Lighthouses

by Trost, Cameron

  June 13th

  A terrible accident has happened. Mom would be surprised it had taken so long. This was a dangerous job after all. One slip and I’d be swept out to sea, like all careless fools. She’d blow a blood vessel if she knew I was ripping the place apart like an overenthusiastic exterminator chasing locusts behind the skirting boards.

  Are you trying to look insane? You know how many people have scratched me from their wedding invitations when they heard how you abandoned me? How does it make me look to have a son who does his best to stay away from me? What if you tear the lighthouse down on yourself? What if you pull the whole damn thing into the ocean?

  I’d decided from day one to throw all of mom’s letters into the sea. That level of drama queen, I didn’t need. But still the ferry man got in my face, disliking the constant noise as he tried to make a living, guiding tourists through the high waves.

  None of the locals dared into the water, so business was deadly serious in a coming recession. With a kid on the way, he needed every penny he could get, not an overexcited hammer fan tearing down walls in pursuit of women’s bodies. Had I missed the newsflash? Miller was dead, and all of his unfortunate victims were safe and sound, tucked up in their graves.

  He would appreciate it if I didn’t frighten off customers by constantly hammering away like a construction site, making his passengers cower under the plastic seats, demanding hard hats, sure that some gargoyle-chiselled bit of masonry would land on them.

  I was only defending myself. I didn’t mean to push him so hard, but he hardly had time to scream as his ankles locked around themselves, his arms whirled through the air, seeking purchase, but his fate was sealed.

  He fell backwards over the railing and down onto the rocks, smashing his nut so hard that both of his eyes jettisoned out of his head before the sea came in and covered the scene of the crime completely.

  I was sick. So, I wasn’t mad after all, as surely maniacs have no feelings. But no sense of guilt threatened to completely suffocate me as I managed to lift the phone and call in the terrible accident. I’d explain how a great wave had come along as my new friend and I had stood admiring the sunset on that rickety walkway.

  Why change history? What worked for Miller would surely work for me, and though I prayed for the first time since I’d been an angry little boy, wishing a massive cardiac would take mom in her sleep, there was something that I hadn’t taken into account in this repeat of history.

  There was someone else who knew the story.

  The sheriff came at nightfall, when I should have been working, smiling, with a pair of handcuffs.

  June 14th

  Life is so unfair. There is nothing wrong with my mind. I don’t care how high strung the doctor thinks me. I don’t want to rest — God help me, I cannot go home. The sheriff didn’t completely buy my story as he took me to the station to talk things out. But I could see he wanted no repeat performance of bad times.

  He was willing to believe the railing had given way — on the condition that I took the first plane home. Tomorrow, someone else will take my place, as I return home with my tail between my legs. As mom tells me, it was always us against the world.

  But I cannot go back there. I prefer doing what I was paid for. Keeping that damn bulb lit. Again, it takes thirty seconds to warm up, attracting thousands of fluttering moths to the window, a sweeter sound than the screams of women behind the wall.

  It’s funny that each of them knows my name. That each of them has my mom’s voice.

  They all call me a failure, although I tried — oh, how I tried — to live a normal life. A good life. One of work and money. Isn’t that what we all want? But mom was right. She’s always right. And now I have to go back.

  I want the ghosts to take me. So, I do the only thing I know. I do my job and turn the light on. The ship out there in the dense mist signals back and questions my directions.

  I say it is fine.

  Clear all the way.

  The ship sounds its horn and comes at me. Two thousand tons of French beef and spare tyres hurtle at me, but there is time before the collision. Before that ship smashes this damn lighthouse into the sea and the voices stop.

  Just time to finish this journal and tell the world my hatred of mom and the women in the wall. The ship blasts a warning. It has realised, but there is no time to turn. Its spotlight fills the window as I wave.

  Mom will have to live with her loneliness.

  Soon the voices will stop.

  Thank God.

