The Lighthouse (Berkley Street Series Book 2)

by Ron Ripley

  The anchor line went taut, then slackened as the yacht floated easily at anchor.

  Scott sank down to the deck and let out a long sigh. Thank God he’s away for the weekend, Scott thought, imagining what his father’s reaction might be if he ever learned of the debacle. He shuddered at the idea of how angry his father would be. The man had never struck Scott, but Scott believed that could quickly change.

  Dane and the girls came over to him.

  “Unbelievable,” Courtney said, her face flush with excitement. “That was great!”

  Scott raised an eyebrow. “I would definitely not describe it as ‘great.’ Or anything other than terrible. It’s not your father’s yacht, sweetheart.”

  She stuck out her tongue and sat down across from him.

  “Hey, isn’t the lighthouse supposed to be automated?” Eileen asked.

  “I don’t know,” Scott replied sulkily. His head was starting to hurt.

  “It is,” Dane answered. “There aren’t any more manned lighthouses. At least not on the East Coast.”

  “Then, why is there a light on in the house over there?” she said, pointing out at the island.

  “I don’t know,” Dane answered softly.

  Scott twisted around, saw light streaming out of a window. His stomach rumbled. “Wonder if they have any food.”

  Courtney said, “Right! I’m starving.”

  Dane shook his head. “No. I’m not going ashore. I’d rather stay right here. I don’t trust anyone squatting on an island. Something’s not right.”

  “God, Dane,” Eileen said, looking at him. “You are such an old lady sometimes.”

  “Do you guys not watch the news?” Dane asked.

  “About what?” Scott said, laughing. “Crazies living on islands where they can’t even get cable? Get over it, Dane.”

  Scott pulled himself up and stood, holding onto the rail. A wave of sickness flooded him, but he waited a moment, and it passed as quickly as it had arrived. “Come on. Let’s get the jolly boat down and over to the pier.”

  “You know,” Courtney said, “I heard somebody actually bought the place. I bet they’re working on it out here.”

  “Where’s their boat, then?” Dane asked grumpily. “How the hell are they getting back and forth to the island? And why would they stay the night?”

  “They probably just left a light on, you big baby,” Eileen said, laughing. She walked over to the jolly boat and said, “Come on, let’s get this in the water.”

  Scott and Courtney went to help her and after a short, sullen silence, Dane did as well.

  Soon, the four of them were crowded into the small jolly boat with Scott on the oars. It took less than five minutes to row to the pier, but it was enough to drench Scott in sweat and put an ache in his arms. He was more than happy to ship the oars, and he watched as Dane secured the boat to the pier and then helped each of them up and onto it.

  When the four of them stood together, they looked up to the lighthouse and the keeper’s house. Both of them were a soft, gentle white in the darkness of the night. The barest hint of a path led from the end of the pier to the front door of the keeper’s house. The light in the window was bright, yet not nearly as powerful as the beam sent out by the lighthouse’s lantern.

  “Ready?” Eileen asked.

  Scott and the others assented as she started up the path, the rest following her confident lead. A cool wind set a chill into Scott’s flesh, and he realized the June night was unseasonably cold. He shivered, suddenly conscious of the light clothing he was wearing.

  Christ, I hope it’s warm in there, Scott thought.

  The walk was blessedly short, if slightly uphill, and they came to a stop before the door. Eileen boldly knocked on it.

  “Who is it?” a man demanded from the house, his voice coming through the door and out of the window.

  “My name’s Eileen,” she said loudly. “My friends and I are in a jam. Our yacht is at anchor a little off the island, and we’re hungry. We only planned for a day trip, and something happened. We can’t get into the harbor until morning. We don’t know the coast around here and, well, we didn’t plan for anything really.”

  The lock slid back, and the door opened. An older man, perhaps in his forties, stood in the doorway. He was bald and lean, his skin pale. He wore only a pair of shorts, and was in good shape. On his right breast, he had a large tattoo: the eagle, globe and anchor of the United States Marine Corps. On his left breast, in spiderlike script, he had the words Until Valhalla.

  The man studied them in an awkward silence, then stepped to one side, saying, “Come on in.”

