From the Inside Flap
His job as caretaker and general servant at the Lodge was not especially onerous. As he had often remarked to drinking buddies, Mister Crowley may be a strange man, and an Englishman at that, but he was a fair employer. What's more, the Master employed a fine, buxom widow as his housekeeper. The good lady, Jean Brash, was bound to give way to Fergus's advances at some point.
The only problem was the salmon. Or rather, the lack of them.
Loch Ness was famous for its salmon, and Fergus enjoyed fishing in his spare time. This happened to be the ideal fishing season, so there ought to be plenty of gullible young salmon thronging the loch's waters. The trouble was that, try as he might, Fergus had landed nothing for days. When he had commented on this in the pub, others had said the same.
"They're not biting," muttered the old man.
Fergus looked up and down the long, narrow expanse of Loch Ness. A small pleasure steamer was just visible, far to the north, but otherwise nothing broke the surface.
So why do I get the feeling I'm being watched?
He turned to look around through three hundred and sixty degrees, taking in the whole sweep of the loch and its shores. As far as he could see, he was the only living thing in sight. Normally, one might expect to see ducks or geese on the water, or deer drinking at the waterline. But now there was nothing.
Almost as if, he thought, the wildlife are in hiding. As if there's something near that they're avoiding. Something evil.