  THE CAPE

  B. Michael Radburn

  Ellyn felt the wind buffet the Camry as she crested the hill and heard a flurry of sand spray the windscreen. A road sign shuddered on the verge. Dempsey’s Cape 3 km. She pulled over, parking the hire car off the road where she could look down at the cape on the headland below.

  Like a postcard, she thought.

  She breathed a sigh of relief and glanced at her watch. It was late, the sun low on the western horizon. The flight from the city, the two hour drive, was taking its toll.

  She wound down the window. The breeze, cold, slapped her face, and woke her in a rush. ‘Better,’ she said, then wound the window back up, thankful for the car’s heating. Another winter was all but over, the scent of spring on the salty air, faint and distant, but promising all the same. It was that in-between season — a nightmare to pack for. She adjusted the rear view mirror and checked her face, flicking her brown hair from her eyes. The crow’s feet in the corners made her look older than her thirty-two years.

  I need a coffee, she thought, rubbing her pale cheeks.

  She nestled back into the seat and stared down at the cape, its small township huddled around the edge of a moon-shaped bay where a finger of craggy rock held the lighthouse firm against the waves, a tower of white burning orange in the sunset. The tide was low and she could see the chain railing that led across the bridge of coal-black rocks to the base of the lighthouse. It was compelling, drawing her imagination toward each wave pounding against the stone. The misty residue partially obscured a trail of stairs carved into the cliff that trailed from the sandstone cottage on the bluff.

  Ellyn smiled. The caretaker’s cottage was just as she had imagined. Her abode tonight — her story. Then, she noticed the line of clouds building on the horizon, a flash of lightning in their dark underbelly. Perfect, she thought, with just a little trepidation.

  The road wound down to the bay, past dry stone walls and groves of peppercorn trees that all leaned east, shaped by the coastal winds. Timber cottages lined the hills, looking down on the shopfronts of whitewashed brick and black timber trimmings, a little slice of England from its colonial days. A road to the left had a sign to the lighthouse, but she needed the keys first, and continued into town.

  Ellyn searched for the real-estate agent. The only one in town, she was assured. Then she saw it, on the corner, the open sign hanging in the glass door. Branson’s Real Estate. She parked out front — couldn’t do that in the city — and felt the weight of the day suddenly press at her shoulders. She felt flat, exhausted, and it didn’t help that it was her birthday; didn’t help that she was alone, half a continent away from David, her fiancé.

  She cut the engine and the clip-clop of horse’s hooves caught her attention. She searched the streets and smiled at the open horse-drawn carriage that rounded the corner. A family of four rode the open coach, a smiling couple sharing a blanket, lying back in the seat; two children leaning at the sides, restless. It had been a long time since she and David had been on a holiday. She missed him. Ellyn reached for the email printout she’d folded and left in the centre console, her pick-me-up for the trip. It was David’s last message before she left.

  Hi Babe,

  Wish I could be there for your birthday but that’s what you get for wanting to marry a fellow journalist. My editor has me covering the miner’s strike down south, so no telling how long it may drag on for. Hey, I heard your latest story on the radio yester
day. The series gets better each week, babe. Anyway, have fun at your lighthouse and I’ll see you real soon to catch up for lost time. Miss you heaps and can’t wait for the wedding. I’ll call you tonight once you’ve settled in.

  Love David 

  She glanced at the name above the agent’s door and stepped out of the car with a mild groan. It was good to stretch tired muscles. The door opened a little easier than expected and Ellyn stumbled inside as the entrance buzzer announced her arrival.

  Sitting at reception was a woman. She looked up.

  Ellyn guessed she was in her late twenties, and although dressed in a pantsuit and jacket, her sun-bleached hair and tanned face made her look more at home on a surfboard. Her smile was professional enough, but there was a sense of annoyance in her eyes at having to hand over a key this late.

  ‘You must be Miss Spencer,’ she said.

  Still weary, Ellyn smiled nevertheless. ‘Sorry I’m so late. I was hoping to arrive around three, but a flat tyre along the coast road had other ideas.’ She glanced down at her hands, still a little grimy from changing the tyre.

