The Phantom
Scotland, 1850
Jack Bogle was stranded in Glasgow. Having broken up with his childhood sweetheart, he was cold, lonely, and miserable. An eternal mist had enveloped the city, and Jack, unprepared as always, was lacking warm clothes and a way home to the States. When his apprenticeship at the distillery ended, Jack had planned to continue his Scotch whisky education at another company. Now, with his personal life shattered, he was receptive to change.
Outside a cobbler’s, Jack was window shopping for proper boots. The proprietor of the establishment approached him and learned his story. Tavish, having been in a similar situation as a young man, invited Jack home for dinner. Despite Jack’s stubborn pride, Tavish wouldn’t take no for an answer. In less than an hour, Jack was sitting at a table by the fireplace with a heaping plateful of food. He’d had shepherds pie before, but this version was phenomenal.
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The truly surprising part of the meal was the wine. Served from a crystal decanter, it was both simple and complex; changing with every sip and elevating every bite of the feast. Something clicked in Jack’s mind, and he could see his future in vineyards. When Tavish’s wife, Mary, served Orkney cheddar for dessert, Jack could only smile as the wine transformed the cheese in his mouth.
Over cigars after dinner, Tavish listened to his guest’s plans. He explained to Jack that the wine was shipped to Scotland in barrels from Bordeaux, then bottled locally. “At the haunted distillery,” he added. Jack puffed on his cigar and looked at Tavish as if he were kidding. “Yes, it’s true. The Phantom, they call it. It’s why they have a new staff every three months. I can get you a job there anytime.”
Jack worked there a week before he saw the shadow. At first, he laughed it off. The staff was as old and creaky as the building, and, he thought, just wanted to scare the new boy. One night, working alone and gluing labels to bottles, a cool breeze blew over him. Considering this was a basement without windows, he looked around for the origin of the air; no vents, cracks, shafts. The door was far away and closed. He felt it again, stronger.
Before Jack could react, cases of empty wine bottles clinked. The sound was soft, like wind chimes, until it wasn’t. A symphony of breaking glass surrounded him as confusion and an icy breeze chilled his bones. With the lamps blown out, he tried to feel his way to the stairs and open the door. But it was pitch black, and Jack, still unfamiliar with the layout, was lost. He closed his eyes, said, “Lord, help me,” and was surprised, seconds later, by a sliver of light on the wooden steps.
Stomping on broken bottles, he hurried up the stairs and had his hand on the doorknob before turning around. What seemed to be a tombstone grey presence presided over the basement from the far back wall. It was as if air, mist, and the sea formed a seamless creation that was otherworldly. Immediately, Jack knew he was leaving Scotland. His family’s small town of Clarksburg, California didn’t seem so quaint after all. He opened the door to the next chapter of his life, and the phantom followed.
