Unexpected visitors in the Scottish Highlands

A spooky mystery thriller short story ahead of my January 2026 release...

I am slightly obsessed with the Scottish Highlands. I currently live in Canada but am looking forward to returning to Moray (not technically the Highlands, being in Speyside, but close), where I call home.

For me, there's no better place to set a mystery thriller. Remote locations aplenty, moody lochs, looming mountains and colourful skies play the perfect witnesses to a grisly twist. Oh, and the bothies! Let's not forget the bothies! They're superb.

Maybe you've read Cold Secrets, my only self-published title, which is set in the fictional village of Findrussie. It sits somewhere in between a cosy mystery and a thriller, and if you like Shetland, then it just might be for you. Anyway, this January (the 6th of January 2026), my next standalone mystery thriller, Seven Bodies, will be released. The blurb and the cover are at the end of this post, in case you're interested (and do sign up to my newsletter if you'd like to be reminded of its release).

Ahead of Seven Bodies, I'm releasing a short story named The Visit. I hope this will be the perfect accompaniment to a wintry night under a blanket. It is dark and atmospheric and twisty and all the good stuff. If you'd like to read it, just contact me via my website's form and I will send it to you. Now, however, I'd like to give you a little teaser...

The Visit (extract from the full short story):

Do not visit Tornivan on the 1st of December.

It’s tempting, I know. The festive season creeps into the air easily, and our little corner of the Highlands seems like the perfect way to usher in the merriment.

Main Street, the only street in the village, takes on a permanent dusting of ice which sparkles under the white sun. There’s a giant Christmas tree in front of the church. On the 1st December, fairy lights adorn it, although I have no idea to whom this responsibility falls. Whisky tastes less potent in December and more like caramel: that’s a fact. Woolly hats suit everyone, as do rouged cheeks, as does the gentle light cast by a log-wood fire at The Cooper’s Arms.

But, please, don’t visit.

I always warn tourists throughout the year, if the opportunity arises. I block out the date in my own holiday rental, which is just the spare en suite in my cottage. My worry is people might book into the Tornivan Hotel, down the road, where the owners are much less careful. Reckless, really.

I probably come off as strange, I know. And that’s because I can’t very well announce the reason behind why I want you to steer clear, can I? I make up all sorts of local folklore to support my very strong recommendation to stay away: The whole village and the surrounding area suffers terrible power cuts every year, on this precise date, yes, really, it’s annoying, let me tell you. The village is closed then, completely, for one night only, so best work your plans around that. No, no! The 1st of December? That’s when the badgers descend, like clockwork, and they’re vicious, really, they carry tuberculosis… particularly these ones. It’s dangerous. You don’t want to be here for that… (yes, I said that once and, yes, they bought it hook, line, and sinker).

As you might expect, everyone knows each other here. I’ve lived in Tornivan for all thirty-four years of my life, with only a hiatus in Edinburgh a couple of years ago for a short-lived stint in what I thought would become a glittering career in journalism. My parents – who will now, I hope, be nailing their front door closed – told me I’d be back. Hardly anyone leaves, Mum said. It has a pull, a draw, you feel it, don’t you? It’s like we have a pact with the place, we need to do our bit. It’s a difficult thing to fight. Of course, she was right. I wasn’t even angry about it in the end. It’s just an inevitability, something that just is. Secrets are powerful, I suppose. Yes, they’re a burden, but when you’re in on one like this, they’re non-negotiable. They require their keepers to stay close.

So, I make sure to take the responsibility as seriously as possible. The rest of the village’s tiny population is largely in agreement with me and helps in warding off any poor, unsuspecting tourists. Of course, sometimes we do all we can, and poor, unsuspecting tourists turn up regardless. This is, unfortunately, what has happened tonight.

The Cooper’s Arms is obviously shut up with its giant, specially-cast horseshoe resting against the black lacquered door. There’s been an early and freakish snowfall, which means Daria and Lowen (Americans, from Charleston, although with a strong Scottish heritage, as Lowen has told me three times now) cannot drive their hire car to the aforementioned hotel, where they have a room. They found my cottage online, and, although I’m “fully-booked”, are asking for a place to stay because, as anyone can see, they find themselves in tricky circumstances.

Engaging in what must have already been an hour’s back and forth, we’re standing on my porch, which overlooks the far end of Main Street. It is like whoever laid the road slabs here halted work due to a sudden emergency – the street stops clumsily before the mounds of heather which lead to the woods. The paving stones literally hang, a precipice of about a metre high, in mid-air.