  They all said thank you, and walked into the room.

  It was of a decent size, with a door on the back wall, and another on the right. A set of narrow stairs led to a second floor. The room was in rough shape, the plaster on the walls looking as if it would come tumbling down at any moment. The only light was a Coleman camping lantern. On the floor was a sleeping bag, a backpack, and a laptop, along with some other odds and ends. The man, evidently, was not expecting company.

  Their host closed the door, but he didn’t lock it.

  “My name’s Shane,” he said. “Take a seat. I’ve got some food in the kitchen. Not much, but it should be enough to quiet your stomachs until you leave in the morning.”

  “Anything would be great,” Courtney said.

  Shane nodded and left the room. He returned a minute later with an armful of bottled waters and a box of packaged peanut-butter crackers. Quietly, he handed them out, kept a package of crackers for himself along with a bottle of water and sat down on his sleeping bag.

  Scott ate the food quickly and drank the water the same way. The fear of losing his father’s yacht had made him ravenous.

  Shortly, when the food was gone, Dane said, “Shane, why are you here?”

  Shane took a drink of water, capped the bottle and put it down beside him before he answered. “I’m here because of some ghosts.”

  “Really?” Courtney asked excitedly. “Like, real ghosts? Is the place haunted?”

  Shane nodded. “Yeah. It’s haunted. You may all want to get back to your yacht before the dead take notice of you.”

  Scott snorted. “What are they going to do, scare us and keep us awake all night?”

  Shane smiled at him politely. “No. They may, however, convince you to commit suicide, or outright kill you. Keeping you awake really isn’t on their bucket list.”

  Everyone chuckled, then the humor faded as they realized Shane was serious.

  “You’re joking?” Dane asked.

  Shane shook his head. “Not about this. Some ghosts aren’t exactly pleasant or generous. Some aren’t misunderstood or unable to move on because of some horrible personal tragedy.” Shane’s voice was cold and hard.

  “Some simply like to hurt people,” he continued. “Some of them refuse to accept death and instead, begin to punish those around them. Whatever the reasons for this place’s dead, they don’t matter right now. What does matter is all of you getting out of here and being safe. I can’t give you much more; I don’t expect to be resupplied for another couple of days, and I really don’t like to be hungry.”

  Dane scoffed. Eileen closed her eyes and snuggled up against him.

  Scott looked at the bald man. I don’t know if I believe him or not.

  Courtney looked at Shane and said, “The ghost here. Is he bad?”

  “She,” Shane corrected gently. “It’s a ‘she.’ And I do believe she is. I’m here because she convinced the contractor hired to fix the place to drown himself. No one’s going to be able to live here if she keeps doing that.”

  “I heard about that,” Scott said. “What I heard, though, is that he went for a swim and got caught in the rocks and drowned.”

  “Well, what actually happened,” Shane said coldly, “is she harassed him to the point where he killed himself.”

  “How?” Courtney asked. “How can someone talk someone else
into suicide?”

  “Lots of ways,” Shane said softly. “Sleep deprivation. Fear. Isolation. All of those factors are here. Suicide, he believed, was the only way he could escape her.”

  “How do you know that?” Dane asked.

  “He left a note,” Shane replied.

  “There was no mention of a note in the news,” Courtney said. “Why wouldn’t they say there was a note?”

  Shane shrugged. “I’m sure it sounded crazy. And who wants to have their loved one’s madness splashed all over the evening news?”

  “So,” Dane said, “who’s the ghost?”

  “Her name’s Dorothy,” Shane answered. “I don’t think she likes me.”

  “Could she hurt you?” Eileen asked.

  “She’ll definitely try,” Shane said. “She might succeed, too. Ghosts can cause a hell of a lot of damage when they want to. Even kill you if they’ve got enough power.”

  Scott shook his head, Dane laughed, and Eileen grumbled as she adjusted herself in the young man’s embrace. Courtney glared at Dane.

  “This isn’t funny, Dane,” Courtney said angrily.

