by Amy Cross
Suddenly I feel a rush of cold air against the back of my neck. I turn, shuddering as I reach up to rub the patch of skin, but there's nothing behind me. I wait, but there's no sign of anyone and I tell myself that I just need to grow up and get a grip.
Turning to the window, I realize I can see the lights of town in the distance. It's 2am, which means most of the clubs will be kicking out right now, with hoards of drunk people roaming the streets. Somehow, the real world feels a million miles away.
Chapter Thirteen
Today
“There!” Matthews says triumphantly, using his empty beer bottle to point at the faint blinking light on the horizon, many miles out to sea. “That's an oil tanker.”
“How can you tell from this far away?” I ask.
“I just can.” He turns to me and smiles. “Impressed?”
“Very.” It's almost midnight, and the much-heralded storm has failed to arrive. Instead, the weather has actually improved considerably; the mist has cleared and we're sitting in old garden deckchairs in the clearing just outside the lighthouse's main door, and Matthew has spent the past hour promising to identify any vessels we spot passing in the distance. It took a while, but he's finally managed to find one, although I have to admit that I can't possibly verify his claim that it's a tanker. I guess I'll just have to take his word for it.
“The storm's coming, you know,” he says after a moment.
“I believe you.”
“I radioed the mainland a wee while back. The storm-front slowed, but it's also getting stronger. Should hit during the night or tomorrow morning. It's gonna be a real ball-buster, we're gonna have to batten down all the hatches and ride it out.” He leans over and taps my arm. “I guess that's Mother Nature's way of welcoming you to the ass end of nowhere, eh?”
I can't help but smile. Matthew might be a little over-friendly sometimes, but he sure as hell never runs out of things to say, and he seems to be extremely knowledgeable about not only the natural habitat of this island but also its history. Then again, he could be making everything up and I'd have no way of knowing. Turning, I look toward the treeline, still wondering whether I might catch a glimpse of someone out there. I've made a conscious decision this evening to stop talking about all that stuff, to avoid inviting any more mocking lectures, but deep down I still can't shake the feeling that I saw and heard something earlier. It might all be in my head, but I feel like we're being watched. Then again, I've felt that way before, and it's always turned out to be just in my head.
“There is a ghost here, you know,” Matthew says suddenly.
I turn to him. “Huh?”
“Well... A ghost story, anyway.” He pauses, seemingly a little uncomfortable. “I guess I downplayed it before. I don't normally tell new arrivals about old Essie, but I can tell you're gonna keep digging and the longer I leave it, the more suspicious you'll get when you eventually find out, so...” He pauses again, before tossing his empty beer bottle as far as he can; as it smashes against the rocks, he grabs another bottle and taps the lid open against his deckchair, and then he takes a long swig. “It's nothing, right?” he continues finally. “It's just the kind of rubbish people come up with to scare themselves, but there's people who, like, reckon there's this spectral old woman haunting the island.”
“People have actually seen something?” I ask, sitting up in the deckchair. “Where? What does she look like?”
“Well...” Another pause, and it's clear that he feels a little embarrassed. “I've never seen anything, okay? I'm pretty sure I would've done, if there was anything to see. Still, there've been a few people over the years who've sworn they've seen some old-fashioned bird out in the forest. She never comes near the lighthouse, that's why I didn't mention it earlier when you were going on about those supposed footsteps. There's no way there could've been anything here, not in a million years, not even the most susceptible people have ever claimed that. But like I said, there's people who reckon they've seen Essie Davis haunting the forest, mainly near the generator building.”
“Essie Davis?” I reply, frowning. “Who is she? I mean, who was she?”
“She was real enough,” he continues. “I looked into it. About a hundred years ago, Essie and her husband came and took over the lighthouse. There's not a whole lot in the records, but it seems they were here for about two years before a supply boat turned up one day and...”
I wait for him to continue. “And what?”
He sighs. “Maybe I shouldn't be mentioning this...”
“What happened?” I ask.
“They found Albert Davis dead,” he continues, pointing to a patch of concrete just a few feet from us. “Splat, right there. He'd fallen from the railing around the walkway at the top of the lighthouse. No-one ever found out if he jumped, or fell, or...” His voice trails off for a moment. “Anyway, the point is, he was dead. Very dead.”
“What about Essie?”
Another sigh. “Don't go getting too excited, okay?”
“What happened to her?” I ask. “Couldn't she tell them about her husband?”
“She might've been able to, if they'd found her. Instead, she was gone. They searched the island, they even brought in sniffer dogs, but she was never seen again. Seeing as how there was no boat she could've left on, the official report came up with two possibilities. First, someone might've dropped by unexpectedly and she went off with him in his boat, or...” He turns and looks toward the dark treeline. “Or she was still here, and they just never found her. Of course, that was over a hundred years ago now, so even if she was here, she'd be long dead. And like I said, I've personally never so much as caught a whiff of her, but there's been people who've reckoned they saw someone in the forest now and then.”
