Widow’s Point
Richard Chizmar
Billy Chizmar
Cemetery Dance
Praise for Widow’s Point
“Widow’s Point simmers, bubbles, and boils over in the most seductive, troubling, and finally throat-gripping manner possible, and along the way neatly solves the problem of how to handle the fate of a first-person narrator of a tale remarkable for accelerating dread. Richard and Billy Chizmar have given us a cold and delicious treat.”
— Peter Straub
New York Times bestselling author
of Ghost Story and In the Night Room
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“The spirit of William Hope Hodgson is alive and well in Widow’s Point, a briny ghost story infused with sinister new life by Richard and Billy Chizmar. If you’re looking for a tale that has you reconsidering that trip to the coast while telling yourself those whispers from ’neath your bed are simply the wind, you’ve found it. Widow’s Point is a chilling addition to the haunted house subgenre.”
—Kealan Patrick Burke
Bram Stoker Award-winning author
of Sour Candy and Kin
* * *
“With Widow’s Point, the Chizmars deliver a fantastic new take on several old tropes, making the sea and haunted house stories scary again. A masterful, atmospheric and genuinely frightening ghost story. I loved it.”
—Brian Keene,
Grandmaster Award winning author
of The Complex and End of the Road
For Steve King,
who taught us to aim with our eyes,
shoot with our minds,
and kill with our hearts.
Acknowledgments
The authors would like to thank Kara and Noah Chizmar, Mark Parker, Glenn Chadbourne, Bob Eggleton, Aaron French, Brian and Kate Freeman, Gail Cross, Peter Straub, Bev Vincent, John Schaech, Brian Keene, Kealan Patrick Burke and all the Cemetery Dance readers.
Video/audio footage #1A
(10:14am, Friday, July 11, 2017)
* * *
The sound of muffled coughing over a dark screen.
After a moment, the lens cap is removed and we see the first shaky images of a hotel room. The accommodations are stark. A narrow bed that appears to have been slept in, a cheap pressed-wood coffee table covered in notebooks and an open laptop, a tattered reading chair tucked away in the far corner, and a bedside end table littered with a half-dozen empty beer bottles.
Another bout of coughing and then a man’s voice: “Testing one, two, three, four…”
The camera angle shifts as the man swings around to face the front of the room. Ugly curtains, the color of spoiled mustard, are closed against the morning sunlight. The water-damaged door is chained shut.
“…five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.”
The screen goes dark and silent.
* * *
Video/audio footage #2A
(2:53pm, Friday, July 11, 2017)
* * *
Jumbled footage taken from a slow-moving vehicle:
Boulder-strewn fields dotted with the occasional barn or farmhouse giving way to…
…a busy cobblestone street lined with quaint, brick-sided shops. A bakery. A fish market. A two-story bookstore. Restaurants and pubs with colorful names like The Rusty Scupper and The Spitfire Arms Alehouse and Durty Nelly’s etched across their glass-windowed fronts. A car horn blows somewhere behind us and we speed up as…
…the main street ends, revealing a bustling port to the east, a maze of filthy docks scurrying with activity stretching out as far as the eye can see. Lobster boats stacked with tied-down traps. Scallop boats with their claw-like dredges at rest. Fleets of fishing vessels unloading their catch: halibut, haddock, herring, and swordfish.
The vehicle pulls to a sudden stop on the shoulder of the roadway and the image goes blurry.
“And there she is, ladies and gentlemen.”
The camera focuses and zooms in on something far in the distance—and we can just make out the upper third of a lighthouse jutting high above the trees. Its ancient lens sparkles in the late afternoon sunlight.
“My God…she’s beautiful.”
The car pulls back onto the roadway. The screen goes blank.
* * *
Video/audio footage #3A
(4:47pm, Friday, July 11, 2017)
* * *
We hear the roar of crashing waves and see a narrow strip of sandy beach at the bottom of the screen. The rest of the frame is filled with sparkling blue ocean and bright cloudless sky. The camera pans to our left and the soft sands begin to give way to jagged clusters of surf-splashed rocks, which in turn gradually morph into seaside cliffs. The rock face grows higher and begins to tower above us as the camera’s eye widens and wanders further down the coast. At the apex of the precipice, where the cliffs stand tallest, rests a lonely lighthouse, its rough stone walls faded and worn smooth from years of tumultuous weather and neglect. A thick line of trees encroaches a short distance behind it, as if standing guard. Between the forest and the lighthouse, sunlight glints off the chain link and razor wire of a formidable security fence.
The camera zooms close on the lighthouse and the picture falls out of focus. The man takes a moment to readjust and the lighthouse sharpens into vivid detail. His off-screen voice trembles: “This is it, ladies and gentlemen. This is it.”
* * *
* * *
Video/audio footage #4A
(5:49pm, Friday, July 11, 2017)
* * *
The man holds the video camera in his left hand and grips the steering wheel with his right. The road, and calling it a road is charitable at best, is unpaved dirt and gravel, and the camera POV is unsteady. Mostly we see bouncing images of the interior dashboard and snippets of blue sky through a dirty windshield. The Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil” plays at low volume on the radio.
