Officer Mellon crawled through the hole in the fence, ripping the sleeve of his uniform shirt on one of the jagged edges. Once he got to his feet, he walked toward the front of the lighthouse calling out as he did. His right hand rested on his holstered sidearm.
There was no response.
Once he had circled around to the front side of the lighthouse, he stopped and looked up, using his hands to shield his eyes from the morning sun. But it was too bright and he couldn’t get a good look at the catwalk above him.
He called out again. Nothing.
That’s when he noticed the door to the lighthouse standing open. He called out a third time and when no one answered, he slowly approached, hand resting on his sidearm again.
Mellon carefully examined the door, was surprised to find no signs of damage or tampering, and proceeded inside.
He later admitted that while he was indeed nervous to enter the lighthouse, he was also buzzing with excitement and adrenaline. He couldn’t believe he was getting a chance to explore Widow’s Point first-hand. His brothers were going to turn green with jealousy.
Once inside, he quickly switched on his flashlight. As soon as he determined that no one was hiding on the lower floor, he started making his way up the spiral staircase. Halfway to the top, he thought he heard something—a rustling sound—so he pulled his sidearm and continued at a slower pace.
On the upper levels he completed a thorough search, then holstered his weapon. He claimed, “It was as if no one had been inside there for years. There wasn’t a trace of anyone.”
So he wasn’t expecting what he encountered a couple minutes later when he opened the small glass door and walked out on the catwalk.
He heard Clifford McGee before he saw him.
Click click click
The young student was standing ramrod straight on the narrow catwalk facing the ocean just as Kenny Penrod had reported. Even as Officer Mellon approached, McGee remained perfectly, eerily still—except for his right pointer finger, which obsessively triggered the camera he was holding up to his eye.
Click click click
Officer Mellon called out to McGee twice and when he didn’t respond, the policeman eased up next to him and reached for the camera. The moment his fingers touched the Nikon, McGee sprang to life.
He let out a guttural roar, and clutching the camera protectively to his chest with one hand, he pivoted and began clawing at Officer Mellon’s eyes with his other hand.
Mellon, in his written report, claimed there was no question in his mind that Clifford McGee would have killed him if he hadn’t unholstered his sidearm and used it to knock the student unconscious.
When McGee revived almost an hour later, he was handcuffed and locked in the backseat of a patrol car. Not that it mattered. His eyes were open but he was completely catatonic.
Three days later, thirty miles away in Cambridge Hospital, surrounded by family and under police guard, Clifford McGee remained unresponsive.
In the meantime, detectives had examined McGee’s Nikon and found the 128MB memory card completely full. Over 5,000 photographs.
The initial shots were of the exterior of the Widow’s Point Lighthouse, taken from various angles and viewpoints and with a wide range of lenses. After that came a selection of images from the lighthouse interior: haunting shots of the spiraling staircase, close-ups and portraits of the ancient stone walls, mesmerizing photos of dust motes dancing in beams of sunlight. All capturing a remote sense of decay and despair.
That’s when things got strange.
The next batch of photographs appeared to present a series of identical shots of the Atlantic Ocean and distant horizon. Hundreds, one after the other, exactly the same. Only when a fishing boat entered the frame from the right side and slowly worked its way across the next group of photographs did it become apparent that Clifford McGee had taken the same photograph over and over again.
When the sky in the photos slowly faded to dusk, then to nighttime dark, then gradually brightened again to burgeoning dawn, the detectives realized the extent of McGee’s obsession: he had stood on the catwalk and taken the same photograph for a period of almost twenty-four hours, only stopping when Officer Richard Mellon had arrived at the lighthouse and interrupted him.
Almost as if Clifford McGee had spotted something lurking beneath the distant waters that no one else could see.
Two weeks later, the Parker family hired workers to add coils of razor-sharp barbwire to the top of the Widow’s Point Lighthouse security fence.
* * *
* * *
Voice recorder entry #22B
(4:56pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
* * *
You’ll have to excuse my labored breathing, as you are kindly accompanying me to the bottom of the Widow’s Point Lighthouse to retrieve additional water supplies, traversing the same spiral staircase once climbed by killer and actress alike.
I can feel history here with each step I take. The atmosphere feels similar to a leisurely stroll at dusk through the grassy hills of Gettysburg, another haunted region where history and death lock arms and dance for all to see. A spectacle of names and dates flittering through your mind, while you construct a façade of mournful respect, all while secretly wishing to have borne witness to the ancient slaughter. A macabre thought, most certainly, but also an undeniable truth. Interstate rubberneckers don’t clog traffic due to frivolous curiosity; rather, they can’t help themselves, hoping to be fortunate enough to see a splash of scarlet blood on the roadside or a glimpse of mangled flesh. After all, the scores of spectators that crowded into the ancient coliseums didn’t come for the popcorn.
