by Amy Cross
The area around the lighthouse is a sparse concrete platform, lined on one side by the quayside wall and on the other by a patch of scrub-land with trees a couple of hundred meters further off. I stop and look around, convinced that at any moment I'll see a figure coming toward the building, but it's too dark to really make much out, even when the lighthouse's lamp swings around this way.
Still, there has to be someone.
I can't be imagining things again.
“Penny,” Matthew says as he comes up behind me, “if you're trying to be funny...”
“I saw a woman,” I reply, my eyes still scanning the darkness as I wait desperately. “I think it was a woman, anyway. It was definitely a person, and she was coming this way. She wasn't walking fast, but she was coming!”
I wait, and a moment later I hear Matthew heading back inside. A few seconds after that, he comes out and switches on a flashlight, illuminating the scene and swinging the beam around. I watch as the light picks out a line of trees nearby, but there's no sign of anyone. A moment later the lighthouse's beam swings around again, briefly bringing even more light to the scene before continuing on its way.
“Penny -”
“I saw someone,” I say firmly, taking a step forward. “I know it sounds crazy,” I continue, still expecting to see a figure coming this way, “but I'm certain. She was walking toward the lighthouse, she was moving slowly but should be here by now.”
“There's only the three of us on the island,” he replies, stepping past me and turning, casting the flashlight around. “Do you know how far we are from the mainland? It's not like someone could just drop by unannounced. There isn't even anywhere to moor a boat apart from the quayside, and even that's not easy.” He pauses, before turning to me and lowering the flashlight. “So this was a joke, right? You're, like, trying to spook us? Very funny, nice try.”
“I saw someone,” I reply, even though I'm starting to feel like a fool. Turning, I watch the darkness, but it's impossible to make anything out.
I wait.
My heart is beating faster than ever, pounding in my chest.
I know what I saw. Then again, I felt the same at the train station on the way here, and I ended up looking like a complete fool there too.
Suddenly Matthew puts a hand on my shoulder and I spin round to face him, startled.
“Easy,” he says with a faint smile, leaving his hand in place. “Jesus, Penny, if you're gonna get this easily startled on your first night, I hate to think how you'll be after a few weeks. Plus there's supposed to be a big storm headed this way soon. You can't go letting this place get to you, okay? There's no-one else here.” He pauses, before squeezing my shoulder slightly. “It's my fault. I shouldn't have told you those dumb stories earlier about ghosts and presences. Just forget I said anything, yeah? Come on, let's go inside and start thinking about hitting the hay. It's almost midnight.”
I let him lead me to the door with his hand still on my shoulder, but I can't help glancing back at the darkness. I guess he's right, I probably just saw a shadow and let my imagination run wild, and that's pretty embarrassing given that I've only been here for about nine hours. Still, once I'm through the door, I turn and look back, just in case. I didn't see the woman properly, but in the back of my mind I can't shake the fear that maybe it's the same woman I saw back in the house before I ever came to this island.
“Don't worry,” Matthew says, switching off the flashlight and leaning past me. “There's nothing out there that can hurt you.”
With that, he pulls the door shut, plunging us into darkness.
***
A few hours later, in my little bed in my little corner of the living area, I stare up at the dark ceiling and listen for any hint of movement outside the lighthouse. All I can hear, however, is the sound of Matthew on the other side of the room.
I imagined the woman I saw tonight. That's the only possible explanation. She was a figment of my imagination, just like the woman I saw before in the house, and the woman at the train station. In the morning, the sun's going to come up and I'm going to face my first day working at the lighthouse, and everything's going to be fine. I keep reminding myself of this fact, but finally I sit up on the bed and peer out the dirty window. I can barely see anything at all, but after finding a patch where the grime is less thick, I squint just enough to make out the dark expanse of the island spreading out from the base of the lighthouse.
There's no-one there. I guess I'm just going through a bad patch, that's all. Maybe the pills aren't working as well as they once did, maybe I'm getting used to them, but one thing's certain... Ghosts aren't real.
Chapter Eight
One month earlier
“I got a job!” I tell Mel as I push her door open and crash down onto her bed, unable to contain my excitement a moment later. “Can you believe it? I actually got an actual job! For money!”
“Hey!” she groans, holding a hand in front of her face to shield her eyes. “Do you mind not shouting? What the hell kind of time do you call this, anyway?”
“It's almost noon.”
Sighing, she slumps back down and pulls the duvet over her head. After a moment, I hear a faint groan.
“Hungover?” I ask with a smile. Damn it, I must be annoying right now.
“Why are you so goddamn perky suddenly?” she asks from deep under the covers.
“I got a job,” I continue. “Isn't that amazing? An actual paid job!”
“As what? An alarm clock?” Suddenly she peers out from under the duvet with one mascara-smudged eye. “Wait, did you say it's noon? That means my parents'll be here in, like, two hours.” Letting out an annoyed sigh, she slips back out of sight and starts cursing like a trooper.
