The screen goes blank.
Video/audio footage #7A
(10:50pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
We see Thomas Livingston’s haggard face staring back at us. His hair is wet and he’s shivering. His bloodshot eyes dart nervously around the room. For the moment, the lantern is lit, bathing his skin in an orange glow.
He looks at the camera for maybe thirty seconds but doesn’t say anything. We can see him searching for his words. Finally:
“I know what I heard. And I know what I saw.”
He sounds as if he might break into tears.
“I heard it crashing upon the rocks.”
He glances down at the ground, steels himself, then looks back at the camera and continues.
“It was a massive ship. At least two hundred feet long. And it broke into a thousand pieces. It was an awful sound. Dozens of men…thrashed and tossed upon the rocks…impaled on splintered planks…flailing and drowning in the waves. I can still hear their screams.
“I recorded all of it, I’m certain of that. I knew what I was witnessing wasn’t possible, but I saw what I saw and I kept the camera rolling…”
A deep breath.
“But there’s nothing there now. I checked the video after I returned inside and changed into dry clothes. I checked it a dozen times. There’s nothing there.”
He looks up at the camera and the brash showman we saw earlier is gone.
“You can hear the thunder and the crash of the waves. You can see the lightning flash and the ocean illuminated below…but there’s no ship anywhere to be seen. No bodies. No screams.”
Livingston rubs his eyes with his fists.
“I offer no explanation, ladies and gentlemen, because I have none.”
Video/audio footage #8A
(11:16pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
The video turns on and once again we see a shaky image of the churning ocean at the base of the cliffs. The rain has slowed, but the wind is still gusting and shards of lightning still decorate the sky.
“It’s taken me the better part of an hour to summon the courage to come out here again.”
The camera zooms in for a closer view. Waves crash onto an empty shoreline.
“The ship is gone.”
The camera zooms back out.
“But I know what I saw.”
After a moment, the camera lowers and we hear footsteps on the catwalk, and then a loud clanging.
“What the…?”
The camera shifts as Livingston bends down and steadies on the object he almost tripped over.
The missing flashlight.
“Jesus.”
(Voice recorder entry #20B—
11:33pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
I must sleep now, if such a thing is possible in my current state. I’ve had enough adventure—or shall I say misadventure—for one day. Do you remember earlier when I said I was only here for the truth? Well, that was a fucking lie.
(Voice recorder entry #21B—
1:12am, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
(The sound of footsteps descending the stairway)
Sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy, seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three…
(Voice recorder entry #22B—
1:35am, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
Two-sixty-six, two-sixty-seven, two-sixty-eight.
(Shuffling of footsteps as Livingston reaches the bottom, turns around, and immediately starts climbing again)
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen…
(Voice recorder entry #23B—
2:09am, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
…two-hundred-and-ninety-nine, three-hundred, three- hundred-and-one, three-hundred-and-two, three-hundred-and- three, three-hundred-and-four, three-hundred-and-five…
(Livingston’s voice is monotone, deliberate, as if he has been hypnotized)
(Voice recorder entry #24B—
6:42am, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
The night was endless, a nightmare. If I slept at all, I don’t remember. The hours passed in a fever dream. At one point, I heard someone crying, a woman, but was too frightened to get up and investigate. A short time later I thought I saw something moving in the doorway, the pale outline of a person, but it vanished when I fumbled with the lantern. It’s so cold in here I can’t stop shivering, even inside my sleeping bag. My entire body aches, and my feet are filthy and tattered, as if I’ve walked a great distance without shoes.
I need to eat and drink, but I’m too exhausted.
(Voice recorder entry #25B—
7:29am, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
It occurs to me now that someone might be playing a cruel and elaborate joke. Either that old bastard Parker or perhaps my bitch of an ex-wife. To what end, I haven’t the slightest idea, but I don’t know what else it could be.
All of the water bottles I brought up with me last night are empty. And I certainly didn’t drink them. I was too shaken to even take a sip. And the crackers and the cheese I carried up, all stale. The apples and the one remaining pear, rotten to the core. I need to somehow summon the energy to walk downstairs to the cooler. My mouth is so dry I can barely spit. My stomach is growling.
(Voice recorder entry #26B—
8:17am, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
I’ve nearly reached the bottom, thank God. Just another couple dozen stairs.
(Labored breathing)
The video camera is once again malfunctioning. It was my intention to bring it with me to chronicle what I found below, but the camera wouldn’t even turn on this morning. I tried several times to no avail, leaving me with this crummy voice recorder—sorry, Sony, and go fuck yourself while you’re at it.
(A deep breath and the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairway ceases)
Thank God…after everything else that has occurred, I almost expected the cooler to be gone.
(Cooler lid is lifted. A rustling of ice as a plastic bottle is lifted out. The snap of the cap being loosened and a loud gulp of water being swallowed, then—a chorus of violent gagging and vomiting)
(Voice recorder entry #27B—
9:09am, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
All of the water is contaminated. Pure salt water. Every goddam bottle. The caps were all sealed tight. This isn’t a joke. This isn’t a prank. This is…something else.
