by Ron Ripley
Scott could hardly think, and part of his mind screamed for the solace of unconsciousness.
No such peace was granted.
When he felt as though he could bear no more, it ended.
The cool grass caressed his face, and dimly Scott realized he was naked. Completely stripped of his clothing.
He shivered uncontrollably, a piercing cold pulling at his nerves, threatening to pull each delicate, sensitive tendril from him.
“Look at me.”
Scott lifted his head and saw Dorothy. She stood before him, her face hard and impassive. There was no hint of sympathy. No whisper of mercy.
Through her, he could see the lighthouse, the tall structure was a place of sanctuary.
And I said no, he thought, tears welling up in his eyes.
Dorothy bent down and reached for him.
Scott closed his eyes and managed a hoarse scream as she pried open his mouth, and tore the lips off.
Chapter 27: Listening to Things Best Left Unheard
Courtney slept through most of it, thankfully.
She lay on the stone floor of the lighthouse, her head on Shane’s lap as he drank his whiskey straight from the bottle. He moved it out of the way as she sat up swiftly, her eyes wide and full of horror.
“What was that?” she asked, all vestiges of sleep gone from her.
“Scott,” Shane said. He capped the whiskey and put the bottle down.
“What are they doing to him?”
“Torturing him,” Shane said bitterly.
She looked at him, her face pale. “We need to do something.”
“All I could do now,” Shane said, “is kill him, if I could even get close enough. There are too many of them.”
“What?” she said. “I thought there were only a few.”
Shane shook his head. “I looked out when I heard his first scream. There’s at least thirty, maybe more by now. I can’t be sure.”
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Is there any way we can stop them from getting in? From getting to us?”
“I don’t think so,” Shane answered. “Our best bet maybe my knuckledusters, but I wanted to poke around the tools and see if there’s anything which could help.”
“Okay,” Courtney said, standing up. “Let’s look.”
Shane got to his feet and walked with her to the pile of equipment left behind by the unfortunate Mike Puller.
Most of what they found was fairly common. Nail gun, compressor, and nails by the thousands. For nearly twenty minutes they moved aside the different tools and supplies.
“Look at this, Shane,” Courtney said.
“What’s that, Cort?” Shane said, glancing over.
Beneath a pile of boards was an old, short bookcase. On it was a few stacks of books and the old photo albums the Victorians had favored. Shane walked over, squatted down, and looked at the volumes. Most of the titles dealt with ships, maritime law, and coastal soundings. Three of the books were ledgers, taller and thinner than the others and with the marbled boards so common for the time. Two of the leather bound books were photograph albums, each equipped with a pair of brass hinges and matched clasps to keep the covers closed.
Courtney took one of the albums and sat back, opening it while Shane slipped one of the ledgers off of the shelf. He stood up and opened the book carefully. It smelled of the sea, and old, dry paper. The ruled green, horizontal lines, bisected by double red lines on either margin, were filled with neat, orderly sentences.
It’s a journal, Shane realized. The first entry was September 9, 1881.
“Oh Jesus Christ, Shane,” Courtney whispered. She held the album up for him to see.
A glance at the sepia toned image showed a pair of children. Twin boys, each dressed in short pants and ruffled shirts. Between them was a woman, dressed in a long, dark dress, eyes closed and propped up in a casket between them.
Mother, was written beneath the photograph.
Shane turned over several of the heavy pages. Each page had a single photo. The others in the images were all alive. He opened the album to the center and stiffened.
“Cort,” he said softly, handing it back to her.
She took it, looked at the photo it had been left open to, and quickly closed the album. Courtney’s lips were pressed tightly together, and she swallowed several times before she managed to say, “Dorothy.”
Shane nodded.
Courtney put the album back on the shelf. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then asked, “What have you got there?”
“Someone’s journal,” he replied.
“Whose?”
“I don’t know,” Shane said. He looked at the front-end paper and found only a stamp for a bookstore in Concord, New Hampshire. At the end of the book, on the last page, he saw a name and an address. He read them both out loud,
“‘Dorothy Miller, Squirrel Island Lighthouse, Maine.’”
“Shane,” Courtney said, concern heavy in her voice.
“Yes?” he asked, closing and tucking the book beneath his arm.
“Why are you smiling?”
Shane hadn’t realized he had been. As soon as she pointed it out, his smile spread into a grin. “This is what I need.”
“Why?” Courtney asked.
“It’ll tell me what I need to know–” he began, but a pounding on the door cut him off.
His heart thudded in his chest, and he handed the book to Courtney.
“Stay behind me,” he said.
She slipped behind him, resting a small hand on his back.
The hammering on the door continued.
“Who is it?” Shane called out.
The knocking stopped.
“It’s Scott.”
“What’s going on, Scott?” Shane asked calmly.
“I’d like to come in,” the young man replied.
“I don’t know about that,” Shane said.
He doesn’t believe he’s dead, Shane thought. He doesn’t believe he can just come in.
“Why not?” Scott asked, a confused tone in his voice.
“I’m pretty sure you’re dead, kid,” Shane answered.
Scott hesitated before he said, “No, I’m not.”
