“Regardless of the reasoning, the lighthouse was once again shuttered tight against the elements three years later in 1988 and for the first time, a security fence was erected around the property, making the lighthouse accessible only by scaling the over one-hundred-and-fifty-foot high cliffs that line its eastern border along the Atlantic.
“In other words, no human being has been inside the Widow’s Point Lighthouse in nearly thirty years…”
Livingston takes a dramatic pause, then steps closer to the camera, his face clenched and square-jawed.
“…until now. Until today.
“That’s right—tonight, for the first time in over three decades, someone will spend the night in the dark heart of the Widow’s Point Lighthouse. That someone is me, Thomas Livingston.
“After months of spirited—pardon the pun—discussion and negotiation, I have been able to secure arrangements to spend an entire weekend inside the legendary lighthouse. The ground rules are simple. Today is Friday, July 11, in the year of 2017. It is...”
Livingston checks his wristwatch.
“…6:09pm Eastern Standard Time on Friday evening. In a matter of minutes, Mr. Ronald Parker, current proprietor of the Widow’s Point Lighthouse, will escort me through the only entrance or exit to the lighthouse, and once I am safely inside, he will close and lock the door behind me…”
Livingston bends down and comes back fully into view holding a heavy chain and padlock.
“…using these.”
He holds the chain and padlock up to the camera for another dramatic beat, and then drops them unseen to the ground below.
“I will be permitted to take inside only enough food and water to last me three days and three nights, as well as a lantern, flashlight, sanitary supplies, two notebooks and pens, along with this video camera and tripod, and several extra batteries. In addition, this…”
Livingston backs up a couple steps, reaches down into his knapsack, and quickly comes up with a small machine in his right hand.
“…Sony Digital Voice Recorder, capable of recording over one thousand hours of memory with a battery life of nearly ninety-six hours without a single charging. And, yes, please consider that an official product placement for the Sony Corporation.”
Livingston laughs—and we get a glimpse of the handsome and charming author pictured on the dust jacket of one of his books—and then he returns the voice recorder to his knapsack.
“I will not be allowed a cell phone or a computer of any kind. Absolutely no Internet access. No way to communicate, or should anything go wrong, no way to request assistance of any kind. I will be completely cut off from the outside world for three long and hopefully peaceful nights.”
We hear a car horn blare from off-screen, and a startled Livingston’s eyes flash in that direction. He looks back at the camera, shaking his head, a bemused expression on his face.
“Okay, folks, it’s time to begin my journey, or shall I say, our journey, as I will be recording all of my innermost thoughts and observations in an effort to take you, my readers, along with me. The next time I appear on camera, I will be entering the legendary—some say, haunted—Widow’s Point Lighthouse. Wish me luck. I may need it.
“And cut…”
The screen goes blank.
Video/audio footage #4A (6:04pm, Friday, July 11, 2017)
Livingston is carrying the video camera in his hand again, and we share his shaky POV as he slowly approaches the lighthouse.
Mr. Parker remains off-screen, but we hear his voice nearby: “Eight o’clock Monday morning. I’ll be here not a minute later.”
“That will be perfect. Thank you.”
The lighthouse door draws nearer. The door is large and weathered and constructed of heavy beams of scarred wood, most likely from an ancient ship, as Livingston had once unearthed in his research. The men stop when they reach the entrance.
“And you’re certain you cannot be convinced otherwise?” the old man asks.
Livingston turns to him—and we finally get a close-up of the reclusive Mr. Parker, an antique crone of a man, his knobby head framed by the blue-gray sea behind him—and Livingston laughs. “No, no. Everything will be fine, I promise.”
The old man merely grunts in reply.
The camera swings back toward the lighthouse and is lowered, and we catch a fleeting glimpse of Livingston’s knapsack hanging from his shoulder and then, resting on the ground at the foot of the entrance, a dirty white cooler with handles by which to carry or drag it. Livingston leans down and takes it by one plastic handle.
“Then I wish you Godspeed,” the old man says.
