by Ron Ripley
“Just and true, and true and just,” Clark said, nodding. “Now, you want to know how I died?”
“I do.”
“My wife,” Clark said, looking out over the Atlantic. “My blushing bride. My own Eve, the lover of the serpent. She killed me. Tortured me first, though I deserved it.”
“How did she torture you?” Shane asked, already knowing the answer.
“The light,” Clark said bitterly. “My own light. Burned the sight out of my eyes. Starved me. Bled me. Gelded me. Thus my body is now the horror you behold.”
“Why are you still here?” Shane asked.
“She bound me,” Clark said, his voice thick with anger. “A soul to keep the lighthouse working true. Nothing more than a slave.”
“And what of her?” Shane asked. “Did she work the light after your death?”
“Not for long,” Clark spat. “The coastal watch, they found her out. And she killed herself, damn her! She bound herself to the island, made sure she would be here.”
“And you never were able to care for the lighthouse again?” Shane asked.
Clark shook his head. “Even with the binding of the man, Dane, she hasn’t let me back in! And then you went and broke the thrice-damned light.”
“I did,” Shane agreed, keeping an eye on the ghost. “I did. But I’ve already told you, in order to be rescued. They’ll be coming today, tonight the latest, to repair the lantern. And if you help me, Clark, I’ll be able to shatter Dorothy the way I did the light.”
Clark looked at him warily. “How?”
“You feel that anger inside of you? That hate?” Shane asked.
Clark nodded.
“I’ll need some of it, the part you hold against her,” Shane said softly. “The part all of you hold against her.”
“And what will happen?” Clark said. “When you have this?”
“I’ll break her,” Shane replied grimly. “I will pull her apart and drive each piece like a nail into Hell.”
Clark stared at Shane for several long minutes. Shane tightened his grip on the knuckledusters, readied his make-shift weapon, and waited.
“Can you do it?” Clark asked finally.
“I can,” Shane answered.
“Have you done it before?” The skepticism in Clark’s voice was thick.
“Once,” Shane said, “and that little girl was a hell of a lot worse than Dorothy could ever think to be.”
Clark raised an eyebrow, then a cold, hard smile crept onto his face. “The lighthouse will be mine?”
“The lighthouse and the whole damned island for all I care,” Shane said truthfully. “I’ll not chase you from it. I only want Dorothy, she’s the one pulling the strings here.”
“Aye,” Clark said softly, “that she is. A mad witch playing at Fate.”
In a louder voice, Clark said, “You’ll have my help, Shane. For my lighthouse, and more than a bit of revenge.”
“Fair enough,” Shane said. He stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I have others to speak to about Dorothy.”
“There are those you don’t know,” Clark said, standing. “They won’t heed your call, nor believe you.”
“Will you help?”
“To put my bride in Hell?” Clark asked, then with a wicked grin he said, “Of course I will.”
The ghost vanished, and Shane was alone on the pier. He looked out at the Atlantic, saw the sun moving steadily towards the western horizon and thought, Will they come tonight for the light? Will it even matter in the end?
He shrugged, unable to answer his own questions, and turned to walk back to the lighthouse.
Chapter 48: An Uneasy Alliance
Courtney stood in the doorway of the lighthouse, watching Shane. The man was walking slowly along the pier, his head bent down. She had seen him speak to the ghost, and while she knew Shane would tell her what was said, she still burned with curiosity.
A grumble behind her caused her to take her attention away from Shane and to George Fallon.
The man was sitting up, yawning and rubbing at his eyes. When he lowered his hands, he nodded to her and looked dejectedly at the doorway.
“What’s going on out there?” George asked tiredly.
“Shane’s on his way back,” she answered.
George nodded. He sighed and said, “I wish I’d never come out here.”
Courtney didn’t reply.
“How’d you get on the island?” he asked.
“Bad decisions,” she answered. “Ones that seemed like they were good ideas at the time.”
“Same here,” George said.
“Hello,” Shane said, stepping into the doorway and resting a hand on the small of Courtney’s back.
The touch was gentle, but firm, and sent a thrill of excitement through her.
“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice steady.
Shane quickly explained how Clark had agreed to help.
“I’ll need to try and find some of the others,” he continued. “Dane and Eileen, even Scott, if he’ll listen to me.”
“Will it work?” George asked, his tone one of disbelief.
Shane nodded. “What are the names of your friends?”
“Vic and Eric,” George said. “But how is it going to work?”
“You’re in construction, right?” Shane asked.
George nodded.
“So you know what a power converter is, AC to DC when you need the electricity in a pinch?” Shane said.
“Sure,” George said. “What’s that got to do with this place?”
“I think that I’m some kind of a power converter,” Shane said. “Before, when I had enough information, when I had the backing of other ghosts, I was able to channel it. And that power, well it forces the dead, like Dorothy, into a somewhat physical form I can handle.”
George shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“Do ghosts?” Courtney asked. “I mean, seriously, do ghosts make any sense to you whatsoever? They shouldn’t even be here, let alone be capable of hurting someone. But they are, and they do.”
George didn’t respond.
