by Ron Ripley
“My cousin’s really upset,” Marie said. “I mean, I’m not too happy about seeing the crabs feasting on a corpse, but she’s invested in this place. She can’t have a malicious spirit haunting it.”
She can, Shane wanted to say, but he kept the thought to himself. “Agreed. Now tell me, Marie, what would you like me to do about it?”
“I was thinking about how you got rid of your ghost here,” Marie said. “I was hoping you’d be able to do the same at the lighthouse.”
Shane sat back in his chair, frowning. He reached up, rubbed the back of his head and said, “It’s not as easy as that.”
“I didn’t think it would be,” she replied, “but I thought if anyone could do it, it would be you.”
He smiled. “I appreciate the confidence, I do. I think the only way I could help is if I actually went to the island and stayed in the lighthouse for a while.”
“What would that do?” Marie asked.
“Let me get to know the woman there,” Shane said, his smile fading. “Once I get to know her, maybe get a grip on who she is, I might be able to make her leave. I can’t guarantee it, though.”
“I know,” Marie said. “But I’d be happy as hell if you’d try.”
“For you,” he said gently, “I’d be more than willing to try.”
She blushed slightly, reminding him again of how she was more than a detective. Once more his heart ached at the memory of what they almost had.
Marie’s blush faded, and she smiled. “When do you think you could go?”
“If you want to hang around for about half an hour, forty-five minutes tops,” Shane said, “I can get everything I need. I mean, there is internet service, right?”
“Yeah,” Marie said, nodding. “It’s strange. There’s a booster on a new solar array in the lighthouse, and it helps with getting a direct satellite connection, but there’s no cell reception.”
“We can keep in touch through email,” Shane said, getting to his feet. “I’ll bring my laptop and the essentials.”
Marie stood up and smiled at him. “Thank you, Shane.”
She gave him a strong, fierce hug, and he returned it happily.
“You want to wait down here?” he asked. “Or up in the library?”
Marie shook her head, stepping out of his embrace. “No. Not me. Your ghosts still scare the hell out of me.”
“Me too, sometimes,” Shane said seriously. “Alright, I’ll see you in the car then.”
“I’ll grab some food from Jeannotte’s Corner Store, do you want anything?” Marie asked.
“A carton of Lucky Strikes,” Shane said, “and a box of matches. Everything else I need is here.”
“You need to quit smoking,” she said as she left the room.
“Yeah,” Shane agreed, following her out. “Later.”
She shook her head and made her way to the front door. Shane turned and went up the stairs. He had to pack.
Chapter 4: A Meeting with Amy
Shane had never been a fan of the ocean. Or water, in particular. Not since the house and the girl in the duck pond.
He had smoked half a pack of cigarettes as he and Marie sat at a picnic table in a rest area. Amy was on her way, according to Marie.
The sooner, the better, Shane thought. He looked out over the Atlantic, and in the clear, bright sunlight of the morning, he could see the lighthouse. It was small from where they sat, and the idea of being on an island in the middle of the ocean turned his stomach.
He took out a cigarette, lit it off the one he was finishing, and sighed.
Marie glanced at him. “You okay?”
He shrugged. “Don’t particularly care for water.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Aside from the dead girl in the pond,” Shane said, “I don’t like the idea of being a lower member of the food chain.”
“What?” Marie asked, confused.
“Sharks,” Shane said. “I don’t want to be eaten by a shark.”
She laughed, saying, “Shane, there aren’t any sharks here.”
“Yes, there are,” Shane said, exhaling a long stream of smoke. “Listen, there are constant sightings of great whites off the coast of Massachusetts, and the damned things come up here, too.”
Marie shook her head. “Shane, you’re not going to get eaten by sharks.”
“Not if I stay out of the water,” he agreed.
She rolled her eyes, then turned her attention to the entrance of the rest stop as a large, black Cadillac SUV pulled in. The driver, hidden by the vehicle’s tinted windows, shut off the engine and then opened the door.