All of the food has gone bad too. There are maggots in the lunchmeat. The fruit is rotten. The bread is brittle and spotted with mold.
I’m so tired. I feel like I’m losing my mind.
(Voice recorder entry #28B—
9:48am, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
I tried pounding on the front door, but no one came. Of course. The security gate is locked tight and won’t be opened again until tomorrow morning when old man Parker arrives. Next, I tried prying the door open with a piece of scrap metal but it wouldn’t budge. I’m considering bringing down my sleeping bag, lantern, and the rest of my supplies and holing up down here until tomorrow morning. It somehow feels safer here on ground level.
(A chortle of muffled laughter in the background)
Now that I’ve calmed down, I’ve given the situation a lot of thought. I can survive just fine until tomorrow morning without food and water. I’ve done it before.
(Another burst of laughter that Livingston obviously doesn’t hear)
I just have to keep my wits about me.
(More laughter and then: ‘I’m coming, darling. I’m coming.’ The voice belongs to a man, deep in tenor and tinged with an Irish accent. A loud, wet cracking sound is followed by guttural cries. The man laughs again and there are several more wet cracking sounds. Livingston takes no notice)
Whether this is all somehow an intricate ruse designed to make a fool of me or truly the work of whatev
er spirits inhabit the lighthouse, I don’t care anymore. I’ve already got what I came for. The videos and audiotapes I’ve made are pure gold. More than enough to seal another book deal. Toss in the other things I’ve witnessed and heard, and we most likely have a movie, as well. It’s pay day, and just in time for me. Hell, I don’t even have to embellish that much this time around. The only thing I truly wonder about is—
(Livingston gasps)
Get off of me! Get the fuck off of me!
(Frantic footsteps pounding their way up the stairs, finally slowing after a number of minutes. Heavy breathing)
Something grabbed me down there. I felt it on my shoulder…squeezing. Then I watched as a lank of my hair was pulled away from my head. But there was nothing there. My goddam hair was moving by itself.
(Footsteps pick up the pace again)
How in God’s name have I not reached the top yet?
(More footsteps)
…one-hundred-and-seventeen, one-hundred-and-eighteen, one-hundred-and-nineteen…
(Voice recorder entry #29B—
10:27am, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
…two-hundred-and-sixty-six, two-hundred-and-sixty- seven, two-hundred-and-sixty-eight, two-hundred-and-sixty-nine, two-hundred-and-seventy…
Dear God, what is happening?
(Voice recorder entry #30B—
time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
(Note: from this point forward, the voice recorder’s time-code is corrupted for reasons unknown, displaying only 0:00 for the remainder of the recordings)
There are things occurring here clearly beyond my comprehension. Forget the hundreds of impossibly extra stairs I just climbed to reach the living quarters. Forget the fact that I witnessed an ancient fishing vessel crash upon the rocks below last night or watched my hair floating in mid-air right in front of my eyes this morning. Forget the cooler full of contaminated water and rotten food. None of that matters.
But the bloody fucking hammer with the initials J.O. carved into its polished wooden handle I just found laying atop my sleeping bag is another story entirely.
Get me the fuck out of here!
(Voice recorder entry #31B—
time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
I’m sitting with my back against the wall. The lantern is aglow for now, and I can see the entire room and the doorway from this position. But I can’t take my eyes off the bloody hammer.
All I have to do is make it until eight o’clock tomorrow morning. I would tell you what time it is now, but my motherfucking watch has stopped working.
(Voice recorder entry #32B—
time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
How is this storm still raging? How is it possible? It’s so dark outside it feels like the end of the world.
(Voice recorder entry #33B—
time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
(Defeated whisper)
I came here for the money. Of course, I did. It’s always been about the money.
(Voice recorder entry #34B—
time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
Late last night and the night before, Tommyknockers, Tommyknockers, knocking at the door. I want to go out, don’t know if I can, ’cause I’m so afraid of the Tommyknocker man.
(Voice recorder entry #35B—
time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
It shouldn’t be night already. It can’t be. It wasn’t even ten in the morning when I was downstairs at the cooler. There’s no way that much time has passed. It’s not possible.
(Voice recorder entry #36B—
time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
Get off of me! Stop touching me!
(Voice recorder entry #37B—
time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
(Crying)
Someone…something…keeps touching my face. I can feel its breath on my neck.
(Voice recorder entry #38B—
time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
(Sobbing)
Please just leave me alone…
(Voice recorder entry #39B—
time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
Can you hear her singing? It’s a little girl. She’s getting closer.
(Voice recorder entry #40B—
time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
Everything’s gonna be okay. Everything’s gonna be okay.