“Whether it makes sense or not,” Shane said. “It’s what happened.”
“And you’ve done it before?” George said doubtfully.
“Once,” Shane replied.
“You managed to get rid of the ghost?” George said.
“If I hadn’t,” Shane said coldly, “I wouldn’t be here.”
“How can you do something like that?” Courtney asked. She looked at the man before her as he hesitated before answering her.
“I think it has something to do with my house,” Shane said slowly, seeming to pick each word with care. “I never had a great knack for languages before we moved to Berkley Street. I could speak English, of course, but nothing else. Then, the more time I spent at the house, and the older I got, the more I understood. The more I could speak the different languages. It felt like something was unlocked in my head.”
“I’ve done research on what I did at my house,” Shane continued. “There are skills, like mine, which have been recorded. Others who can channel energy. There are a few accounts online. Usually they pass along a family line. My parents didn’t say anything about it, and my grandparents on both sides were dead.”
“So maybe this is genetic?” Courtney asked.
“That’s what it looks like,” Shane said, nodding. “The stories I read talked about how most benevolent ghosts don’t have a problem with people who possess my ability. It’s the bad ones, like Dorothy, who really don’t care for us. I don’t think she’s realized what I can do. I don’t think she would leave me be.”
“So what are you going to do?” George asked, skepticism still in his voice.
“I’m going to learn more about Dorothy,” Shane said, looking at Courtney, “if I can really know her, then I’m almost positive I can do it again. Make her, well, touchable.”
Courtney moved closer to Shane, tilting
her head slightly to look at him. “You’re going to go speak with more?”
Shane nodded.
“Do you need help?” she asked.
Shane smiled at her, teeth stained by coffee, but the smile was genuine.
“No, thank you,” he said gently. “I’d rather you were here. They seem to avoid the lighthouse, although I’m not quite sure why.”
“Okay,” Courtney said. She looked over at George. The man was looking listlessly at the floor. To Shane, she said, “You’ll be careful?”
“As careful as I can be,” Shane said. He leaned in and gave her a soft kiss. “I’ll be back.”
Courtney nodded, her back cold after he took his hand away and left the lighthouse. She glanced at George, saw the man was still concerned with the floor, and sat down inside the doorway. The ocean stretched out beyond the island, but in the distance, she saw a boat.
It was heading toward the island.
Chapter 49: Terminal Fleet
“There’s a boat,” Courtney said.
George looked up past the girl, out the doorway and onto the Atlantic.
She’s right, George realized. A boat was steadily making its way to the island. The closer the boat came, the more familiar it looked.
“Oh my God,” George whispered.
“What?” Courtney asked.
“That’s my boat,” George said, recognizing the antennae array and the Gadsden flag snapping proudly off the aft of Terminal Fleet. “That’s my boat!”
He got to his feet, his heart beating excitedly.
“George,” Courtney said, standing up. “Didn’t she steal the boat? The woman who dumped you here?”
A chill raced through him as he realized the girl was right. He was nodding when the boat got close enough for him to see the one piloting it.
“But that’s not her,” George said excitedly. “That’s Dell! That’s Dell! He’s the gatekeeper at the marina!”
George raced out of the lighthouse, pushing past Courtney. He stumbled, nearly fell, but caught himself. He hurried down the path to the pier, his feet hitting the wood at the same time as Dell pulled the Boston Whaler in alongside.
“Dell!” George shouted.
Dell raised his hand in greeting, a smile of relief on his face.
Then a shot was fired, and George watched as the top half of Dell’s face exploded outwards. Blood, bone, and brain sprayed outward.
Someone was screaming, and George realized he was the one making the noise.
The smile never left the ruins of Dell’s face, even as he collapsed to the deck. From one of the seats, the woman who had marooned George on Squirrel Island stood up. In her hand was a small, black, semi-automatic pistol. She shook ever so slightly as the boat ran aground slightly and came to a sharp stop.
A broad, happy smile was plastered on her face, and she waved cheerfully to him.
“Hello, George!” she said, stepping onto the pier and keeping the pistol on him. She quickly made the boat fast, stretched, and said, “You have an appointment to keep with my great-grandmother. She’s not one you want to anger, I might add. No, she’s worse than Bruce Banner when she’s angry.”
She raised the pistol a little, so George was staring at it rather than her.
“No,” the woman said, “let’s find her, shall we? We don’t want you being any later than you already are. She wants one of her newly dead to kill you, George. The dear woman enjoys watching their initiations. Tremendously.”
George went to speak, but only a moan came out. A warm liquid rushed down his pants and he realized he had wet himself.
Chapter 50: Interrupted
Shane had only left Courtney a few minutes earlier when he heard the gunshot, followed by a brief, horrified scream.
All plans to meet with the dead were cast aside as he turned and ran back towards the pier. When he reached the edge of the lighthouse he paused, crept around the building, and looked down at the pier.
A boat, whose engine he had never heard, was tied up to the pier. George was there, his shoulders slumped as Amy pointed a handgun at him. A quick glance at the boat showed a body near the helm.
