The Lighthouse: A Novel of Terror

by Bill Pronzini, Marcia Muller

  Almost anything.

  His pipe had gone out; he relighted it. He watched his hand as he did so, watched it tremble. An indicator of how overwrought he was today. How afraid.

  The pain had been bad last night—that awful bulging. But that wasn’t the worst part. He’d lied to Alix about the worst part, his second lie to her in two days, because the truth was too painful. And the truth was, he didn’t remember the drive into the village proper, what had happened there or afterward, nor most of the drive back here. His memory ended with the bulging as he neared the county road, picked up again as he jounced along the cape road a half mile or so from the lighthouse.

  Blackout. More than two hours of lost time. That sort of thing had never happened to him before . . . or had it? It could have; that was what made it so terrifying. You blacked out, you did things during that blank time, and then afterward you not only couldn’t remember what those things were, it was possible you didn’t even realize you’d had a blackout.

  But no, this was the first time—it had to be. It was all somehow connected to the atrophying of his optic nerves, his imminent blindness, even though Dave Sanderson had been carefully noncommital when he’d called Dave earlier and told him about the blackout (but not the details of it, not that he’d been out driving and killed a dog).

  “Blackouts aren’t common with the type of eye disease you have,” Dave had said. “But that doesn’t mean they can’t happen or won’t happen again. Your condition is rare; we just don’t know enough about it. I think you ought to see another ophthalmologist, find out if the degenerative process has speeded up any, or if there are any new complications. There’s a good one in Portland; I’ll call him for you right away.”

  Then Dave had paused. And then he’d asked, “Have you told Alix yet?”

  “No.”

  “When are you planning to?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Doesn’t she suspect you’re having vision problems?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “She will before much longer. Jan, I really think you’re making a mistake by not confiding in her. She’s your wife, she has a right to know. Why do you insist on hiding the truth from her?”

  Because I’m afraid, he’d thought. Damn you, I’m afraid!

  He’d gotten in touch with the Portland ophthalmologist, Dr. Philip R. Meade, and made an appointment for early Tuesday afternoon. And he didn’t want to go, because he was afraid Meade might tell him the degeneration was accelerating and he would be blind sooner than the year or two the others had projected; afraid he wouldn’t be able to stay here the full term, wouldn’t be able to finish his book; afraid he would experience more blackouts. Afraid of everything these days, that was Professor Jan Ryerson, eminent authority on beacons in the night.

  Abruptly he stood, went to the stove, added fresh lengths of cordwood to the blaze inside. His pipe had gone out again; he laid it in the ashtray alongside the telephone, reclaimed his chair. God, he thought then, that poor dog. But it’s not possible I deliberately ran it down last night, even in a blackout state. Novotny’s wrong. It had to have been a freak accident.

  Try calling again, he told himself. Whoever had been occupying the Novotny line the past hour—he had called three times in those thirty minutes, busy signal each time—had to hang up sooner or later.

  Sooner the line was clear this time. Three rings, four. And then a man’s voice said, “Hello?”

  “Mitchell Novotny, please.”

  “You’re talking to him. Who’s this?”

  “Jan Ryerson. Out at the lighthouse.”

  Silence for several seconds. Then, coldly and flatly, “What the hell do you want?”

  “To tell you how sorry I am about your dog.”

  “Yeah? Then what’d you run him down for?”

  “I didn’t, not deliberately—”

  “I seen you do it.”

  “No, you’re mistaken. It was an accident. I don’t remember seeing the dog; I didn’t know until just a little while ago that I’d hit anything.”

  “You trying to tell me you didn’t hear him scream?”

  Jan winced. “I’m sorry, Mr. Novotny. Believe me, I—”

  “Bullshit,” Novotny said. “You didn’t stop. You didn’t even slow down.”

  “I had a headache, a bad headache. It’s a chronic condition—”

  “That’s no damn excuse.”

  “I know that. I know I shouldn’t have been out driving. I’m not trying to excuse myself, I’m only trying to tell you how badly I feel about the accident.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “Worse than you can imagine. I’d like to make it up to you somehow, if you’ll let me. Perhaps buy you another dog, any kind you—”

  Novotny hung up on him.