After another thirty seconds, we hear the squeal of brakes in need of repair and the car swings in a wide circle—giving us a shaky glimpse of a stone lighthouse standing atop a grassy point of land—and comes to a stop facing rocky cliffs that drop perilously to the Atlantic Ocean below. The ocean here is dark and rough and foreboding, even on this clear day.
The man turns off the engine and we immediately hear the whine of the wind through his open window. In the foreground, an old man with thinning gray hair, thick glasses, and a wrinkled apple of a face shuffles into view.
The man recording exits the car, still pointing the camera at the old man, and we see a hand enter the top corner of the screen as the driver flips a wave.
“Hello,” he yells above the wind, walking toward the old man.
Up ahead, we watch the old man shuffling his way toward us through the blowing grass. His body is so frail, it appears as if the wind might steal him away and send him kiting over the distant cliffs. At first, we believe he is smiling. As we draw closer, we realize we are wrong, and the old man is scowling. It’s not a pretty sight—like a skeletal corpse grinning from inside a moldy coffin.
“Turn that damn camera off,” the old man growls.
The picture is immediately replaced with a blurry patch of brown and green grass as the camera is lowered.
“Okayyy, we’ll just edit that out later,” the man says to himself off-camera.
And then in a louder voice: “Sorry, I didn’t think it would—”
* * *
Video/audio footage #5A
(6:01pm, Friday, July 11, 2017)
* * *
The screen comes to life again and we see the stone lighthouse off in the distance and hear the muffled crash of waves pounding the shoreline. It’s evident from the swaying view of the lighthouse and the inten
se howl of the wind that the camera is now affixed to a tripod and positioned somewhere close to the edge of the cliffs.
The man walks on-screen, carrying a knapsack and what looks like a remote control of some sort. He appears to be in his mid-forties, shaggy blond hair, neat dark-framed glasses, artfully scuffed boots, pressed jeans, and a gray sweatshirt. He stares directly at the camera, green eyes squinting against the wind, and sidesteps back and forth, searching for the proper positioning.
He settles on a spot just in time to witness a particularly violent gust of wind defeat the tripod.
“Shit,” he blurts out, and sprints toward the camera—as it leans hard to the left and crashes to the ground.
There is a squawk of static and the screen goes blank.
* * *
Video/audio footage #6A
(6:04pm, Friday, July 11, 2017)
* * *
The video switches on, and we see the man standing in the foreground of the lighthouse, pointing the remote at the camera. The image is steadier this time around. The man slides the remote into the back pocket of his jeans and clears his throat.
“Okay, only have a few minutes, folks. Mr. Parker is in quite the hurry to get out of here. He’s either playing the role of hesitant and anxious lighthouse owner to the extreme and faking his discomfort, or he’s genuinely unnerved and wants to be pretty much anywhere else but here on the property his family has owned for over a century now.”
He leans over, his hands disappearing just off-screen, and returns holding the knapsack, which he places close on the ground at his side. He stands with an erect but relaxed posture and folds his hands together in front of him.
“My name is Thomas Livingston, bestselling author of Shattered Dreams, Ashes to Ashes, and eleven other bestselling non-fiction volumes of the supernatural. I’m here today on the windswept coast of Harper’s Cove at the far northern tip of Nova Scotia standing at the foot of the legendary Widow’s Point Lighthouse.
“According to historical records, the Widow’s Point Lighthouse, originally named for the large number of ships that crashed in the rocky shallows below before its existence, was erected in the summer and autumn of 1838 by Franklin Washburn II, proprietor of the largest fishing and gaming company in Nova Scotia.”
Livingston’s face grows somber.
“There is little doubt that the Widow’s Point Lighthouse led to a sharp decrease in the number of nautical accidents off her shoreline—but at what cost? Legend and literally centuries of first-hand accounts seem to reinforce the belief that the Widow’s Point Lighthouse is cursed…or perhaps an even more apt description…haunted.
“The legend was born when three workers were killed during the lighthouse’s construction, including the young nephew of Mr. Washburn II, who plunged to his death from the lighthouse catwalk during the final week of work. The weather was clear that day, the winds offshore and light. All safety precautions were in place. The tragic accident was never explained.
“The dark fortunes continued when the lighthouse’s first keeper, a by all accounts ‘steadfast individual’ named Ian Gallagher went inexplicably mad during one historically violent storm and strangled his wife to death before taking his own life by cutting his wrists with a carving knife. Mr. Washburn II claimed that Gallagher must have suffered some type of ‘mental breakdown’ and took full responsibility for his hiring and the resulting tragedy.
“But many of the townspeople of Harper’s Cove felt that something darker—something beyond human control—was at work here.
“There had long been whispers—usually slurred, unguarded moments late at night in the various Harper’s Cove pubs—about the unsettling incidents that had plagued the lighthouse’s construction. Few of the workers went so far as to utter words such as ‘haunted’ or ‘cursed’—not in the very beginning—but the most commonly expressed sentiment was the belief that ‘something was wrong with that place.’