“Think about it for a while,” Shane said, kindly, “and then get back to me in the morning.”
“What if they come for me?” Scott said.
“They already did.”
“I’m not dead,” Scott said softly, his voice barely audible through the door.
Sadness crept up into Shane’s heart, and he said, “You are, Scott. I’m sorry, kid.”
A plaintive wail ripped through the lighthouse. Silence followed, and after several minutes, Courtney put her head against Shane’s back and cried.
Shane turned around, took her into his arms, and guided her to the wall. They sat down, and Shane comforted her as best he could.
Chapter 28: Whiskey and Bad Decisions
George was drunker than he had been in a long time. It helped him forget about Vic and Eric. And the blonde cougar on his arm aided as well.
She kept him steady and on his feet as they wandered down Main Street towards the marina. The touch of her hand on his arm, the power of her scent, the alcohol he had consumed, all of it made him giddy. Continuing on down the road, she guided him, gently but firmly.
“What’s your name again?” George asked, impressed at how little his words slurred as he spoke.
She gave him a wink. “Mystery.”
“’Mystery?’” George repeated, chuckling. “That’s a hell of a handle. Why’d your parents name you that?”
Mystery laughed, shook her head and told him, “You are a funny man when you drink, George.”
He straightened up with the compliment. Nobody’s told me I was funny before. I must be, though. Mystery’s the best.
Ahead of them, George caught sight of the gate to the marina. Powerful street lights illuminated the newly painted white boards and the salty smell of the Atlan
tic, always strong, hammered through his drunken nose. The rich, intoxicating scent of the salt water made him grin.
“What’s the smile for?” Mystery asked.
“The ocean,” George said. “I love it. Always have.”
“Do you work it?” she asked.
George shook his head and nearly knocked himself over, but Mystery’s surprisingly strong grip kept him from falling.
“Nah,” he said, “I’m in construction. You know. Hammer. Nails.”
“Hammer? Nails?” She leaned in and whispered into his ear, her breath hot against him. “Sounds suggestive, George. Where’s this boat of yours?”
“Right this way, sweetheart,” he answered, wobbling as they reached the gate and opened it.
The small gatehouse, tucked off to the right and in a deep shadow, suddenly glowed with light.
Both George and Mystery stopped, the woman turning her head away and putting a hand up to block the harsh glare which threatened to blind them both.
George was too drunk look away. He merely squeezed his eyes shut.
The door hinges of the gatehouse screamed as it was opened.
“George?” Dell Fort called out. “Is that you?”
“It is,” George snapped. “Turn the damned light out, Dell.”
A moment later, the partial darkness returned, and George opened his eyes.
“Christ, George,” Dell said angrily, “it’s after two! Why the hell aren’t you at home?”
Dell’s sentence ended when he stepped closer and saw Mystery on George’s arm, her head still turned away.
“Ah, hell,” Dell muttered. “Go on in. Keep it quiet, though, alright? The McCormicks are in their boat. Those old farts complain if someone answers a phone call after nightfall.”
“You got it, Dell,” George said, grinning.
Dell waved them on and turned away.
Mystery pulled George close and murmured, “I almost thought our night was ruined.”
A thrill raced through George, and he breathed heavy as he answered, “No one’s ruining it. I’ll take her out, away from shore. McCormicks won’t complain then.”
“I was thinking the same,” she said softly.
George staggered down the pier towards Terminal Fleet, his steps misguided by equal parts of alcohol and lust. Mystery’s hold on his arm quickened his pace.
Chapter 29: Close to Dawn
Courtney awoke, hungry and miserable. She lifted her head off of Shane’s lap and sat up. He closed the ledger he was reading and smiled softly at her.
“How are you feeling?” he asked her.
“Terrible,” she replied. She could smell whiskey and cigarettes, sweat and concern, which she found strangely comforting.
“Understood,” Shane said. He picked up a bottle of water and passed it over to her. “Rinse and spit out the first mouthful. The rest will taste better.”
“Spit where?” she asked, opening the bottle.
He grinned. “Anywhere you like, Cort. We won’t be here much longer, one way or the other.”
A chill raced through her at his words. She did as he said with the water, and found he was right. She drank all of the water quickly.
“You’ve figured a way out?” she said softly. “Or are we out of luck?”
“A way to stop Dorothy, and the others,” he said. “And I’ll be smashing the absolute hell out of the lantern if I can’t do what I’m planning.”
“How are you going to stop her?” Courtney asked.
Shane lifted up the ledger. “With this. All three of them, actually. Everything she was, she wrote in here. And when she was afraid someone might read her words, she wrote Latin. She was a smart woman. Angry, but smart.”
“You read Latin?” Courtney asked, surprised.
“Yup,” Shane said, smiling. “Lots of other languages too. But what she wrote in Latin, is the key to the power over her.”
“What do you mean?” Courtney asked.
“Here,” Shane said, opening the ledger up. He flipped through several pages, stopped and said, “Let me read this to you,
“We have been here too long. Far too long. Ione has left us. The willful girl, and I doubt I shall see my eldest daughter again soon. This leaves me with the task of caring for my beastly husband and the remainder of our wretched children. My father will not survive long. He will move on to the next world, either by God’s will or by my hands.”