  “Oh come on!” Dane said, chuckling. “You don’t believe this crap, do you? I mean, seriously? Ghosts? And they can hurt you, too? That’s absolute bull, Cort, and you know it.”

  Shane gave Dane a hard, angry look. Then, in a low voice, thick with disdain he said, “I don’t care what you do or don’t believe. But you’re in here as a courtesy. Keep running your mouth and you can leave. Be respectful. You don’t have to agree. Just be polite.”

  The cold, harsh tone of the man forced a nod out of Dane.

  “We should get back to the yacht anyway,” Scott said. He stood up, stretched and added, “Thanks for the food and water, though.”

  Shane nodded.

  Scott looked out the window as the others stood up and he whispered, “What the hell?”

  Chapter 7: A Painful Realization

  “What?” Dane asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “The jolly boat’s gone,” Scott said.

  Dane got to his feet. “Where the hell did it go?”

  Eileen looked up at Dane and asked, “Didn’t you secure it?”

  “Of course, I did!” Dane snapped, anger dancing in his eyes. He turned to face Shane and said, “Alright, who else is on the island, and why in God’s name would they steal the boat?”

  “Oh no,” Scott said softly, cutting off any reply Shane might have been readying. On the pier stood a naked man, and Scott could see the yacht through the man.

  Dane choked back something, took half a step backwards and fell onto the floor. Both of the girls scrambled to their feet, crowding around Scott at the window.

  “Why is he naked?” Eileen asked.

  “Yeah, oh Jesus,” Courtney gasped. To Shane, she said, “Why can we see through him?”

  Shane picked up his water bottle, drank some and then said, “Because he’s dead.”

  Courtney sat down, her back against the wall so she could face the bald man. Scott joined her, and Eileen did the same as Dane got into a sitting position. Courtney asked, “Who is he?”

  “If he’s naked and at the pier,” Shane said, “then, more than likely, he’s the contractor who committed suicide last week. Mike Puller, I think that was his name.”

  “Why is he here?” Courtney asked.

  Shane shrugged. “Depends on the person. Depends on the place, too. If this woman is as strong as she seems, then she has bound him here. Possibly others as well. I’ll find out soon enough, I guess.”

  “How are we supposed to get to the yacht?” Dane asked, his voice small.

  “Is there a second boat?” Shane asked.

  “No,” Scott answered. “Just the one.”

  “We can call for help, right?” Eileen said, looking around as she dug her phone out of a pocket.

  “It won’t work,” Shane said. “No reception here.”

  “I always have reception,” Eileen said. She frowned. “This can’t be right. I don’t have any reception. None!”

  “She doesn’t want us to use phones,” Shane said. He picked up his laptop, tried to power it up and shook his head. “Great. Nothing on mine now.”

  Scott checked his phone, as Courtney and Dane did the same.

  Absolute zero, Scott sighed. His phone wasn’t even turning on.

  “Damn it!” Eileen said, dropping her phone to her lap. “It just died!”

  “If they’re all dead,” Shane said, “it means she’s draining them.”

  “What?” Dane asked, confused.

  “There’s a theory that ghosts are energy,” Shane explained, “and they can drain the charge out of a battery to give themselves extra strength.”

  “Great,” Eileen muttered.

  “Could we swim to the yacht?” Scott asked Dane.

  Dane shook his head. “No. Not this close to an island. We wouldn’t be able to get through the surf, and if we did, there’s no accounting for the currents around us. I’m a decent swimmer, Scott, and even I wouldn’t risk it.”

  “Is someone coming here for you?” Eileen asked Shane.

  “Couple of days,” Shane replied. “Sooner, I hope, when I don’t contact them tomorrow morning.”

  “This is insane,” Scott said. “We can’t be trapped on an island.”

  “We can,” Shane disagreed. “And it seems like we are.”

  “What are we going to do about food?” Courtney asked.

  “I brought enough for myself for a week,” Shane said. “If we ration it we can stretch it between the five of us for a couple of days. We may need to make it last for three, but I hope not. I hate being hungry.”

  Silence filled the small room, broken only by the steady click of the lighthouse’s lantern.

  “Why is it so cold?” Courtney asked.