  Jan sat holding the receiver for a time before he cradled it. Then he got up again, went into the kitchen. Alix, wearing a pair of old jeans and one of his old shirts, her hair tied back with a scarf, was up on a stepladder scouring the smoke-grimed ceiling with abrasive cleaner and a sponge. Her face was flushed and shiny with perspiration.

  “I talked to Mitch Novotny,” he said.

  She stopped her scrubbing and looked down at him. “What did he say?”

  “He doesn’t believe me that it was an accident. He hung up when I offered to buy him a new dog.”

  “Maybe you should try talking to him in person.”

  He nodded. “But not today. After he’s had a chance to cool down.”

  “Whatever you think best.”

  She returned to her cleaning, still with that vehement determination. He watched for half a minute, wondering if he should offer to help. No. Any other time she would have been pleased if he had, but not now. She needed to be alone a while longer, needed to finish regrouping.

  He left her and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The idea of physical labor, the kind Alix was doing which didn’t require thinking, appealed to him too; perhaps it would help him regroup. He continued up to the lightroom. In one corner was the lighthouse’s diaphone, removed from its mounting halfway down the westernmost cliff wall when the Coast Guard abandoned the station in 1962. The air compressor that had operated it was also there, along with most of its four-inch air line.

  Diaphones fascinated him; he intended to do a full chapter on them in Guardians of the Night. Large or small, they produced an amazing amount of noise and vibration—one high-pitched note that could be heard during most kinds of weather for a distance of seven miles, one low-pitched note, or “grunt,” that could be heard much farther away. The volume of compressed air that passed through the instrument, even at a pressure of thirty pounds, was so enormous that the actual operating time of the diaphone was seldom more than eight seconds per minute. He had had the pleasure (if you could call it that) of standing within fifty feet of the big diaphone at the Point Reyes Light-house, near San Francisco, when it was in operation; any closer than that and it would have damaged his eardrums. He had literally been able to feel the noise and vibration all over his skin.

  He assembled his tools and began to dismantle this one, taking time and care so as not to damage its working parts. Inside the cylinder, the brass reed—shaped somewhat like an automobile piston—that was the diaphone’s heart looked to be free of corrosion, and it moved freely enough when he tested it. When you pumped compressed air past the reed, it vibrated back and forth in short strokes, rather than rotating as the reeds in the air sirens that had preceded diaphones as the preemptory fog-signal had; that produced the high-pitched note. You got the grunt by rapidly diminishing the quantity of air being fed to the reed.

  He cleaned the reed and the other interior parts, reassembled the instrument, and cleaned and polished the outer brass casing. Then he examined the compressor and its air line. The line looked to be in reasonably good condition, considering its age; the compressor was dusty and needed cleaning, but he thought it would probably work well enough. He tinkered
with it for a time, confirming his suspicion—and then found himself wondering if the diaphone would actually work after all these years. If he could make it work. Mount it outside somewhere away from the lighthouse, run the lines, see what happened. A test, an experiment—why not?

  The thought intrigued him. A-1 Marine in Hilliard would probably have compressed air tanks. Better yet, he could pick them up while he was in Portland next week.

  There was nothing more to occupy his attention in the lightroom; he went from there into his study. He felt somewhat better now. His labor with the diaphone and the prospect of operating it had temporarily crowded the death of Novotny’s dog, all his other fears, into the back of his mind. More work on the book? Yes, while he was still in a productive mood. He sat down before the Underwood, loaded and fired another of his pipes, and plunged into work without any of his usual mild procrastinations.

  Lighthouse construction. Basic design of the modem light-house originated by John Smeaton in 1757—famous Eddystone Light in the English Channel near the town of Plymouth (where tallow candles served to light its beacon for more than fifty years). Stone tower in place of wood. Huge blocks of granite weighing upwards of a ton each, cut so that they interlocked—not only on the flat first course but from one course to the next above. This pattern of construction used as a model for future lighthouses worldwide. . . .