“In the decades that followed, nearly two dozen additional mysterious deaths occurred within the confines—or on the nearby grounds—of the Widow’s Point Lighthouse, including cold-blooded murder, suicide, unexplained accidents and disappearances, the mass-slaughter of an entire family in 1933, and even rumors of devil worship and human sacrifice.
“After the gruesome abomination in 1933, in which the cold-blooded murderer of the Collins family left behind a letter claiming he was ‘instructed’ to kill by a ghostly visitor, the most recent owner of the Widow’s Point Lighthouse, seafood tycoon Robert James Parker—yes, the grandfather of Mr. Ronald Parker, the camera-shy gentleman you glimpsed earlier—decided to cease operations and shutter the lighthouse permanently.
“Or so he believed…
“Because in 1985, Parker’s eldest son, Ronald’s father, entered into an agreement with the United Artists film studio from Hollywood, California, to allow the studio to film a movie both inside the lighthouse and on the surrounding acreage. The movie, a gothic thriller entitled Rosemary’s Spirit, was filmed over a period of six weeks from mid-September to the first week of November. Despite the lighthouse’s menacing reputation, the filming went off without a hitch…until the final week of shooting, that is…when supporting actress Lydia Pearl hung herself from the polished iron guard railing that encircles the catwalk high atop the lighthouse.
“Trade publications reported that Ms. Pearl was despondent following a recent break-up with her professional baseball playing fiancé, Roger Barthelme. But locals here believed differently. They believed with great conviction that, after all those long years of silent slumber, the Widow’s Point curse had reawakened and claimed another victim.
“When not even a year later, in the summer of 1986, two young girls went missing in the vicinity of the lighthouse, the whispers grew to an outcry.
“Regardless of the reasoning, the lighthouse was once again shuttered tight against the elements two years later in 1988, and for the first time a security fence was erected around the property, making the lighthouse accessible only by scaling the over one-hundred-and-fifty-foot high cliffs that line its eastern border along the Atlantic.
“So…in other words, no human being has been inside the Widow’s Point Lighthouse in nearly thirty years…”
Livingston takes a dramatic pause, then steps closer to the camera, his face clenched and square-jawed.
“…until now. Until today.
“That’s right—tonight, for the first time in over three decades, someone will enter and spend the night in the dark heart of the Widow’s Point Lighthouse. That someone is me, Thomas Livingston.
“After months of spirited—pardon the pun—discussion and negotiation, I have been able to secure arrangements to spend an entire weekend inside the legendary lighthouse. The ground rules are simple. Today is Friday, July 11, in the year of 2017. It is…”
He checks his wristwatch.
“…6:09pm Eastern Standard Time on Friday evening. In a matter of minutes, Mr. Ronald Parker, current proprietor of the Widow’s Point Lighthouse, will escort me through the only entrance or exit, and once I am safely inside, he will close and lock the door behind me…”
Livingston bends down, comes back into view holding a heavy chain and padlock.
“…using these.”
He holds the chain and padlock up to the camera for another dramatic beat, then drops them unseen to the ground.
“I will be permitted to take inside only enough food and water to last me three days and three nights, as well as a lantern, flashlight, sanitary supplies, two notebooks and pens, along with this video camera and tripod, and several extra batteries. In addition, this…”
Backing up a couple steps, Livingston reaches down into his knapsack and quickly comes up with a small machine in his right hand.
“…Sony Digital Voice Recorder, capable of recording over one thousand hours of memory with a battery life of nearly ninety-six hours without a single charging. And, yes, please consider that an official product placement for the
Sony Corporation.”
He laughs—and we get a glimpse of the handsome and charming author pictured on the dust jacket of one of his books—and then he returns the voice recorder to his knapsack.
“I will not be allowed a cell phone or a computer of any kind. Absolutely no Internet access. No way to communicate, or should anything go wrong, no way to request assistance. I will be completely cut off from the outside world for three long and hopefully eventful nights.”
We hear the bark of an angry voice from off-screen, and a startled Livingston’s eyes flash in that direction. He looks back at the camera, shaking his head, a bemused expression on his face.
“Okay, folks, it’s time to begin my journey, or shall I say, our journey, as I will be recording all of my innermost thoughts and observations in an effort to take you, my readers, along with me. The next time I appear on camera, I will be entering the legendary—some say, haunted—Widow’s Point Lighthouse. Wish me luck. I may need it.
“And cut…”
* * *
* * *
Video/audio footage #7A
(6:12pm, Friday, July 11, 2017)
* * *
Livingston is carrying the video camera in his hand, and we share his shaky POV as he slowly approaches the lighthouse.
Mr. Parker remains off-screen, but we hear his gravelly voice: “Eight o’clock Monday morning. I’ll be here not a minute later.”
“That will be perfect. Thank you.”
The lighthouse door draws nearer, large and weathered and constructed of heavy beams of scarred wood, most likely from an ancient ship, as Livingston’s research had once unearthed. The men stop when they reach the entrance.
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