  “You don’t want to know,” Shane said. He stood up. “There’s wood out back, I’ll bring some in and get a fire going. It’ll fight off the chill, and give us a little peace of mind.”

  Scott watched the older man go through the doorway in the back wall, then an unseen door was opened. The others looked at Scott, and Scott shrugged.

  The place felt vile, and the situation seemed even worse.

  Chapter 8: The Dawn Arrives

  Shane sat on the front step of the keeper’s house. He was dressed, smoking a cigarette and finishing the last of his morning whiskey.

  “Good morning,” a young woman said.

  Shane twisted around and saw Courtney, who had her black hair cut in a pixie style. She was exceptionally pale, her eyes large and green. She was short, perhaps no more than five feet tall and lithe, Shane realized, was the best way to describe her.

  “Good morning,” Shane said. He moved over to the right and patted the stone beside him. “Take a seat. Need a cigarette?”

  “No, thanks,” she answered, sitting down beside him. She smelled of the ocean and sweat, alcohol and fear.

  “Whiskey?”

  Courtney’s eyes widened a hair, and she laughed. It was a good, rich sound which made Shane smile. “No. Thank you, though. You always drink whiskey first thing in the morning?”

  “Breakfast of champions,” Shane said, getting out another cigarette and lighting it. He exhaled and added, “I have terrible nightmares. Absolutely foul. Whiskey is the only thing that takes the edge off.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Courtney said.

  Shane grinned. “No worries. I’m essentially a functioning alcoholic.”

  “Do you have alopecia?” Courtney asked suddenly.

  “I do,” Shane said, surprised. “Don’t meet too many people who know about it. They either figure I’m a diseased freak or a freak who Nairs all of his body hair.”

  Courtney chuckled. “No. My younger sister has it. Not as serious as you, though; patches here and there on her head.”

  “I’m sure it’s rougher on women,” Shane said. “Men can usually get away with being bald. Society stil
l can’t turn away from a woman who has a bald head, either by choice or by nature’s design.”

  “She’s lucky,” Courtney said. “Our mom has figured out how to comb and pin her hair so Andrea isn’t made fun of.”

  “How old is your sister?” Shane asked.

  “Twelve.”

  “How are you even old enough to drink, if you have a twelve-year-old sister?” Shane asked.

  Courtney blushed slightly. “I’m twenty-six, but I look younger than I am.”

  “You look good,” Shane said, taking a long drag off of his cigarette.

  Her blush deepened.

  “Scott doesn’t tell you that nearly enough, I’m sure,” Shane said.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  Shane grinned. “Common fault among men. Especially when they’re between the ages of thirteen and forty-two.”

  Courtney laughed. “And how old are you?”

  “Forty-three,” Shane replied. “Old enough to know better, dumb enough to forget every so often.”

  “Well,” Courtney said, “I’m willing to listen whenever you want to say it.”

  Shane let out a pleased laugh, nodded, and said, “Sounds like a deal to me.”

  A pleasant silence wrapped around them and the Atlantic went about its ageless motions. A short distance away, the yacht bobbed at her anchor, a reminder of how the four travelers were trapped with him.

  “Shane,” Courtney said.

  “Yeah?”

  “How did you get involved in this? I mean, why are you here?” she asked.

  “It’s a long story,” Shane said. “But, if you want to hear it, let me get some coffee going on the stove, and we can sit in the kitchen, and I can tell you my long, sad story.”

  Chapter 9: Miserable

  When Scott woke up on the hard floor of the keeper’s house on Squirrel Island, he instantly knew the previous night had not been a bad dream.

  Oh, Christ Almighty, he thought miserably, Dad is going to kill me. Straight up murder me, bring me out to the middle of the Atlantic, and dump my body. Just as soon as he gets another boat.

  He got up slowly, his body aching from the poor and painful sleep of the night before, and stretched. The smell of fresh coffee widened his eyes a little, and he stepped over Dane and Eileen. Both of whom snored loudly as they spooned. Scott went into the kitchen, and he saw Shane had a fire going on the small wood stove. Shane sat with Courtney, the two of them sharing a cup of coffee.