A woman who looked to be roughly Marie’s age got out and waved.
Marie returned the wave and stood up. Shane did the same, examining the driver.
She was tall and lithe, dressed in a flower print summer dress. Her skin was a delicate tan as if she spent the perfect amount of time in the sun and not a second more. She walked delicately, yet with a commanding presence. She was a confident person, and Shane heard it as soon as she spoke.
“Amy,” Marie said happily, embracing her.
“Hey Marie,” Amy said, grinning. “And you’re Shane?”
“I am,” Shane said, offering his hand.
She shook it, her grip strong. “You’re going to help me with this problem of mine?”
“I’ll do what I can,” Shane responded.
“I do appreciate it,” Amy said. “Do you want to talk here, or somewhere else?”
“Here, if we could,” Shane said. “If you don’t mind. Not too many places allow you to smoke inside anymore.”
“So long as I’m upwind, I don’t mind at all,” Amy said, smiling.
They all sat down at the table, and Shane looked expectantly to Amy.
“Okay,” she said, brushing a lock of light brown hair behind her ear. “I’m sure my cousin has given you the basics of what happened the other day?”
Shane nodded.
“Right,” Amy said. “Good. I did a little digging in the town library, and over in the historical society. Turns out the lighthouse has a bad reputation. Suicides. Murders. People vanishing.”
“For how long?” Shane asked.
“Ever since the first stones were laid for the foundation,” Amy said, frowning. “And let me tell you, all of the rumors have come back in full force since Mike’s unfortunate death.”
“What do you mean?” Marie said.
“I went to hire another couple of contractors,” Amy explained. “Told them what I wanted, and they were all gung-ho and ready to work until someone who was nearby asked if it was for the Squirrel Island lighthouse. When I told them that it was, one of the contractors asked if the rumors about Mike Puller’s incident were true. Again, I said it was. And that was that. Word has spread like wildfire, and I can’t find anyone from Pepperell, Massachusetts to Kennebunk Port, Maine who’ll do the work for me.”
“That bad?” Shane asked.
Amy nodded. “A few of them said that as soon as the place was cleared of its bad luck, they’d be happy to come do the work for me.”
Marie snorted derisively. “They won’t even work in teams?”
“No,” Amy said, shaking her head. “I offered that too. Even wanted to bring an exorcist, but the guys said it wouldn’t do.”
“It won’t,” Shane said.
The two women looked at him.
He lit a fresh cigarette and sighed. “Exorcisms do pretty much one of two things. They either send some poor lost soul out into the big bad world, which is just as bad for them as it is for us, or they make a mad ghost even madder.”
“Oh,” Amy said, surprised.
Shane nodded.
“What’s your suggestion?” Amy asked.
“Let me stay on the island for a while,” Shane said. “I’ll figure out what’s going on. Then, well, we’ll see what happens. I might be able to convince the spirit there to leave.”
“Really?” Amy said. “Are you serious?�
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“Yes,” Shane said. “But remember, I said ‘might.’ I’m not guaranteeing anything.”
“Do you want money for this?” Amy asked.
“No,” Shane said. “Just make sure I have food and come out if I ask you to. I do my work remotely, so I should be good there. I’ve got a carton of cigarettes. Two-fifths of whiskey, and the complete works of Raymond Chandler. I’ll be good for a little while.”
“If you’re sure,” Amy said, “I can bring you out there right now. You coming for the ride, Marie?”
“Hell no,” Marie said decisively. “I don’t like boats, and the last trip hasn’t changed my mind.”
Shane grinned and said, “Alright, then. Let’s get my gear out of your car and into Amy’s.”
They stood up from the picnic table, and Shane looked out once more at the lighthouse.
How bad could it actually be? he wondered. He shook his head, took a final drag off the cigarette and stubbed it out
Chapter 5: Squirrel Island Lighthouse
Shane was alone.