‘We tried a taxi service for a truck or something, but I can’t get through,’ says Lowen, who is shifting his weight quickly from foot to foot.

‘It’s freezing!’ This from Daria, who, with her unusually pale skin and blond-white hair, looks like she might be used to the cold, but evidently not.

I feel for them. The afternoon is turning into night rapidly and, although Lowen is trying his best to apply a certain brand of practicality to the situation, his eyes are wider than they should be.

Daria’s voice grows shrill. ‘Can we come in? Just to figure out what to do?’

What am I supposed to say? I can’t just send them off into the woods, can I? And if the road to the hotel is blocked, then the road back to Inverness will also be impossible.

‘Of course.’

I eye the street behind them. Already, the smell of smoke is in the air. People will be dressing warmly, readying to spend the night outside. My belly tightens, but I force what I hope is a friendly smile. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Letty. I’m…’

It’s understandable because by now Daria’s lips are a pale blue, but they push past me into my narrow hallway as I’m mid-sentence.

‘Like I say, the room’s not available.’

They exchange a look which suggests they don’t believe me. Lowen peers into my small living room which is very dark. I secured the curtains earlier with little clips to make sure there were no gaps, not even minuscule ones. The spot where Marnie, my cat, usually sits is empty. She’s in her carrier in the shed in a sedative-induced sleep (with a hot water bottle). Of course, I hate myself for doing that to her. But it’s really for her own good, and that’s what I need to remember.

When I neither invite them further in, nor turn the lights on, they begin to inspect the hallway which is lit only by the greying light outside due to the small glass slit above the door. I should really have covered that up.

Daria huffs and wraps her arms around her midriff. She nods to the pile of newspapers on the side table.

‘Cute. I don’t often see people reading real-life ones anymore.’

My heart breaks a little for her. She is trying, I think, to make conversation in the hope I’ll relent and let them stay.

‘It’s just the local rag, more of a newsletter, really. The Tornivan Tribune. I’m the editor…’ I feel myself blush at having used such a grand term to describe what must seem like little more than a pamphlet. Clearing my throat, I glance at my phone. It’s almost six o’clock. I really need them to go anywhere but here. This isn’t their home, and it’s not their problem. True, they would probably be fine. They’re adults, and, as far as I’m aware, it’s just them and nobody else. It’s just that things can get… well, they can get weird and I don’t think it’s fair to inflict that upon unsuspecting strangers. They look so shiny with their pearly teeth and smooth hair – it would just be a shame if they got caught up in any of the unpleasantness. Not to mention, how would I explain everything to them?

‘I’ll call a local farmer. He might be able to get you at least to the next village on a tractor…’

‘A tractor?’ Daria doesn’t so much as ask the question rather than squeal it.

Lowen sighs and puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘See here, we’re pretty tired and we can’t guarantee there’s any place to stay in the next village. I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but are you certain we can’t stay here? We can pay. However much you want.’

I open my mouth to answer that, no, they cannot stay here because, in fact, my house – any house – is the absolute worst place for them to be. However, before I can protest, the whistles blow. The shrill sounds move in a sonorous wave from the far end of Main Street towards us. I cringe, my shoulders rising to my ears, and grab my own whistle which is dangling from my neck. I stick my head out of the door and blow as hard as I can.

The EPUB (for your kindle) and the PDF files can be downloaded here:

THE VISIT, A SHORT STORY by V. J. Randle.epub

Download EPUB • 6.59MB

THE VISIT, A SHORT STORY by V.J. Randle.pdf

Download PDF • 7.23MB

Seven Bodies (Bloodhound Books, Jan 2026):

An exclusive retreat. An isolated hotel. A storm that changes everything.

The Tornivan Hotel in the remote Scottish Highlands is Jules’s last shot at success. When a wealthy investor and his wife arrive for a weekend stay, it feels like the chance she’s been waiting for.

But as a blizzard arrives, the hotel’s guests and staff find themselves snowed in with no way out, and they all have secrets of their own. When one of them disappears without a trace, panic spreads through the corridors.

Desperate to protect her reputation and save her dream, Jules makes a decision that could change everything. Because in this hotel, danger isn’t out in the storm… it’s already inside.

Perfect for fans of Lucy Foley and Agatha Christie, Seven Bodies is a gripping, claustrophobic mystery that will keep you guessing until the very last page.