Shane pulled his knuckledusters off, stuffed them into his back pocket, looked around, and saw a fist-sized rock on the ground. He picked it up, found the weight to be good, and took a long look at Amy.
She and George were talking, but the wind carried their words away.
When she brought the pistol up a little higher, Shane stepped out and threw the stone. It raced through the air, a perfect, elongated arc.
With a flat crack, it smashed into the side of Amy’s head. Her legs collapsed beneath her, and she fell with a thud to the pier. Her hand let go of the pistol, and the weapon slid off the wood and into the ocean.
George sat down, his shoulders shaking.
Christ, Shane thought as he walked back to the path, he’s absolutely worthless.
Courtney came out of the lighthouse and joined Shane.
“Did you just hit her with a rock?” she asked.
“Yup,” Shane said.
“That was an awesome throw!”
Shane grinned. “Thanks. I was trying to hit her in the chest, though.”
“Whatever works,” Courtney said. “We’ve got a boat now.”
“Oh damn,” Shane said, surprised. “We do!”
The two of them walked quickly down onto the pier. George was staring at the boat.
“What’s wrong?” Shane asked, dropping to a knee and checking Amy’s pulse. She had a welt on the side of her head, and blood trickled from her nose.
“She killed Dell,” George said, his voice low and hoarse.
“She didn’t kill you,” Shane said harshly, “and she didn’t kill us. That your boat?”
George nodded.
“Well let’s get the hell out of here,” Shane said. He picked up Amy and draped her over his shoulder.
“Okay,” George agreed. Courtney helped him to his feet.
“You won’t be using this little boat,” a voice said from the Boston Whaler.
Shane looked for the owner, and he saw the young boy with the pipe who had killed George’s friends. The boy stood on the deck, pipe in his mouth as he grinned.
“And why won’t we?” Shane asked.
“She’s sinking, she is,” the boy said. “When your bonnie lass there shot the pilot, well, the boat ran aground. She sprang a good and healthy leak, and not one to be fixed without a dry dock.”
Shane looked at the boat and saw the boy was right.
It is sinking, Shane thought. As he watched, it had sank perhaps half an inch, and then half an inch more. In silence, they all stood where they were and after several minutes the boat had settled down as far as she would go.
“That’s a little bit of a disappointment, is it not?” the boy asked gleefully.
Shane wanted to strangle him.
“It is,” Shane agreed, his voice tight. “But that’s alright. It’s better to finish the job myself than leave it to another.”
The boy took the pipe out of his mouth, laughed pleasantly, and pointed the stem at Shane. “That, my fine bucko, is an excellent way to look at this particular situation. You’ve no love for Dorothy?”
Shane shook his head.
“Aye,” the boy said, and then he winked. “Neither do I. She’s a right foul beast, she is. I heard your little talk with Clark Noyes. You mean to do her in.”
“I do,” Shane said.
“Good,” the boy said, returning his pipe to his mouth. “Good. I’ll see you at the end, then.”
The boy vanished.
“I am more than a little upset,” Courtney said.
Shane nodded. “Same here.”
George began to cry.
Chapter 51: George Makes a Move
George spat on the ground outside of the lighthouse, his back against the brick wall. Behind him, inside the building, Shane and Courtney sat with the woman, Amy. The one who had tried to kill him.
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Not once, George thought miserably, but twice. How would Shane like it? George thought. If someone was trying to kill him?
He felt ashamed at having cried in front of them, but at least Amy hadn’t seen it.
The sun was sinking rapidly on the horizon, the waves of the Atlantic reflecting the day’s last light. The chrome and steel of his boat shining as well.
George straightened up as he looked at Terminal Fleet.
The antennae which still stood tall in the evening light.
The radios! he thought excitedly. George glanced back into the lighthouse. Shane and Courtney sat close together. Against the back wall, her hands bound behind her back, Amy was still unconscious.
I’ll check the radios, George decided. Maybe then Baldy won’t sneer at me.
George nodded to himself and quickly walked away from the building. He hurried down the path, moved as quietly as he could across the pier, and reached his Boston Whaler. He paused and looked at it, wincing at the sight of it.
Christ, he thought, sighing, I’ll have to have a salvage crew come out, lift her, and tow her back in.
He scrambled aboard and came to a sharp stop.
Dell’s body was on the deck. Mercifully, the man was face down, but the remnants of his skull and brain were splattered over the helm. Hundreds of flies crawled about the exposed flesh while what looked like thousands had already begun to feast and lay eggs on Dell. The entire boat stank of death. George turned and vomited onto the pier, clutching the side of the Whaler.
With bile dripping down his chin and clinging to the corners of his mouth, George turned back to the wreckage of Dell and the radios.
“Oh Christ, Dell,” George whispered, “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
Gingerly, he stepped over the body and threw up on the deck as he tried to wipe dried brains off of the two-way radio.
“It won’t work,” a woman said from behind him.
George twisted around, his sneakers slipping in the blood and bile, and he sat down on Dell’s head. Bone cracked loudly, and the flies took to the air, buzzing around him angrily.
Fresh tears sprang into George’s eyes, and he scrambled away, his pants wet with blood and urine.