“Don't you want to know what I'll be doing?” I ask. “You'll never guess, not in a million years! I found this listing last night and it seemed completely crazy, but I figured I'd give it a shot and they emailed me back in the middle of the night and then they called me this morning. I talked to them for half an hour, and suddenly I realized they weren't actually interviewing me, they were preparing me! I start in a couple of weeks! Guess what I'll be doing!”
“I want to go to sleep.”
“I'm going to Scotland.”
“I want to go to sleep.”
“And out to an island.”
“I want to go to sleep.”
“And I'm going to go work in a lighthouse.”
I wait for a reply. None comes at first, but after a moment she peers out from under the duvet again. “What?”
“It's some old lighthouse off the western coast of Scotland,” I continue, barely able to believe that these words are coming from my lips, “and it's, like, one of the last ones that's not all run by computers. Anyway, they need teams of people to man the place, and I've signed up to be one of them. I'm going to go and live in a lighthouse with a couple of other people, in the middle of nowhere, right out in the Atlantic! Can you believe that?”
“No,” she replies cautiously, “I can't. Do they still have lighthouses? Really?”
“Of course they do.”
“Are you sure it's not some kind of trick? They didn't ask for your card details, did they?”
“They're paying me,” I tell her. “Plus, free accommodation. I looked it up online and it's not as weird as it sounds. There are actual lighthouses out there that need actual people living in them.”
“But...” She pauses. “You?” Sitting up, she frowns. There's dark make-up smudged all over her face, and her hair is all matted and untidy. Plus, she stinks of sweat and cheap alcohol. “You have a degree in English Literature, Penny. No offense, but what the hell do you know about lighthouses?”
“Nothing,” I reply. “Yet.”
“So let me get this straight,” she continues. “You've spent the past three years studying Chaucer and Shakespeare and all that jazz, going on about how you want to write books and study the history of literature -”
“Which I
'm still going to do one day. When I've saved up some money.”
“And first you want to head off to work in a friggin' lighthouse?”
I nod, unable to stifle a faint smile. “Want's a strong word,” I tell her, “but... It's a job, right? It beats flipping burgers.”
“So what are you gonna do?” she asks. “Live there for the rest of your life?”
“Just six months, maybe a year at most. I can use that time to figure out the next step.” I wait for her to reply, but it's clear that she's shocked. To be fair, she has every reason to feel that way. “I know I've never been much of an outdoors kind of person,” I continue, “but maybe this'll be good for me. And even if it isn't, at least I won't be moving back into my old bedroom at my parents' house. I'll be alive, I'll be moving forward!”
“There's nothing wrong with moving home for a little while,” Mel replies a little defensively. “It's a chance to just, like, stabilize things. I'm doing it, just while I get on my feet. My sister did it too.”
“Six years ago,” I point out, “and she's still there.”
“Yeah, but I'll be different.”
“I can't move back in with my parents,” I continue, feeling a shiver at the merest mention of the idea. “The whole reason I came to uni was to start a new life, to get my own future. Moving home again would feel like an admission of failure, like...” I pause, worried that I might offend her with my next comment. “I don't want to be a kid anymore,” I tell her finally, “and moving back with my parents would make me feel like a kid. It'd be going backward. I want to push on and move forward.”
“So you're gonna go be Portland Bill?”
“I've spoken to Mr. Rollings,” I continue, “and he says I can stay here in the house for a few more weeks until it's time for me to go. I've got just enough money to get by.”
“Everyone else is moving out today,” she points out. “You'll be all on your own.”
“I don't mind that.”
“But...” She stares at me for a moment with a hint of sadness in her eyes. “I don't want to think of you being on your own,” she adds finally, “especially not here, where we had so much fun.”
“I'll be fine.”
“This isn't your illness talking, is it?” she asks. “Are you still taking your pills?”
“Yes, I'm still taking my pills,” I reply, trying not to sound frustrated.
“Good, because this is the kind of manic thing someone might do if they'd gone off their medication.”
“I know I'm crazy,” I continue, “but that doesn't mean this is a bad idea or -”
Before I can finish, she reaches out and lightly slaps my hand.
“You're not crazy,” she says firmly. “Just because you need a little medication to stay calm, that doesn't make you crazy. Got it?”
I nod. I know she's right, I've just gotten so used to using the c-word when I'm talking about myself.
“I'm not off my medication,” I tell her after a moment. “I just...” Pausing, I try to work out how I can explain it to her. “Not everything I do has to be because I'm sick,” I say finally. “I know everyone else is going back to live with their parents and taking on even more debt, but I can't do that. I need a job, and this is the best one on offer. If it was anything else, if it wasn't a lighthouse, it'd seem totally sane.”
She pauses, and suddenly I realize that there are tears in her eyes. Before I can say anything, however, she crawls across the duvet and puts her arms around me, hugging me tight. I wait for her to say something, but I can hear a series of slow, gentle sobs, and she pulls me even tighter. She doesn't smell too great, but I figure that's okay.
