I didn't believe in ghosts until I was 36 years old. Even as a kid, I was always the one to point out when my friends were being overly superstitious. Scary stories and supposed encounters just made me laugh. How could people be so easily duped or persuaded?

I guess now you can add me to the list.

It was five years ago. I was doing some volunteer work in the Highlands of Scotland, near a place called Skail. It's pretty remote as places go. There are a few trails there that are occasionally frequented by hikers and people exploring. It's a strange place of quiet. I can't quite do it justice with words. Like much of Scotland, it's home to an almost constant low wind that can unnerve visitors, if you're not used to it.

As I said, I was doing some volunteer work. An agreement had been made between the local authority and a charity to begin repopulating parts of the area with trees. Thousands of years ago, Scotland was home to vast forests, and while pockets of those still exist to this day, most of the landscape is exposed to the wind coming off of the surrounding seas. Some desire for Scotland to be reforested, and I guess I'm one of those someones.

The charity I was volunteering with, Ancient Forestry, had asked me to do some promotional groundwork before plantation began in that area. I had some holiday time due to me and disappearing for a day into the wilderness sounded ideal. All I had to do was follow the River Naver, which weaved past Skail, and then find the plot that had been marked off for plantation with some luminous ranging poles and other markings. Then, take a few photographs, pitch my tent, and drink underneath a blanket of stars. Home the next day.

It took me thirty minutes or so hiking from the nearest trail to find the river and then I followed it. My point of contact at Ancient Forestry was an admin volunteer named Janet. She had told me that the river would bend left and right a number of times, at which point I should look out for a small island in the middle of it comprised of a couple of trees and some grey rocks. Once I saw that I would be nearly there.

Two damn hours of marching through sodden grass and gorse passed before I finally saw that island of rock. I must have been about fifty feet or so from it when I realised the island wasn't exactly as had been described. It was even smaller than I had thought, and it must have only been about ten or fifteen feet wide. Only one tree stood on it, with a few large boulders competing with it for space. None of that caught my eye. What did was the thing swinging from one of the tree branches.

I moved closer along the riverbank, but I was kind of thankful that there was no way for me to access the island on the river. When I reached the edge of the water, I was on a patch surrounded by large green reeds almost the same size as me. They hid me to a degree, and again, I was thankful for that. Because I felt the need to be hidden.

A long rope dangled from the solitary tree on the island, swaying in the cold Scottish wind that any hiker in these parts will tell you about. Attached to the rope was what looked like a large brown sack. Just to the side of this was the figure of a man. He had been hidden from view by one of the boulders until I got closer. His head was bowed, long black hair reaching his shoulders and partially covering his face. In his hand were some pieces of grass reed, I think. He was braiding them together like you would with long hair. Weaving something out of them.

I'd hiked extensively throughout Scotland and met many people on the way. I always said hello when passing. It's kind of an unwritten rule in this part of the world. Meeting a stranger out in the countryside isn't something to fear, it's sometimes an opportunity to strike up a conversation. I think that's why so many people enjoy meeting others at the bothies strewn throughout Scotland.

But this time, I didn't open my mouth. The man hadn't looked up, so I assumed he hadn't seen me. He was too busy making something out of the grass reeds. I didn't want to talk with him. There was something about him that made me fearful. A kind of dread that made me aware more than ever of how vulnerable you truly are when hiking alone.

The sack creaked back and forward next to the man, dangling a few feet above the ground from the solitary tree. It reminded me of one of those old hypnotic tricks magicians and hypnotists used to use with a pocket watch. Back and forward, back and forward. But then, its repetitive motion altered slightly. Something moved inside of the sack. At first, it was a gentle movement, like an animal waking up. Then, it began to thrash around. And those horrible screams... The thing was in pain.

I don't think I'll ever forget that sound.

I wasn't sure what was happening. Perhaps it was an animal he'd caught. But no matter how horrendous the screams got, the man ignored them. He continued to braid the grass reeds in his hands, adding longer pieces from a small pile next to him on a rock.

I'm ashamed to say that I didn't step in to tell him he was being cruel to the animal. There was no way for me to get to the island without entering the river, and the last thing I wanted was to get into an altercation with a local out there in the middle of nowhere. For some reason, I had in my head the image of a knife in the man's hand... He may have cut the reeds with something when gathering them. I felt sure that he was carrying a blade, and so that was another reason to leave the strange scene alone.

Retreating from the reeds, I moved off quietly. The screaming sound didn't diminish like I thought it would, fading away as I put distance between myself and whatever was in the sack. Instead, the scream stopped suddenly, as though it had been silenced. I didn't look back.

It took about another hour's hike before I saw the ranging poles and some bright orange tape that had been tied to the occasional still-standing tree. This was undoubtedly the spot that Ancient Forestry intended for a new pocket of woodland. It would take 10 years before the new trees planted there would properly take root, and probably another ten before it would look anything like a forest. Patience was key. I guess I wanted future generations to be able to enjoy larger forests across Scotland, but there was an element of selfishness. If God spared me, I would have liked to return there in three decades or so to see it in all its glory.