  ‘Well, you’re here now.’ She stood and walked to the back of the office. ‘I’ll get you the cottage key.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The woman kept talking as she unlocked a wall cabinet, her finger drawing down a line of tags as she looked for the key. ‘What’s your business up there anyway? There are plenty of fine hotels on the Cape that aren’t booked out this time of year. I mean, the cottage has its charm, but I know where I’d be staying if I had the choice.’ Then she declared, ‘Ah, here it is,’ before returning to place the key proudly on the counter.

  ‘I’m a journalist,’ Ellyn explained as she took the keys and signed the paperwork on the counter beside them. ‘I’ve been working on a radio documentary retracing the old east coast Cobb and Co. route. The lighthouse cottage was one of the overnight stops used to change horses and rest the passengers.’

  The agent checked the form without really listening. ‘So, how many in your party?’ she asked.

  Ellyn laughed softly. ‘You’re looking at my party. Me and a microphone. It’s a shoestring budget, I’m afraid, but we’re all pretty happy with the series so far.’

  The agent shook her head slightly. ‘Well, I know I shouldn’t be saying this, but you wouldn’t find me alone in that place on a clear day, let alone at night with this storm approaching. I’ve heard stories about that cottage that’d make your skin crawl.’

  ‘Well,’ said Ellyn dismissively, ‘a haunting will make a great twist for this week’s episode.’ Then, stepping out the door, she added, ‘After all, everyone loves a good ghost story.’

  ‘Not if you’re the one being haunted, ma’am,’ murmured the agent softly.

  Ellyn stepped outside, the clouds bringing an early dusk as a wisp of rain kissed her cheeks. As she sat in the car, the rain fell a little heavier against the windscreen. She started the engine and turned the wipers on, noticing the lighthouse’s dome peeking above the shingled roof of the café across the road. The craving for coffee returned, then she noticed the closed sign that was hastily hung in the window just before the lights were turned out.

  She waited for a motorhome to drive past, then made a U turn and headed back toward the lighthouse turnoff. It was a gravel road that wound through a field of hedgerows and leaning fences. A pair of gnarled peppercorn trees stood either side of a dry wall entrance, the gate open. The Camry just squeezed through, then Ellyn saw a white picket fence that bordered the caretaker’s cottage. She parked the car, marvelling at the sense of history in the whitewashed walls and shingled roof. Beyond the cottage stood the lighthouse, its green tarnished dome level with the cottage, larger than it had appeared from the headland when she’d first arrived. Its light rotated, flashing like a heartbeat, casting shadows through the garden. It stood defiantly in the face of the storm, where fingers of lightning reached out to the seascape below.

  Her skin bristled as a distant clap of thunder rolled in from the sea. She hastily gathered her laptop and single bag from the back seat, and offered a final glance at the approaching maelstrom before heading inside.

  What a great picture for radio, she thought.

  Ellyn ducked in beneath the eaves and fumbled with the keys. To one side of the door was a stack of cut logs, for the fire, she hoped, and to the other a naked climbing rose that hugged the wall. She unlocked the door just as the rain hit the headland with all its force. The gutters quickly overflowed to cascade into the gardens beneath the eaves, thankfully missing the firewood. She closed the door, heavy timber straining the hinges with a squeal as she fumbled for a light switch. The weather was shut out, and the musty scent of time was almost overpowering.

  Finding the lights, she placed her baggage on the sofa beside the fireplace and commenced exploring the cottage as an assault of thunder shook the windows.

  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all, she thought. All the bravado she felt back at the agent’s office had vanished with that thunderclap.

  The wind whistled between gaps in the windows and doors, wisps of cool air gaining entry from invisible corners as she explored the kitchen. There was coffee — instant — milk and a kettle. Thank you, she thought, and filled the kettle. The lighthouse beam pulsed through the window, comforting, like a heartbeat, but harsh on the eyes. She closed the blinds, then checked the signal strength on her mobile and moaned at the zero signal indicated.