Amy had given him a quick tour, helped him put his belongings in the keeper’s house, and then was on her way back to the mainland.
Shane had an itch at the base of his skull, as though someone was staring at the back of his head.
Someone probably is, he thought. He walked down to the edge of the island and strolled along the perimeter. In the distance, he could make out sails and people out in their small boats and yachts. A ferry made its way from some island to the next and Shane shook his head. He enjoyed the beauty of the ocean. The power which lay beneath the waves.
But he was respectful of it as well. He’d been aboard ships on training missions, and had seen deep-sea storms throw destroyers and battleships around like bath toys. While a rogue wave wasn’t likely, he knew full well how one could rip everything on Squirrel Island out into the depths.
Let’s not get too morose, he chided himself.
When he reached the pier, he followed the old path from the water’s edge up to the keeper’s house. He had already taken the locks off of the doors and windows, thrown open the shutters and set up his belongings.
There hadn’t been much to it.
He had a sleeping bag, his pack of cigarettes, whiskey, books, and laptop. A change of clothes were kept in his pack. Canned food and bottled water had been stocked up for the unfortunate Mike Puller, and they were still there for Shane.
Whose future fortunes have yet to be decided, Shane thought, grinning. He went in, sat down on his sleeping bag and looked at the afternoon light as it played across the interior of the room.
Where he was making his camp had once been the living room for the keeper and his family. Off of it was a kitchen, a small stairwell leading to a loft bedroom, and a small office. The house was barren of furniture. The cabinet doors had long been removed from the kitchen’s cabinets, and the dull white walls were a maze of cracks. The stairs leading up looked iffy at best, and Shane wasn’t certain he wanted to go into the cellar without a shotgun.
The whole place felt off.
He reached over, grabbed his pack and pulled it to him. He rifled around in it, pushed aside a sweatshirt and smiled. He brought out his iron knuckles, the deadly weapon which had served him so well in Rye and Mont Vernon.
He slipped them on and nodded to himself. Play it safe. Play it smart.
Sighing, Shane settled back against the wall, closed his eyes, and relaxed as best he could. Sooner rather than later, it would be night, and he suspected the island would be far more active then.
The soft creak of an unoiled hinge woke Shane up from a fitful sleep.
Beyond the windows, he could see the night sky and the wide-reaching arc of the lighthouse’s beam. He heard a soft whir followed by a click as the lantern above completed its rotation.
Yeah, Shane thought, sitting up. That sound could get old real quick.
He reached over, found his pack, and pulled out the camp light he had purchased on the way up to the shore. With a flick of a switch, light burst out and filled the room.
Damn! he thought, setting the lantern down clumsily and rubbing at his eyes. White spots exploded behind his eyelids. Stupid. Way to blow your night vision.
After a minute, Shane dropped his hands, blinked, and looked around the room. It was eerie, frightening in a new way. The walls seemed to breathe; the house felt like a living entity around him.
Shane shook his head, picked up his water bottle, and had a long drink of the warm liquid. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, sighed and thought, Suppose it’s time to get another look at the place.
Shane got to his feet and stopped.
The floor above him creaked. Footsteps crossed the loft and paused at the top of stairs. Shane took a deep breath and turned to face them. As he did so, the unknown intruder descended the stairs. Each step creaked, squealed beneath some weight. Soon, the visitor reached the bottom and stood, unseen, in what was the former living room.
Shane waited.
“Who are you?” a woman asked. Her voice was cold, brutal and unforgiving.
“My name’s Shane,” he replied. “May I ask yours?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t walk away either.
“I’ve been asked to speak with you,” Shane said.
Still, she remained silent for a few more moments.
“I am Dorothy,” she said finally. “And you are not welcome. None of you are. Leave, or I will make you go.”
Her footsteps went up the stairs, across the floor, and silence fell over the house again.
Great, Shane thought. I’m not welcome. This should make it a hell of a lot more difficult.