  It went well. Eight and a half pages. And all of the material, he felt, incisive and informative without being dry or pedantic. He lost all track of time, so that when Alix appeared at his side, startling him slightly, to announce that dinner was ready, he said, “Dinner? My God, is it that late?”

  “Almost eight.”

  He glanced over at the window. Dusk had fallen without his having noticed it. He rolled his head, stretching the tightened muscles in his neck and shoulders. After a moment Alix moved over behind him and began to massage the tight area, her thumbs kneading along his fourth cervical vertebra. That, and the weariness that had replaced the anxiety and anger in her expression, told him that it was all right between them again. At least for now.

  He said, “Wasn’t it my turn to cook tonight?”

  “I came up earlier, but you were so involved I decided not to disturb you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll take mess duties tomorrow and Monday.”

  They went downstairs. Pan-fried chicken, asparagus, a small salad. Beck’s for him, white wine for her. He ate with some appetite; Alix picked at her food. They made small talk at first—neutral topics. Then he told her about the diaphone, and they discussed her next illustration (the Eddystone Light), and after that they were no longer awkward with each other. They cleaned up the dishes together, went upstairs, she read his pages, they went to bed. And during all of it he felt almost relaxed, normal, as if nothing ugly had happened last night, as if their life together weren’t about to change so radically that neither of them would ever be the same again.

  But the feeling of normalcy was an illusion, a lie erected by his mental defenses. It was his body that told the truth. He had the desire to make love, once they were in bed, and Alix was willing, but there was no physical response in his loins; it was as if he had gone dead from the waist down. Alix’s touch, always electric, did nothing for him. He had never had this kind of failure, no failure at all except for the one time he’d gotten a little too high on champagne punch at the faculty New Year’s Eve party.

  “It’s okay,” she murmured against his ear, “don’t worry about it,” but it wasn’t okay. It was another thing that frightened him. What if this wasn’t just an isolated instance? What if he became permanently impotent as well as permanently blind? Pain, deterioration both physical and mental—unmanned in every way.

  What if I did hit that dog on purpose? I don’t remember, I don’t remember. . . .

  He held her tight and began to stroke her slowly, gently, concentrating his caresses on her clitoris, concentrating his thoughts on her instead of himself. In the dark she whispered, “You don’t have to,” and he thought, Yes I do, and said, “I want to,” and after a while she came shuddering against him, with her face turned sideways against his chest. And even her orgasm did nothing to arouse him. Nothing at all.

  Her face still pressed to his chest, she whispered, “Oh, Jan, I love you.”

  “I love you too,” he said, and thought: That’s enough, isn’t it? Even at the end, when the darkness comes, it’ll be enough.

  He went to sleep holding her, loving her, and not believing any of it.

  Jan

  The first rifle shots woke him immediately.

  He sat up in bed, groggy at first, but as always when he was jerked out of sleep the disorientation passed in a few seconds and he was alert. Next to him Alix stirred, came half-awake, mumbled something incoherent. He looked past the shape of her, at the red numerals on the Sony digital clock radio. 3:18.

  He had no idea at first what the noises were, didn’t identify them as gunshots until something made a metallic spanging sound outside—close outside, on the lighthouse grounds—and then he heard the hollow echo of the third shot. He thought: Jesus! and swung his legs out of bed, fumbled with hands and feet for his slippers. He was aware, now, that the room was not fully dark, that there was whitish moonlight coming through the window.

  Glass shattered, faintly but unmistakably. And the reverberation of the fourth shot rolled like a small thunderclap, died away into a heavy silence.

  Alix was awake now, sitting up; her voice reached out for him, frightened and confused, as he stood and groped for his robe. “Jan, what is it? What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know. Stay here, I’ll find out.”