The camera is lifted once again and focused on the heavy wooden door. A wrinkled, liver-spotted hand swims into view holding a key. The key is inserted into an impossible-to-see keyhole directly beneath an oversized, ornate doorknob and, with much effort, turned.
The heavy door opens with a loud sigh, and we can practically hear the ancient air escaping.
“Whew, musty,” Livingston says with a cough, and we watch his hand reach on-screen and push the door all the way open with a loud creak—into total darkness.
“Aye. She’s been breathing thirty years of dead air.”
Livingston pauses—perhaps it’s the mention of “dead air” that slows his pace—before re-gripping the cooler’s plastic handle and stepping inside.
At the exact moment in time that Livingston crosses the threshold into the lighthouse, unbeknownst to him, the video goes blank. Entirely blank—with the exception of a time code in the lower left corner of the screen, which at that moment reads: 6:07pm.
“I’ll see you Monday morning,” Livingston says.
The old man doesn’t respond, simply nods and closes the door in Livingston’s face. The screen is already dark, so we do not see this; instead, we hear it with perfect clarity and finality.
Then, we listen as the key is once again turned in the lock, and the heavy chain is wrestled into place. After a brief moment of silence, the click of a padlock being snapped shut is heard, followed by a final tug on the chain.
Then, there is only silence…
…until a rustle of clothing whispers in the darkness and there comes the thud of the cooler being set down at Livingston’s feet.
“And so it begins, ladies and gentlemen, our journey into the heart of the Widow’s Point Lighthouse. I will now climb the two hundred and sixty-eight spiraling stairs to the living quarters of the lighthouse, lantern in one hand, camera in the other. I will return a short time later this evening for food and water supplies, after some initial exploration.”
We hear the sound of ascending footsteps and:
“Originally built in 1838, the Widow’s Point Lighthouse is two hundred and seven feet tall, constructed of stone, mostly granite taken from a nearby quarry, and positioned some seventy-five yards from the sheer cliffs which tower above the stormy Atlantic…”
Video/audio footage #5A (6:14pm, Friday, July 11, 2017)
We hear Livingston’s heavy breathing and then notice the time code—6:14pm—appear in the lower left hand corner. Once again, the rest of the screen remains dark.
“Two hundred-sixty-six…two hundred-sixty-seven…two hundred-sixty-eight. And with that, we have reached the pinnacle, ladies and gents, and just in time, too. Your faithful host is feeling rather…spent, I have to admit.”
Even without a video feed, we can almost picture Livingston dropping his knapsack and holding up the lantern to survey his home for the next three nights.
“Well, as you can certainly see for yourselves, Mr. Parker spoke the truth when he claimed this place was in a state of severe ill repair. In fact, he may have managed to actually underestimate the pathetic condition of the Widow’s Point living quarters.”
A deep sigh.
“I believe I shall now rest for a few moments, and then venture upward and explore the lantern room and perhaps even the catwalk if it appears sturdy enough before returning downstairs for my fo
od and water supplies. Once I’ve straightened up a bit and established proper housekeeping, I will return to you with a further update.
“I also promise to discuss the mysterious incidents I referenced earlier—and many more—in greater and more graphic detail once I have made myself at home.”
The sound of shuffling footsteps.
“But, first, before I go…lord in heaven…just gaze upon this magnificent sight for a moment with me.”
Livingston’s voice takes on a tone of genuine awe. The phony theatrics are gone; he means every word of what he is saying now.
“Resplendent mother ocean as far as the eye can see…and beyond. The vision is almost enough to render me speechless.” A chuckle. “Almost.”
The time code disappears—and the video ends.
Voice recorder entry #1B (7:17pm, Friday, July 11, 2017)
Well, this is rather strange and unfortunate. After I last left you, I returned downstairs and brought up a day’s ration of food and water, then spent considerable time cleaning and straightening in preparation for the weekend. Once these tasks were completed to my satisfaction, I settled down for some rest and to double-check the video footage I had shot earlier.