Chapter 6: Drunk at Sea
Dane, Scott, Courtney, and Eileen all relaxed comfortably in Scott’s father’s yacht. All of them were more than a little drunk, and it took Scott quite a while to realize they that had lost their anchor and were drifting along with the current. The understanding of their situation helped to take the edge off his inebriated state.
At twenty-two, Scott was not a sailor nor had he ever been. He had always been far more interested in the young ladies that a yacht attracted rather than the yacht itself. Scott didn’t have any of the necessary licenses to operate a yacht or even a boating license.
Oh my God, Scott thought, getting shakily to his feet. I am absolutely screwed.
He looked out at the expanse of the Atlantic and tried to see something, anything which looked like the shore. Running aground would be terrible, especially since his father had quite expressively forbidden Scott from even thinking about the yacht, let alone taking it out.
Better to beach the damned thing than sink it, Scott thought. Gripping the handrail he made his way to where Dane lay with his thick arm wrapped around Eileen’s equally thick waist.
“Dane,” Scott said, nudging his friend with the toe of his boat shoe. “Dane!”
Dane opened one eye, which rolled drunkenly until it focused on Scott. Dane grinned and slurred, “What’s up?”
“We’re screwed!” Scott snapped. “That’s what’s up.”
“Not yet,” Dane argued, closing his eye. “Too much whiskey.”
Scott pushed Dane roughly. “Don’t pass out!”
Dane opened both eyes and sat up a little. “What’re you being such a pain about?”
“The anchor’s gone!” Scott hissed.
“Bull,” Dane said, struggling to look around. “We’re fine.”
Dane got up, glanced around, stopped, turned his attention to the sails, and said softly, “Jesus, Scott.”
Scott helped his friend to his feet, steadied him as best he could, and together they stood at the rail. A wide beam of light passed over them, moved in a wide arc to the left, vanished, and then reappeared.
“Holy Christ,” Dane said.
“What?” Scott asked. “What’s wrong?”
“That’s the Squirrel Island lighthouse,” Dane said. “We’re m
iles from where we should be, Scott. And if we don’t get in on the lee side of the island, the breeze’ll run us straight out and up along the Maine coast.”
“What do we do, now?” Scott asked, feeling panic creep into his voice.
Dane tried to turn towards the wheel, stumbled, caught himself, and sank to his knees. He stuck his head between the upper and lower bars of the rail and vomited straight into the Atlantic. Again and again, Dane threw up, until Scott, feeling sick from the sight and smell of the bile, turned away. Finally, when Dane had finished dry-heaving, Scott helped him up.
“There’s a pier, on the island,” Dane managed to say as they reached the wheel. “You need to drop the sails while I steer, can you do that?”
“I think so,” Scott said. “But why?”
“We’ll run aground if we don’t take the sails in and get the engine started,” Dane replied. “Wake Eileen up, she knows a little about sailing. Tell her we need an emergency anchor. Then wake Courtney up, have her fire up the engine.”
“We can’t just beach the yacht?” Scott asked.
Dane’s expression was one of horror. “There’s no place to beach her, Scott. Squirrel Island is nothing but rock, and I don’t know this area. I don’t know where the shoals are, or where anything is along this stretch of beach. She won’t beach. She’ll break up, and if we don’t pull our act together, we’re going down with her.”
Fear, it seemed, had burned all traces of the alcohol out of Dane’s system.
Scott managed to wake both of the girls up. Soon, they were all frantically – if somewhat drunkenly – getting the yacht ready. The sails came down, Eileen managed to fashion an anchor from a length of the line and a small, spare anchor found below deck, and Courtney got the engine running.
With the motor powering the yacht, Dane guided it in close to Squirrel Island, and when they were a short distance away, he yelled out to Eileen. Eileen gave a thumbs up, and heaved the anchor overboard. Seconds later, the anchor struck bottom and the yacht, A Father’s Dream, came to a gentle stop as Courtney cut the engine.