A painful terror gripped Courtney’s empty stomach, and she whispered, “She planned her father’s death?”
“His, and the death of her children. Her husband as well,” Shane said. “She hid the bodies. Both to avoid punishment and out of shame. There’s more. Revelations about past sins, and those she wished to commit. By hiding them from all others, even in her private thoughts, she’s shown there is a power over her through them.”
“What are you going to do?” Courtney said.
“Find her and bind her to the physical world,” Shane said.
“What then?” Courtney asked.
“I’ll break her,” Shane said. “Break her and cast her to Hell, because I’m pretty sure she’s headed there when all is said and done.”
He set the ledger down, grabbed an MRE, and opened it, passing it over to her. She dumped it out onto the floor in front of her, spotted a package of crackers and another of peanut butter.
“Breakfast of champions?” she asked tiredly.
“You’ve no idea, Cort,” Shane said, smiling. “I ate those damned things for years, out in the field. And when you’re hungry, and you can’t stand the sight of them, you still choke it down.”
She tore open the peanut butter, ate some of it from the small container, and then said, “You’re a strange man.”
“Me?” he asked, surprised.
“Yes, you,” she said. “Here you are, retired military and ghost hunter, and you read Latin.”
“More than just Latin,” he said in a voice suddenly tired and worn.
“Really?” she said, opening the crackers. “What else?”
“French, Spanish, Portuguese, Russian, Greek, German,” Shane said. “And a whole lot more than that.”
“How can you read all of those?” she asked, surprised.
“Read, write, and speak,” Shane said. “I don’t know how, exactly. Languages are easy. I hear it, and I can speak it. And if I can read it, then I can write it.”
“That’s amazing,” Courtney said. “What do you for work? I mean, you can’t be a full-time ghost hunter, right?”
“Right,” Shane said, smiling. “I’m a freelance translator. Plus, I have my pension from the Marine Corps, in the end, so everything’s working out pretty well. Even this.”
“What do you mean?” Courtney said, her heart fluttering.
“I got to meet you,” Shane said softly. “I wish there wasn’t so much death around us, but I’m pleased we met. Exceptionally pleased.”
“Me too,” Courtney said, and she took out a cracker to eat, her smile too big to hide.
Chapter 30: Seeing the Sunrise over the Atlantic
George felt as though a thousand little fists were hammering against his head. His mouth was painfully dry, and when he tried to move, he found he couldn’t. He cracked open an eye, but the sun was breaking the horizon, filling the Atlantic with its powerful light.
I’m on the boat, he realized dully.
He tried to move again and was able to roll over onto his back. Blinking he tried to focus, and he saw he was on the deck. In the chair so recently occupied by Vic, sat Mystery.
Even after sleeping in her clothes, and on board a Boston Whaler, she was stunning. She sat with her legs crossed delicately and sipping from a bottle of water. When she saw he was awake, she adjusted her mirrored sunglasses and smiled at him with full, red lips.
“Good morning, George,” she said pleasantly.
“Morning,” he replied grumpily. In spite of his efforts to sit up, he couldn’t. Something held him back. I’m so hu
ng over.
“You, my fine, fat friend,” she said, grinning, “can drink a lot of whiskey. I was impressed. I thought for certain I’d have to roll you out to your boat, but you made it.”
George closed his eyes. Licked his lips, swallowed once to try and moisten his throat, and then said, “Where are we?”
“We are windward of Squirrel Island, looking at the back of the lighthouse and the keeper’s house,” she replied.
George stiffened and kept his eyes shut. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all,” Mystery said happily.
“Why the hell did I bring us out here?” he asked with a groan.
“You didn’t,” she said. “I did.”
George opened his eyes and looked at the woman. “Why, in God’s name, would you do that?”
“Afraid, are you?” she asked, her voice taking on a dangerous calm.
“No,” George lied.
“Of course, you are,” she said softly. “You left your friends out here to die. You know it.”
Did I talk when I was drunk? he thought frantically. Good God, what did I say?
His panic must have shown because Mystery laughed, a pleased and joyous sound.
“No, you fat, cowardly drunk,” she said, smiling. “You said nothing. Well, at least not about the lighthouse. No, not a word. But I know.”
Terror took over him. “I know all about your abandonment of your two friends,” she said. “I agree, they were stupid not to have gotten back into your boat. Your own effort, perhaps, should have been greater, to get them to go away with you. And, failing to do so, you should have remained.”
Her face went hard as she leaned forward. “You should have remained. You have caused me a great deal of inconvenience, George, and you shall suffer for it.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he said, his voice was hoarse with fear.
“Liar,” Mystery said, lounging back in the chair. “Liar, liar, liar. You’ll get yours, though, George. You will indeed. I expect her to be here soon. Very soon.”
“Who?” George whispered.
“My great-grandmother,” the woman said sweetly. She adjusted her sunglasses, tilted her head back slightly and said, “Watching the sun rise over the Atlantic is always an occasion to treasure. Always.”