This post is a continuation of a story which begins here, as part of Soap Opera Sunday, hosted by Brillig and Kate. That saga and this continuation are also being written as a combined entry in Scribbit's Write-Away Contest for June: Going Places.
So a few minutes later we found ourselves reluctantly standing beneath the looming 200-ft. tower of Scott Monument. “Lovely.”
“Mm-hmm. Very nice. Okay, let’s go.”
But the Bogeyman wouldn’t hear of it.
“Ye have to go inside and climb to the top. Ye can see all of Edinburgh from up there. It’s most beautiful at Sunset.” Mr. Bogey even insisted on paying our entrance fees.
[What? So now that it’s FREE it’s okay? Hellooo...!]
The next thing we know we’re entering the monument and climbing this rickety, only-wide-enough-for-one-person spiral staircase up-up-up to the top of Scott Monument. As we climb, the morbid thoughts increase: “This is it. This is where he’s planning to do us in.” And there was no way out. Ahead, there was my friend Dottie, carefully and breathlessly making her way up the stairs of doom. Behind me there was only Thomas, the Bogeyman of Edinburgh, poised to hurl me down said stairs. So I kept climbing.
When I finally crept out onto the balcony at the top, relieved to see sky again, Thomas started in on another tale of how some unlucky lad fell to his death from that perch. A little breeze picked up and I got the shivers. Thomas made his way over to the edge of the balcony and motioned for us to come look. I stayed frozen, clinging to the stairwell for dear life. But Dottie was making her way to the railing where he was waiting for us. I can still see her, with her big black-and-white tote bag slung over her shoulder. And I called out to her, in that muffled, strangled, slow-motion-make-no-sound voice, like when you’re having a really bad dream: “Dottie...Nahooooh....!” But it was too late.
She was already there, looking over the edge, admiring the night vista from this amazing vantage point. What could I do but join them? I grabbed hold of Dottie’s purse strap, (as if that were going to protect me somehow) and she had hold of my arm. We each clutched the railing with an immovable death grip. And enjoyed the sights of Edinburgh in the cool evening breeze. Our hearts were still racing, but nothing happened. Absolutely nothing.
After we’d had our fill of gazing out over the city, we walked to the bottom of the monument, and bid Mr. Bogey adieu. Then we walked back to the train station to stake out our seats on the return trip to London, laughing to each other about how frightened to death we both were of the Bogeyman of Edinburgh.