  He ran out into the hall, pulling the robe around him, and half-stumbled down the stairs into the living room. The windows, like the one in the bedroom, faced seaward; there was nothing for him to see in that direction. The kitchen, then. He ran in there, leaned up to peer through the curtained window above the sink. The moonlight was bright out on the grounds: the cloud cover had broken up sometime earlier, leaving the sky clear and hazed with stars. The patch of grass that separated the lighthouse from the garage had a whitish cast, as if it had been dusted with talcum powder; the walls of the garage, the fence farther down, showed faintly luminous. He could see beyond the gate, all the way along the rutted cape road to where it jogged inland and disappeared into a hollow.

  Nothing moved anywhere.

  No sounds, either—no more shots. Just that intense silence, like a noise in his ears pitched too high for him to hear.

  The breaking glass, he thought then. Window in the garage? But the station wagon caught and held his attention. It was parked thirty yards away, at the edge of the grass, swung around at an angle to the north; he could see that the front end was listing his way, that the left front tire was flat.

  He swung away from the sink, hurried up the steps into the cloakroom for his coat, came back down and through the kitchen to the front door. Alix was standing at the foot of the stairs, clutching her old quilted housecoat around her. She had turned on the lights; they revealed the pallor of her face—the same color as the moonshine outside.

  “Jan, those were shots. Was somebody—?”

  “They shot the car,” he said grimly.

  “What? They what?”

  His head had begun to ache; he could feel the pressure starting to build again behind his eyes. “I’m going out there,” he said. “You stay here.”

  “Jan, don’t—”

  “Lock the door after me. Watch through the kitchen window.”

  “No, wait . . . ”

  But he didn’t wait; he opened the door and walked outside.

  The wind had died down to a murmurous breeze; it occurred to him peripherally that that was why he had been able to hear the shots so clearly, the ricochet and the breaking glass. But it was still cold, not much above forty degrees. There was a crystal-like quality to the air, so that every object stood out in sharp relief.

  He stopped f
ive feet from the door, holding his coat bunched shut at his throat. Still nothing moving. The only sound was the gentled-down coupling of surf and rocks at the base of the cliffs. After a moment he began walking again. There was an awareness in him that he made a perfect target out here in the moonlight, that if they were still nearby they could shoot him as easily as they had shot the car. He fought down an impulse to turn back, kept moving forward instead at a slow walk. Never show fear. Never let anyone see how afraid you might be.

  When he reached the Ford he saw that the right headlight had been blown out. That explained the breaking glass. He moved around the front of the car to determine if there had been any other damage. Furrow along one fender where the one bullet had ricocheted; that was all.

  He turned to look back at the lighthouse. He couldn’t see Alix’s face behind the kitchen window but he was sure she was there. He lifted his hands, gestured to her that everything was all right. And it was—for now. They were gone, long gone, like the cowards they were.

  He walked back across the grass at the same slow, measured pace. Alix had the door open for him; he entered and shut it and threw the bolt.

  “One flat tire and one broken headlight,” he said. “I’ll put the spare on in the morning. Get the damage fixed while I’m in Portland. ”

  She gripped both his arms. “Jan, you shouldn’t have gone out there. Suppose—”

  “They’re gone, don’t worry.”

  “We’d better call the sheriff.”

  “In the morning. There’s nothing anybody can do tonight.”

  “But who were they? Who’d do a thing like that?”

  “Kids,” he said. “Just kids.”

  But he was thinking: Mitch Novotny, that’s who.

  Mitch Novotny

  After church on Sunday morning, Mitch went down to the boat slips to do some work on the Spindrift. It was a nice day, clear, ten degrees warmer now that the clouds had blown inland, and Marie had wanted to drive down the coast to Port Orford, where her sister lived. Sister knew somebody who had setter pups for sale, she said. But he wasn’t in the mood for a drive or looking at any damn setter pups. It was too soon; Red was still on his mind. Red, and that asshole out at the lighthouse. He’d snapped at her some, made her cry—Christ, you looked cross-eyed at a pregnant woman and she was like as not to bust out in tears. (Number three on the way, due in two months. He could barely provide for the five of them now; how the hell was he going to provide for a sixth? Should have had himself fixed, that was what he should have done. But Marie wouldn’t hear of it. Wasn’t natural, she said. Natural. Shit. She didn’t have to earn the money to pay the bills, did she?)