“I don't want to go,” she sniffs. “I don't want us to all go to different places. I want it to stay like this forever. I don't want us to stop being students.”
“We can still talk online,” I reply, feeling her tears on the side of my neck. “And we can visit each other.”
“It won't be the same.”
“No, but...” I wait for the right words to pop into my head, but all I can do is sit here as Mel continues to sob on my shoulder. “This won't be goodbye,” I tell her finally, starting to think that maybe she's overreacting just a little. “And think, next time we hang out, I'll have all these cool stories about what it's like to live in a lighthouse. It's going to be fun. I'll learn a lot, and I'll get new experiences, and I'll work out what to do with the rest of my life. The most important thing is that I'll be moving forward, not backward.”
Taking a deep breath, I realize it's not just her that I'm trying to convince.
Chapter Nine
Today
“It's me,” I tell him, holding the radio up to the side of my face as I trudge across the grass. “Can you hear me?”
It's 8am, my first morning on the island, and I've already been sent out to check on the generator building. Matthew told me that there's a set of loose connections that needs to be pushed into place every morning, and he also added something about a trip to the generator being a rite of passage. To be honest, he seemed to be holding back laughter the whole time he was explaining this to me, but I don't mind; I want to feel useful.
There's still mist all around, making it impossible to see more than twenty, maybe twenty-five feet in any direction, and the grass underfoot is covered in frost that crackles under every step I take. The dark shapes of trees loom out of the mist whenever I get close to them, and when I glance over my shoulder I can only really see the lighthouse's beam, cutting through the mist high above as it continues to rotate. I guess I'm starting to see what Matthew means when he talks about the lighthouse's majesty; there's something sober and beautiful about the way it just gets on with its work, all day and all night, expecting no thanks as it continues to warn ships to keep away.
“Matthew,” I say after a moment, checking the buttons on the radio to make sure I've pressed the right one, “are you there?”
I wait.
Nothing.
Just as I'm about to try again, I remember the instructions he gave me, and I realize what I'm doing wrong. It's nothing to do with the buttons, and everything to do with the nicknames he insists we use.
“This is Juliet One,” I say, “calling...” I sigh, feeling completely ridiculous. “Calling Echo Base. Echo Base, come in, over.”
“That's better Juliet One,” Matthew's voice replies, distorted slightly through a hail of low-level static. He sounds amused, which seems to be his default attitude when he's dealing with me. “Gotta use the proper terminology out there, Juliet One. We're professional lighthouse keepers, yeah? How's it going?”
“I -”
“Over,” he adds.
“I can barely see my own nose,” I tell him. “I think I'm still going in the right direction, though. Shouldn't I be there by now?”
I wait for a reply.
“Over,” I add finally.
“Juliet One, this is Echo Base,” he replies, clearly stifling a laugh, “describe your location. Over.”
I look around, but all I see are a few vague dark shapes in the mist. “Trees,” I tell him. “I'm in another clearing. Are you sure there's no chance I'll walk off the edge of a cliff? Over.”
“No cliffs to worry about,” he replies. “Just rocks. Keep going. Over.”
“Okay,” I mutter. “Over.”
Lowering the radio, I take another look around before setting off again, tramping across the grass and heading toward a set of trees that appear first as a dark smudge ahead before I reach them and realize that I've reached the forest that runs along the far shore. At least that means I should be close to the generator building, so all I have to do is keep tramping about through the mud until I find the damn place. This island's so small, it's not possible to get properly lost.
I keep going, as above me the lighthouse's beam of light swings through the mist.
***
I let out a faint grunt as I finally manage to push the connectors back into their sockets. They weren
't all the way out, but they were definitely hanging loose and I can see why this daily trip might be necessary, despite the rolls of sticky tape that have been wrapped around the main socket. Stepping back, I look up at the meters on the wall and watch for a moment as the dial continues to turn.
Great. Job done.
The generator building has turned out to be little more than a rectangular concrete shack, with an open doorway and a solitary electric light above. There are plenty of pieces of equipment lining the far wall, but I don't really know what any of them are for; all I can say for certain is that they're making a hell of a lot of noise, with various wires and cables running between the machines and, in some cases, down into holes in the floor. Making my way over, I'm careful not to touch anything as I take a closer look, and I can't help feeling that this stuff has been left undisturbed for a long time.
“Security check completed,” I whisper, reading from a sticker on the side of one of the machines. “Next check due... November 1999. Great. Not that overdue, then.”
Taking a step back, I feel the floor bend slightly under my feet, and I look down to see that there's a wooden hatch set into the concrete. There's a hefty-looking padlock on the latch, and when I crouch and give it a tug I find that it's firmly secured in place. I guess there must be some particularly important equipment down there, but I figure Matthew and Colin have got the situation under control and they'll teach me some of the more technical matters over time. Getting to my feet, I take another look around, feeling as if my visit here is something of an anti-climax after the rough two-mile trek, and then I turn and head toward the doorway.
And that's when I hear the footsteps.