Watching the treeline, I almost expect to see someone out there right now. I wait for a moment, as the lighthouse's beam blasts across the island and then swings toward the eastern shore, briefly bringing light to the scene before plunging the island back into darkness.
“Don't go getting ideas in your head now,” Matthew continues. “I only told you that story so you wouldn't find out later and think I've been keeping stuff from you.”
“I don't believe in ghosts,” I reply, turning to him.
“Liar.”
“I don't!”
“I can see it in your eyes.” He pauses. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” I mutter.
“But something spooked you, didn't it? Before you came here, I mean.”
I shake my head.
“You'll tell me eventually,” he continues. “They always do.”
I take a sip of beer, finishing the bottle. It'd be so easy to let myself start believing in ghosts, but I don't want to become that kind of person. I want to keep my head straight.
“And off it goes,” Matthew says suddenly, nodding toward the horizon.
Turning, I catch sight of the flashing lights briefly before they dip out of view.
“I thought my life would've started by now,” he continues after a moment. “I did everything right. Worked hard at school, grew up, went to uni, borrowed tens of thousands of pounds to get a degree, and then when I was ready to get a job and a family and a house and all that stuff... Boom! No chance, mate. Instead, I'm sitting here, literally watching the rest of the world go sailing past.” He pauses. “So why didn't you move home?”
“It wasn't an option.”
I wait for him to change the subject, but I can tell he's waiting for more.
“My Dad...” I begin, before feeling that familiar moment of hesitation. I never even told Mel the truth, but somehow Matthew seems more open. I'll probably regret this in the morning, but... “My Dad used to be an asshole anyway,” I continue finally, “but then he lost his business in the financial crash, we almost lost our home. He'd taken on so much debt, it never occurred to him that he wouldn't be able to pay it back. So now he's a heavy-drinking, angry asshole. I don't want to be around him. I don't want to be like h
im.” I start peeling the label off my bottle, something I always do when I feel nervous or exposed. Finally, I offer an embarrassed smile. “So here I am.”
“So here you are,” he replies, with his eyes fixed on me. “Did he ever... There's just a look in our eyes, Penny. Did your Dad ever hit you?”
I hesitate for a few seconds. “No,” I say finally, trying to smile. “Nothing like that.”
“Cool.” After a moment, he leans toward me, holding his bottle out. “Cheers, Penny! To people like us! To people whose lives just stopped happening.”
I clink glasses with him, even though mine's empty.
“You want another one?” he asks.
“I can get it,” I reply, hauling myself up from the deckchair. The truth is, the last thing I want is another bottle of beer, but at the same time I don't want to go to bed just yet. Heading to the doorway, I glance back over toward the trees and think back to the woman I thought I saw in the clearing last night. After a moment, I turn to Matthew again. I know I shouldn't ask, I shouldn't encourage him or encourage myself, but my curiosity is piqued. “Why doesn't she come to the actual lighthouse?”
“Huh?”
“You said the ghost of Essie Davis, if there is a ghost, never actually comes inside. Why not?”
He shrugs. “Beats me. I don't know what's going on in the head of some dead, dozy old nineteenth century bird. Fortunately, she's not haunting the place, full stop, so there's no need to worry about it. I mean, that's what you think, isn't it?”
I watch the treeline for a moment longer. “Sure,” I mutter, before stepping through the doorway and making my way up the stairs. When I get to the communal living area, I hurry to the fridge and pull the door open to get two more bottles of beer, and then I spot Colin sitting on his bed, making more notes in his journals. At first I don't want to disturb him, but after pushing the fridge door shut I find myself watching Colin for a few seconds until suddenly he glances toward me.
“Sorry,” I stammer, feeling as if I'm being rude, “I just... Do you want something to drink?”
He pauses, before shaking his head and looking back down at his journal.
“Me neither,” I mutter, before turning to head downstairs and rejoin Matthew. “Oh,” I add, glancing back at him, “I ordered those parts you want over the radio. The carbon tube thing and the coil and the screws, I put the order in around lunchtime.”
He turns to me. “The what?”
“The items you wanted. You mentioned them this morning in the generator room, remember?”
“I think you're mistaken.”
“No, we spoke about them,” I tell him. “Don't you remember?”
He stares at me for a moment, before looking down at his journal and muttering something to himself as he flicks through.
“Yeah,” he says finally, pressing a finger against one particular line of text on a page. “Yeah, right. Did you use the radio, or did Matthew do it?”
“It was me.”
He turns to me, clearly surprised. “Really? And I asked you to order the parts?”
“Do you really not remember?”
He continues to stare at me. “Um... Sure. Yeah, of course I do.” He makes some more notes in the journal. “Thanks. That'll be useful. If they turn up, anyway.”
I watch for a moment longer as he makes a few extra notes, and then I head over to him. I feel as if maybe, just maybe, I can get through to him a little more. “Can I ask you something?”
“I'm busy.”
“I'll be quick,” I continue. “It's about Essie Davis, and about the stories of people seeing someone else on the island. It's about the whole ghost thing, really.”
He makes a couple more notes in his journal. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he says finally. “I've never heard of any ghosts and I've definitely never heard of anyone named Essie Davis.”