The first several videos were fine, if a little rough around the edges, but then I came to the fourth video…and discovered a problem. I was shocked to find that while the audio portion of the recording worked just fine, the video portion seemed to have somehow malfunctioned once I entered the lighthouse. And I do mean as soon as I stepped inside the lighthouse.
I proceeded to check the camera lens and conduct several test videos, all with the same result—the audio function appears to be operating in perfect order, while video capabilities are disabled. I admit I find the whole matter more puzzling than troubling or unsettling, even with the rather bizarre timing of the issue.
Perhaps, something inside the camera was broken when the wind knocked it down earlier by the cliffs. Or…perhaps the otherworldly influence that dwells here inside the Widow’s Point Lighthouse has already made its presence known. I suppose only time will tell.
In the meantime, this Sony—hear that, folks, Sony—digital voice recorder will serve my purpose here just fine.
Voice recorder entry #2B (9:03pm, Friday, July 11, 2017)
Good evening. I’ve just taken my first dinner here in Widow’s Point—a simple affair; a ham-and-Swiss sandwich slathered with mustard, side of fresh fruit, and for dessert, a thin slice of homemade carrot cake—and finished organizing my copious notes.
Now it’s time for another brief history lesson.
Earlier, I referenced more than a handful of disturbing incidents that have taken place in and around the Widow’s Point Lighthouse. I also promised to discuss in further detail many of the lesser-known tragedies and unexplained occurrences that have become part of the lighthouse’s checkered history. In time, I will do exactly that.
However, for the sake of simplicity, I will first discuss the three most recent and widely-known stories involving the Widow’s Point Lighthouse. I will do so in chronological order.
I referenced earlier the 1933 mass murder of the entire Collins’ family. What I did not mention were the gory details. On the night of September 4, 1933, lighthouse keeper Patrick Collins invited his brother-in-law and three local men to the lighthouse for an evening of card-playing and whiskey. This was a nearly monthly occurrence, so it did not prove particularly troublesome to Patrick’s wife, Abigail, or their two children, Stephen, age nine, and Delaney, age six.
One of the men whom Patrick invited was a close friend of his brother-in-law’s, a worker from the nearby docks. Joseph O’Leary was, by all accounts, a quiet man. A lifelong bachelor, O’Leary was perhaps best known in town as the man who had once single-handedly foiled a bank robbery when the would-be robber ran out of the bank and directly into O’Leary’s formidable chest. O’Leary simply wrapped up the thug in a suffocating bear hug until the authorities arrived.
According to Collins’ brother-in-law and the other two surviving card players—Joshua Tempe, bookkeeper and Donald Garland, fisherman—the night of September 4 was fairly typical of one of their get-togethers. Collins and Tempe both drank too much and their games became sloppy and their voices slurred and loud as the night wore on. On the other hand, the brother-in-law ate too many peanuts and strips of spicy jerky, and as usual, there were many complaints voiced about his equally spicy flatulence. O’Leary was his quiet, affable self throughout the evening, and if any one observation could be made regarding the man, it was agreed by the others that O’Leary experienced a stunning run of good luck throughout the second half of the game.
By evening’s end, a short time after midnight, the vast majority of the coins on the table were stacked in front of O’Leary, with a grumbling Donald Garland finishing a distant second. The men shrugged on their coats, bid each other goodnight, descended the winding staircase in a slow, staggered parade, and returned to their respective homes and beds.
All except Joseph O’Leary.
When he reached his rented flat on Westbury Avenue, O’Leary went directly to his kitchen table, where he sat for just over an hour and composed the now-infamous, lengthy, rambling, handwritten letter explaining that earlier in the night while taking a break from card-playing to visit the bathroom, he had experienced an unsettling—thou admittedly, thrilling and liberating—supernatural occurrence.
To relieve yourself in 1933 in the Widow’s Point Lighthouse, you had to descend to what was commonly (albeit crudely) referred to as the Shit Room. Once you found yourself in this isolated and dimly-lit chamber, you tended to do your business as quickly as possible for it was a genuinely eerie setting and not designed for one’s comfort.
