Shrouded McLennan and the Weather-Reading Parlour Where His Signals Thinned

A tempered hush holds in McLennan House, steepest in the abandoned weather-reading parlour where Ewan Douglas McLennan, a modest amateur meteorologist who prepared daily readings for local farmers, once mapped sky-rhythms across paper grids. Now the broken signal on his last log hangs like the remnant of a prediction he dared not confirm.

A Signal Threaded Through His Patient Routine

Ewan, born 1870 in Aberdeenshire, learned barometric handling from his aunt Morag McLennan, whose cracked hygrometer rests near an overturned chair.

His mornings unfolded in faithful sequence: rainwater decanted into beakers, pressure readings copied into ledgers, wind vanes drawn in quiet strokes across circular charts. His order remains—charts stacked in careful piles, pencils grouped by hardness, cloths folded beside aneroid cases. Even the creased tartan beneath the instruments recalls where he braced his elbow while adjusting fine increments that shaped the next day’s guidance.

When His Craft Drifted Out of True Reading

Quiet rumor suggested Ewan’s latest forecast predicted fair skies for a sheep-drive that met sudden rain, sparking unease among neighbors who had long trusted his steady habits. In the inner hallway, Morag’s hygrometer pouch lies torn near the banister. A rain gauge cylinder rests on its side, water dried to a faint ring. A recalculation sheet sits propped beneath a wall sconce, final markings overwritten in uneven strokes. A wisp of chart paper trails down a stair, its corner softened as if crushed in a hurried hand. None of these fragments confirm misreading, yet each leans toward a private doubt he kept tightly bound.

Only the thinning signal on his final log remains—an unfinished reading lingering in silence. Whatever stilled Ewan’s practice endures without resolution.

McLennan House remains abandoned still.