“Matthew never mentioned her?”
I wait for a reply, but he simply turns to the next page and continues writing.
“Have you ever felt like...” I pause for a moment, wondering how to phrase this properly. “You spend a lot of time alone at the generator room, don't you?” I continue. “I was just wondering whether you've ever seen or felt anything that makes you feel like you're not alone?”
He adds a few more notes, before setting his pen down and leaning across the bed to grab one of the other journals from the shelf. When he tosses it down in front of me, I see that the word 'Index' has been scrawled in large letters across the cover.
“Everything that happens to me,” he says finally, “gets written down in one of these journals. And I add entries to the index so I can find it all quickly. If something happened on this island and I know about it, it's in one of the books.”
“Is that why you write all this stuff down?” I ask. “Because you have trouble remembering?”
He opens the index journal and starts flicking through the pages. When he reaches the section for D, he runs a finger alone the lines before stopping and looking up at me. “There's no entry for anyone named Essie Davis.”
“So that means you've never seen her?”
“It means I've never even heard of her,” he continues. “If I had, I'd have mentioned it here, even if she was only talked about in passing. My records are extremely accurate”
“What about strange noises?” I ask. “Earlier, I thought I heard footsteps in the upstairs part of the building, but there was no-one there. And last night I swear I saw someone standing outside in one of the clearings.” I wait for a reply, but I can tell that he's skeptical. “Can you at least look to see if you've ever written anything about ghosts or unexplained sounds?”
Sighing, he flicks through the book until he reaches the G section. “Nothing,” he declares after a moment. “Not that I'd likely put something so stupid in here. If you ask me, ghosts are for weak-minded people who get a thrill out of giving themselves a fright. If I heard a strange bump out there in the forest at night, I'd just accept it was something I hadn't seen but I sure as hell wouldn't start making up stories about ghosts.” He stares at me for a moment. “I hope you're not going to start causing trouble.”
“No,” I reply, “I swear, I was just... I guess I was just curious after what Matthew told me just now.”
“Essie Davis, huh?” He flicks back to the D section and carefully adds the name. “Well, it's in here now. I'll make a note on the relevant page, and then if anyone else ever asks about her, I can tell them you brought her up. Apart from that, I'm afraid I can't help you.”
I watch as he closes the volume and leans back to slip it onto the shelf.
“Is your memory really that bad?” I ask. “I mean, can you really not remember things that happened just a few hours ago?”
“I'm fine,” he mutters. “Don't go fussing.”
“But if you saw a doctor -”
“I'm fine,” he says firmly, clearly irritated. “I get by without any trouble, so I'd rather just be left alone. Thank you for ordering those parts for the generator system, I'll be sure to put them to good use if they show up.” He opens a different volume of the journal and starts making a fresh note. “I'll also add this conversation under your entry for...”
His voice trails off, and for a moment he seems troubled by something. It takes a moment before I understand the problem.
“Penny,” I tell him finally. “My name is Penny.”
“Of course it is.” He makes a note, but I can tell I was right: he couldn't even remember my name. He flicks back a couple of pages, and then he pauses. “Right, yeah, here it is. I wrote it down, how you talked to me at the generator earlier and you said you'd order those parts for me. A seventeen inch carbon tube with diode ringlets, two sets of screws, an AB-57 coil ring and some fuses.”
“That's right,” I reply, before noticing that some pages appear to have been torn from the journal. “Why do you pull out some of the -”
“I'm busy,” he says firmly, turning to another pag
e and making some more notes. “That storm's coming in tomorrow. I don't have time to talk about frivolous things.”
“We'll be outside,” I continue, taking a step back. “If you want to come and join us -”
“I'm okay here.”
“But if you change your -”
“I've still got work to do,” he adds, interrupting me. “Thanks for your concern, but there's really no need. I have to get caught up on all of this before the storm arrives.”
I turn and head toward the stairs, unable to stop thinking about Colin's appalling memory. I'm no expert, but I feel certain he should go to a doctor. Someone who can't remember a conversation from a few hours ago is clearly sick.
“Penny,” he says suddenly.
I turn to him.
“I'm out a lot during the day,” he continues, with a hint of concern in his voice, “so... If you ever want to check anything, or find stuff out... Feel free to take a look in my journals, okay? Make sure you keep them in order, and don't add anything of your own, but you're welcome to read as much as you want. I figure... Well, I figure it might help.”
“Thanks,” I reply, genuinely surprised by the gesture. “I appreciate that.”
He nods, before looking back down at the journal he's opened on his bed. I watch for a moment as he makes some more notes, and then I head back down to join Matthew. Still, I can't stop thinking about Colin's condition. Sure, he says he's never seen or heard anything weird on the island, but it's not clear whether he'd know anyway. After all, how can a ghost haunt someone who barely has a functioning memory?
***
“I'm wasted!” Matthew hisses a few hours later, leaning heavily against the curved wall as he stumbles up the stairs. “Jesus Christ, why did you let me drink so much?”