  ‘Perfect,’ she whispered in a wavering voice, feeling a little less isolated when she picked up the cottage phone and heard the dial tone.

  Beside the phone was a door, smaller than usual, a sign, watch your step, posted above it. She opened it, stairs leading below. A cellar. This story was writing itself. She flicked the light switch and stood on the landing. The room below was surprisingly well lit, a relief, clean and dry. She took the first step and it groaned beneath her. Every sensibility told her not to go, but the journalist urged her on. The walls were carved into the natural rock, rows of wooden shelves housing tools and equipment that she guessed was for the lighthouse. Then she saw them, a row of ankle shackles fixed along one wall. She raised her eyebrows with a sense of discovery. She had read about this in her research, where transient prisoners were kept overnight when travelling the Cobb and Co. route. She made a mental note of its history and smiled.

  Something screamed upstairs, and she flinched, turning to the stairwell. She held her breath, then slowly let it escape when she realised what it was. The kettle.

  Ellyn returned upstairs and made sure the latch on the cellar door was secure when she closed it. She couldn’t think of a reason in the world to ever go down there again. I have the haunted house, she thought. Now all I need is a ghost.

  She made a coffee and savoured the first sip as she stared around at the parlour. There was wood in the fireplace and matches on the mantelpiece. The dry wood took quickly, its warm glow and crackle comforting against the sound of the storm. She lounged into the sofa and took out her laptop, thinking of the script; that hook in the opening line that introduced the story. Ellyn sipped her coffee and recalled her initial reaction when she first saw the lighthouse and its cottage from the road into town, then smiled when the opening lines came to her:

  The Lighthouse Keeper’s Cottage. It wasn’t until night fell that I considered it only natural that such a place was haunted. After all, we’re all haunted by something… eventually.

  She typed furiously, fearful the line might escape her before committing it to the screen. Ellyn considered the words, and felt fulfilled. After all, the one thing a writer covets most is inspiration. The warmth of the fire cupped her face. She tucked her legs up onto the sofa and tested the Wi-Fi, relieved to see a connection.

  ‘Let’s see what we can discover about this place,’ she murmured, disregarding the storm outside as she typed a few key words into the search engine. The usual Shire Council and Tourism pages appeared, but scrolling down the scree
n, she noticed a title that piqued her interest at a glance.

  The Haunted Lighthouse of Dempsey’s Cape.

  According to the story, a Cobb & Co. coachman in the late 1800s led a double life as a thief and murderer while working the east-coast route. His real name was lost amidst public records, but everyone called him Old Dary. As police eventually closed in on him, Old Dary was finally ambushed here at the cottage but escaped custody by fleeing into a storm ravaged night on the coach still hitched to the horses. In the police pursuit that followed, the troopers forced him too near the coastal cliffs where coach, horses, and driver were all reported to have plummeted to their deaths into the sea.

  Ellyn’s smile widened. There’s your ghost, she thought.

  ‘This stuff is gold,’ she said just as a loud clap of thunder wiped the same smile from her face. She’d been of the opinion that her last two episodes were beginning to sound a little similar, but this was just the twist-in-the-tale story she’d been hoping for to keep her listeners interested.

  Reading on, she discovered that since the incident, there had been numerous sightings of a ghostly horse-drawn coach along the road leading to the caretaker’s cottage whenever the weather turned inclement. Local folklore has it that Old Dary, a dark figure in a long rawhide coat and wide-brimmed hat, would be seen atop the coach, whipping the horses into a ghostly charge. Other reports had him knocking on the cottage door for refuge.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ she said to herself. ‘There’s your story for Sunday.’

  But, as if blowing out the candles on her cake, another clap of rolling thunder extinguished the few lights she had on, her computer screen and the dying fire providing the only source of comfort. Should have stayed in town, she reminded herself just as the low battery signal beeped on her computer. ‘Rats,’ she hissed, trying to close it down before it crashed on her.