It was the summer of 2025, at forty-seven, when life pulled him back to the glen for a family reunion. His children were almost adults: Alasdair Ewan, seventeen, tech-obsessed, already programming his own apps; and Isla, fourteen. Cousins from Canada and the United States were retracing the family line back to its origins. Ewan purchased a DJI Mini 4 Pro — sub-250g, 4K HDR, obstacle avoidance — to map Loch Awe from above, to show once and for all that the “kelpie waters” were nothing more than deep peat stains and refractive light.

“Science closes loops,” he said to Isla before loading the drone case into the boot. “Grandad’s stories are comfy and Dad always said that the pixels don’t lie.”

Alistair grinned dimly from the porch of the old factor’s house. “Loch Awe’s deeper than your charts, boy.”

They were lodged in the stone house above the glen’s head — same low ceilings, same peat-smoke scent in the walls, same view across the dark water where mist coiled even in August.

A warm August evening, almost full moon rising early, silvering the loch surface into a trembling road. Alasdair took the first flight, filming the island ruins. Ewan watched

the screen: bright glassy black water, moon-path, the small island with its ruined chapel gleaming in 1080p.

Then Isla, her voice dropping: “Dad. What’s that?”

Centre frame: concentric ripple rings radiating outward, unnatural in their symmetry. Not wind. Not boat wake. Ewan zoomed the feed. A long, sinuous dark shape — twenty feet at least — surfaced with glacial slowness. The silver water fractured with an arching back; head small, serpentine, no mane. Ewan laughed — a sound less thick than intended. “Log. Or an otter slick. Keep the camera steady.”

He banked the drone closer. The shape dived — then shot lateral in a sudden burst, wake puffing out into a broad V. The gimbal scrambled for level. Alasdair yelped: “It’s chasing!” Screen flashed once — interference lines. The audio picked up a faint thrum, low and subwoofer-deep, pulsating through the controller into Ewan’s palms.

He thumbed return-to-home. The drone climbed high. But the shape followed — altitude mirrored, staying thirty metres off the port side. The feed glimpsed: flank textured with what might have been scales, barnacled hide. Too fast for a seal. Too purposeful. “GPS glitch,” Ewan mumbled, heart racing. “Big pike. Wind shear over the water.”

The mist broke. The shape surfaced fully: neck looped in a perfect S, three distinct humps trailing, tail fluke slapping the surface and sending spray metres high. Thirty-plus feet, easily. Eyes flashing white — no pupil discernible — set directly on the camera lens, as if in judgement. The feed stuttered hard.

Alasdair’s voice cracked: “Dad, it sees us!” Isla clutched his arm. “Land it! Now!”

Signal cut clean. The drone spiralled, plummeting. A splash — screen black. The final frozen frame: the creature rearing, jaws wide, moon haloed outward like a cold corona. Controller beeped mournfully: Lost connection. Ewan stared at the dark loch. Mist swallowed the spot where the drone had fallen. No wreckage bobbed to the surface.

“Battery failure,” he whispered. “Or bird strike.”

Alistair, watching from the porch with arms folded: “Deeper than charts, son.”

Dawn patrol: Ewan took the kayak out alone, phone torch sweeping the water. Nothing. No drone husk, no floating battery pack. £800 vaporised into peat-black depths. Alasdair replayed the footage on his laptop — choppy but timestamped. The shape moved

with intention: pursued, matched turns, reacted to the camera zoom as though aware of being watched.

Ewan opened the digital binder and scrolled to Kelpie / Each-uisge: water horse, shape-shifter, lures with beauty, drowns with speed. “Not horse,” he said aloud, voice flat.

Isla looked up from her phone. “You said the pixels don’t lie.” He didn’t answer.

Night two, same shore. Mist danced with moonbeams; the loch breathed slow and cold. Ewan couldn’t sleep. He borrowed Alasdair’s old GoPro, waded ankle-deep into the shallows. A ripple raced shoreward, fast and arrow-straight. The shape surfaced twenty yards out: same arch, same humps, head swaying side to side. Eyes gleamed directly at him. The thrum pulsed through the water, bone-rattling, vibrating up his legs.

Ewan backed slowly, water slopping into his boots. “Just… a log,” he whispered. It held position, watching. Then dived with a slow roll, wake parting the mist like a curtain. Gone. He stumbled to shore, soaked, heart hammering.

In the attic he hauled down the physical binder and found Ewan (c.1700)’s faded entry: Kelpie eyes return the moon tenfold. Invitation or warning — never both. Pursuit, yes — but warning too?

He showed the footage on the big television at the reunion. Jaws dropped. “Photoshop?” one cousin asked. “Lost a drone to prove it isn’t,” Ewan answered quietly. Alistair raised his glass from the corner. “Loch remembers MacGregors. Pays visits when it chooses.” Ewan didn’t scoff.

The next day he gifted the GoPro to Alasdair. “Film carefully. Respect the depths.”

Alone by the loch at dusk, he poured a measure of whisky — the Glaistig’s dram — from his hip flask onto the water’s surface. “Not chasing anymore,” he said softly. “Just… acknowledging.” A small ripple answered, spreading outward, gentle. Mist closed around it like a sigh.

In the digital binder he added a new entry: Loch Awe anomaly, August 2025. Size and motion defy known fauna. Pursuit behavioural, reactive to observation. Family precedent: Kelpie / Each-uisge variants. Charts and pixels insufficient. Loch deeper than data. Scepticism not disproved — only dwarfed.

He flew no more drones blind over the water. The glen’s depths watched his children now, and he taught them quietly: science maps the surface, but some currents pull far off-chart, patient and ancient, waiting for the next curious lens to look too close.