While there were occasional trees and bushes, most of the ground was covered in thick grass and uneven soil. I was surprised by how close to the River Naver the site was. As I tried my best to turn the stark landscape into a few promotional stills for the charity, my back was to the river. I remember that much at least.

I must have zoned out for a while, the gentle flowing of the river becoming like a relaxing white noise. I do that when I'm taking photographs, snapping away to my heart's content. Once I started getting a feel for the place, I felt more confident that I'd at least have a few shots worthy of a leaflet or press release for the charity.

I remember trying to take a low-angle shot of one empty patch of ground. In the distance, the tops of a mountain range peeked over a ridge. I lay on the ground in a prone position, looking through the viewfinder. I could feel the wet and cold from the moist grass, but it was worth it for the shot.

Clicking on the shutter button, the sound of my camera snapping a photo was quickly joined by something from behind me. It sounded like an animal moving around in the reeds by the river. I would have ignored it, but I was already on edge from encountering the man and the hanging sack. The rustling sound didn't stop, and with my concentration broken, I stood up and turned around.

All I could see was the river a few feet away from me, lined by reeds at least four or five feet tall. They moved in that neverending breeze that lulled and grew over and over. At least, I thought it must have been the wind, but as I was about to turn and take another photograph, I saw a few reeds directly in front of me, parting. Something was crawling through them towards me.

Scotland is not a place where we fear animals, there are very few that can pose any danger. No bears, no wolves either, despite the rumours. The weather is probably the greatest danger you'll face if you're hiking around. But although I knew there could be no large predatory animal in the reeds, I still felt frightened.

I stood for at least a minute. The reeds slowly parted a line at a time, and I could see by the way they were moving that whatever it was, it was getting closer and nearly visible. I lifted my camera to take a picture. Photographer's instinct, I guess.

I must have snapped two pictures by the time I truly comprehended what was poking out from between the reeds and moving towards me. Then came that horrible scream. The same blood-curdling noise that had come from the sack hanging from the tree. I'm not certain that it came from the thing on the ground, but it was there, and all I can remember was the face. Its human-like features, staring at me. I couldn't bear to look at those eyes. The thing in the reeds lurched forward, and I saw a tinge of white flesh.

I think I lost it then. The next three hours were a blur. I barely rested, marching, running exhausted over the uneven terrain. At least I was with it enough to stick to the river. Had I ran off in another direction, I could easily have gotten lost, and with no phone reception, who knows what would have happened to me or what might have found me.

When the island in the middle of the River Naver appeared once more, I felt the pit of my stomach open up like a wound. The cool breeze moved across the water, rippling it slightly, catching the reeds as the sun began to set. I didn't stop. I kept going. And as I passed the island, I only had to give it a cursory glance to know what was there. The rope still dangled from the branches of that lonely tree, moving forward and back in the breeze, creaking slowly. The sack was gone, and in its place was the outline of a man. How long he had been hanging there from his neck, I don't know. In the dimming light, I was certain that it was the same man who I had seen earlier, and I was under no illusion by that point that he was anything other than dead.

As his body swayed back and forth, I covered my ears like a child, trying to smother the sound of the creaking rope. I think I was like that until I finally hit a trail sometime later. I found my car and drove about a mile or so down a dirt track until I reached a proper road. It was there that my phone reception kicked in, maybe my sanity, too.

One phone call and forty minutes later, a police constable was there from the nearest village. I was so happy to see another human being. One that was alive, at least.

When I told him what had happened, the constable did the strangest thing. He told me he didn't need to check the island on the river because he had been called to that same spot no less than six times over the previous fifteen years. He knew that he would find nothing.

I won't bore you with the details of the constable accompanying me to a small pub or the locals who were so very kind to put me up for the night, refusing to let me drive in such an anxious state.

But I will tell you what they told me.

In the 1940s, a man named Daniel Campbell was waiting up one night for his wife to give birth at their farmhouse. The local doctor and a midwife attended. It was a terrible labour, but eventually, the baby was delivered. Details were hazy, but no one else ever saw the baby, and when the doctor and midwife were ever asked about the child, the colour drained from their faces. In fact, the doctor himself seemed to develop a drinking problem after that night.

No one is certain what happened, but two years later, Daniel's wife, Ellen, was dead, found strangled in her bed. Daniel Campbell and the child were missing. Weeks passed until a local poacher discovered the horrific scene that would become a legend in those parts for decades to come.

On that little island on the River Naver, Daniel Campbell's body was found hanging from the tree. He had fashioned a rope from the reeds of the river. At his feet was an old worn sack. It was covered in blood, but empty. A knife lay beside it, and on the surrounding rocks, were large splatters of red that could only mean that the child was dead.

I'm not sure exactly what I saw that day by the river. Whether it was a ghost or something else I can't fathom. What I can say with confidence, is that whatever people think of this story, I do have two photographs to show that there was something there. They are blurred and uncertain, but when I look at them I am reminded of what I saw crawling out of the reeds towards me. It was large, on all fours, and it wore a baby's face.