(Voice recorder entry #41B—
time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
(The deep Irish voice heard earlier…
‘Yes, love, it’s done. Each one’s nothing but a bloody carcass on a bed sheet. Oh yes, darlin’, very bloody.
‘What’s that? You want this one, too?’)
(Voice recorder entry #42B—
time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
This is a bad place. I can feel it whispering inside my head. It wants to show me something…something terrible.
(Voice recorder entry #43B—
time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
(Screaming)
Oh my God, it hurts!
(Sobbing)
Somehow I dozed off and woke up with the most awful pain shooting through my leg. I rolled up my pants leg and found fucking teeth marks! Something bit me while I was sleeping! Oh Jesus, I have to stop the bleeding!
(Voice recorder entry #44B—
time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
(Unintelligible)
(Voice recorder entry #45B—
time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done…
(Voice recorder entry #46B—
time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
(The following is spoken by Livingston in Hebrew, and has since been translated)
…for rebellion is like the sin of divination, and arrogance like the evil of idolatry. Because I have rejected the word of the Lord, he has rejected me as king.
We know that we are children of God, and that the whole world is under the control of The Evil One.
(Voice recorder entry #47B—
time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
(Frantic footsteps)
I’m going out on the catwalk. It’s my last hope.
(The sound of a door opening, then hard wind and rain)
I can’t stop the bleeding in my leg. I can’t stop the voices. They’re getting closer.
(Thunder crashes)
The bloody hammer disappeared from atop my sleeping bag. I hear the echo of heavy footsteps on the stairway. That means he’s coming for me now. Joseph O’Leary is still here. He never left. None of them did. If I can only make it until morning, I can—
****
OFFICIAL POLICE REPORT
FILE #173449-C-34
DATE: July 15, 2017
REPORTING OFFICER(S): Sgt. Carl Blevins; Sgt. Reginald Scales
At 8:47am on Monday, July 14, 2017, the Harper’s Cove Police Department received a phone call from Mr. Ronald Parker, age eighty-one, reporting a missing person and summoning them to the Widow’s Point Lighthouse.
Sgt. Scales and I arrived at the lighthouse grounds at approximately 8:59am. Mr. Parker greeted us at the security gate and directed us to park next to a red Ford pick-up and a gray Mercedes sedan.
Mr. Parker showed us identification and explained that the Mercedes belonged to a male in his mid-forties named Thomas Livingston. According to Mr. Parker, Mr. Livingston, a well-known author, had rented the lighthouse from Mr. Parker’s company for the purpose of paranormal research. The dates of the agreement ran from Friday evening, July 11 to Monday morning, July 14. Mr. Parker was contracted to return to the Widow’s Point Lighthouse at precisely 8am on Monda
y to unlock the front door and escort Mr. Livingston from the property.
Pursuant to this agreement, Mr. Parker claimed that he arrived on Monday morning at approximately 7:50am and waited inside his truck until 8am. At that time, he unlocked the front door and called out for Mr. Livingston. When there was no response, he returned to his truck for a flashlight and entered the lighthouse.
On the lower level, he found Mr. Livingston’s cooler still mostly full of food and water. He also noticed a puddle of dried vomit nearby on the floor.
After repeatedly calling out to Mr. Livingston and receiving no response, Mr. Parker climbed the spiral staircase to the lighthouse’s living quarters. There he found a blood-soaked sleeping bag, a video camera, a lantern, and several other items belonging to Mr. Livingston. He also noticed a series of strange symbols had been scrawled on the walls in what appeared to be blood.
Before returning to the lower level, Mr. Parker searched the catwalk for Mr. Livingston. He found no sign of him, save for a Sony tape recorder located on the metal walkway. Mr. Parker did not touch the recorder and immediately returned to his truck where he called authorities using his cellphone.
After Sgt. Scales and I finished interviewing Mr. Parker, we searched the lighthouse in tandem. Failing to locate Mr. Livingston, we proceeded to search his unlocked vehicle—where we discovered numerous prescription pill bottles, as well as a loaded handgun, all of which have been logged into Evidence—before searching the surrounding grounds and woods.
At 9:31am, I summoned the Crime Lab, and Sgt. Scales and I began establishing a perimeter.
As of today, thirty-one (31) items have been logged into Evidence, including the video camera and audio recorder. Additional analysis of the digital files found within the camera and dozens of audio files is underway.
Weather conditions remain sunny and clear, and additional searching of the lighthouse grounds is currently underway.
Sgt. Carl Blevins
Badge 3B71925
(Written with Billy Chizmar)
MY FATHER
AND
ELLERY QUEEN’S
MYSTERY MAGAZINE
I grew up in a family of readers. Three older sisters and an older brother, their choice of reading material ranging from the classics and poetry to Stephen King and Sidney Sheldon. Mom loved her Agatha Christies and Reader’s Digest condensed novels. My father was the most voracious reader in the house, and it was his eclectic tastes that most influenced the reader—and writer—I would one day become.
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