It was here, inside the Shit Room, that O’Leary claims the ghostly, transparent image of a young beautiful woman wearing a flowing white bed-robe appeared before him—at first frightening him with her spectral whisperings before ultimately seducing him with both words and embrace.
Afterward, O’Leary returned to his friends and the card game in a daze. He claimed it felt as if he had dreamt the entire incident.
Dreamlike or not, once O’Leary finished composing his letter, he rose from the kitchen table, took down the heaviest hammer from his workbench, returned to the Widow’s Point Lighthouse, where earlier he had purposely failed to lock the door behind him as was the custom, ascended the two hundred-and-sixty-eight steps—and bludgeoned the Collins’ family to death in their beds.
Once the slaughter was complete, O’Leary strolled outside onto the catwalk—perhaps to rendezvous with his ghostly lover now that the task she had burdened him with was complete—and climbed over the iron railing and simply stepped off into the starless night.
O’Leary’s body was found early the next morning by a local fisherman, shattered on the rocky ground below. Shortly after, the authorities arrived and a much more gruesome discovery was made inside the lighthouse.
Voice recorder entry #3B (10:59pm, Friday, July 11, 2017)
It’s late and I can barely keep my eyes open. I’m rather exhausted from the day’s events, so I bid you all a fair goodnight and pleasant dreams. I pray my own slumber passes uninterrupted, as I am planning for an early start in the morning. Exciting times lay ahead.
Voice recorder entry #4B (4:51am, Saturday, July 11, 2017)
(Mumbling)
I can’t. I don’t want to. They’re…my friends.
Voice recorder entry #5B (7:14am, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
Good morning and what a splendid morning it is!
If I sound particularly rested and cheerful for a man who has just spent the night in a filthy, abandoned, and reputedly haunted lighthouse, it’s because indeed I am. Rested and cheerful, that is.
Trust me, folks, I’m as surprised as you are.
My night didn’t begin in very promising fashion. Although I tucked myself into my sleeping bag and dimmed the lantern shortly after eleven o’clock, I found myself st
ill wide-awake at half past midnight. Why? I’m not exactly certain. Perhaps excitement. Perhaps trepidation. Or perhaps simply the surprising coldness of the lighthouse floor, felt deep in my bones even through my overpriced sleeping bag.
I lay there all that time and listened to the lighthouse whisper its secrets to me and a singular thought echoed inside my exhausted brain: what was I hoping to find here?
It’s a question I had been asked many times in the days leading up to this adventure—by Mr. Ronald Parker and my literary agent and even my ex-wife, just to name a few—and never once had I been able to come up with a response that rang with any measure of authenticity.
Until last night, that is, when—in the midst of my unexpected bout of insomnia, as I lay there on the cold floor in the shadows, wondering if what I was hearing…the distant hollow clanking of heavy metal chains somewhere below me and the uneven scuffling of stealthy footfalls on the dusty staircase…were reality or imagination—the answer to the question occurred to me with startling clarity.
What was I hoping to find here?
Inarguable proof that the Widow’s Point Lighthouse was haunted? Incontrovertible evidence that nothing supernatural had ever dwelled within the structure, all the stories and legends nothing more than centuries-old campfire tales and superstition?
The answer that occurred to me was none of the above—and all of the above.
I didn’t care what I found here in the Widow’s Point Lighthouse. For once, I wasn’t looking for a book deal or a movie option. I wasn’t looking for fame or fortune.
I was simply looking for the truth.
And with that liberating revelation caressing my conscience, my eyes slid closed and I fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.
Voice recorder entry #6B (8:39am, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
Now that I’ve completed my morning exercises and eaten a bit of breakfast, it’s time for another history lesson.
As I already noted in my opening segment—and I’ll try not to repeat myself too much here—Hollywood came to the town of Harper’s Cove in September of 1985. More specifically, Hollywood came to the Widow’s Point Lighthouse.
Fearful Fathoms: Collected Tales of Aquatic Terror (Vol. I - Seas & Oceans) Page 2