stones to look back at the house, he could make out the silhouette of Evie watching on from the drawing room. Another crack of lightning in the sky lightened up the entire area. The Doctor felt his black heart sink to his stomach when met with the curious gaze of the creature’s bulbous eyes that resembled large swirling black marbles.

“My word, you are magnificent! You are indeed the most beautiful thing I have ever laid my eyes on.” He proclaimed.

The sound of breaking bones snapping like brush and sharp tears of flesh became lost in the elements and the gargled screams. To Evie, it was as silent as the James Currie tape, only this sequel had a more satisfying ending. She looked over at another frame on the wall, one which showed McKendrick’s Doctorate proudly displaying his credentials as an Orthopedic Surgeon. At that moment, she felt a wave of something come over her body, ten times more powerful than any feeling of excitement she’d ever felt in her life. It was as though every stressor, every ounce of fear, every feeling of negativity had just been flushed from her soul in a glow of euphoria. She took another peek outside the window to that wondrous storm and said to herself: “Thank you, Doctor. I feel younger already.”

Credit: Alex McIntosh