Navigating these endless stairs, I must admit I feel a closer kinship with Lydia Pearl and Joseph O’Leary than I ever have with any fallen soldier of the Civil War. Why is this the case? Perhaps it is simply the nature of time and urban legends…or perhaps it is just the nature of the Widow’s Point Lighthouse. Ghosts surround me here.
* * *
Voice recorder entry #23B
(5:14pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
* * *
I’ve just tested several bottles of water from the cooler and discovered something rather alarming. The water has a salty tang to it. Subtle but present nonetheless. The bottles were purchased from a grocery store just yesterday afternoon, and the water I consumed last night and earlier today suffered no such issue. Perhaps I’m a victim of my own overblown imagination, or perhaps it’s just an unexpected effect of the salty air here on the Nova Scotia coast. Regardless, I can’t help but wonder and I can’t help but tell you all about it. After all, my own voice is—and always has been (chuckles)—my greatest companion.
* * *
Voice recorder entry #24B
(5:32pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
* * *
Ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three…
* * *
Voice recorder entry #25B
(5:54pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
* * *
My goodness, I am winded. The journey down these twisting stairs felt endless, but the voyage back up feels like forever and a half, as my late father was wont to say. I tried counting the two hundred and-sixty-eight steps, as I did during my initial summit yesterday, but kept losing count. I swear to you I have climbed over five hundred stairs by now.
To add to my sense of displacement, I can hear the unmistakable rumblings of a storm approaching outside. Odd, as the skies were crystal clear just hours ago. I had been particularly meticulous about checking the local weather reports in the days leading up to this adventure. Each and every online report called for clear days and pleasant nights. Oh, well, no matter, a storm will only add to the mounting atmosphere.
* * *
Voice recorder entry #26B
(6:04pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
* * *
Many of the historical volumes I studied about the Widow’s Point Lighthouse discussed the frequent storms that favor this particula
r section of the Nova Scotia coastline. More than one author claimed that during the most violent of these storms, you could actually feel the old stone lighthouse trembling on its foundation. I chalked this observation up to showmanship and hyperbole, but boy was I mistaken.
When I finally reached the lantern room after what felt like an eternity of climbing, I was stunned at the vision that greeted me outside. Heavy rain lashed the lighthouse windows. The once-crystal skies were now boiling with fast-moving, dark, roiling clouds. Jagged shards of lightning stabbed at the horizon. Angry whitecaps danced across the churning sea. The wind was howling and I could feel in the very bones of the lighthouse the surging waves crashing onto the rocky shore at the base of the cliffs.
I stared in awe—and yes, I admit, a sliver of encroaching fear. I have never witnessed the sky or sea in such a state.
* * *
Voice recorder entry #27B
(6:22pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
* * *
The June 17 entry from the Collins diary is equal parts fascinating and troubling, the perfect accompaniment for a stormy night. Listen for yourself:
I snuck down to the beach during this morning’s low tide. I know I shouldn’t have. Father has warned me that it’s dangerous and Momma has made me promise at least a hundred times to never go down there without her or Father but I was angry and bored and wanted to be alone. Stupid boys! It took me almost an hour to walk past the cliffs to the park and down the cut-away onto the beach. And then almost another hour to walk back to the bottom of the cliffs. The cliffs were so high I couldn’t even see the lighthouse from where I was standing. The beach there was empty and covered in shells and driftwood and rocks. I found one piece of driftwood that looked like a big seagull but I knew I couldn’t take it home with me. That just made me even madder. I couldn’t see what the big deal was about the beach. It didn’t look dangerous. It looked like a normal beach to me. And then I noticed the cave in the cliff face. Maybe twenty feet up. Momma says I’m too curious for my own good and I guess she was right this time because I didn’t even think about it. I climbed right up there. The rocks were wet and slippery but I reached the cave in no time at all. The cave wasn’t very big. Father would have had to bend down to walk inside but there was plenty of room for me. I didn’t go in very far because it was dark and wet and I was scared to go any further without a lantern. The walls were all shiny and dripping and it smelled funny too. Like rotten fish and seaweed. Now that I was up there it didn’t seem like such a good idea after all. I was about to turn around and leave when I saw the drawings all over the wall. I couldn’t tell what they were supposed to be. They weren’t like the Indian drawings in caves that I learned about in school. Buffalo and deer and bear. Most of these looked more like symbols. One looked like a gigantic octopus but with thirteen huge tentacles. I counted them. And then I noticed what was piled on the floor underneath the drawings. It looked like bones. And skulls. Too many to even think about counting. For a minute I thought I might pee in my shorts so I started right out of there but before I made it back into the daylight I heard a voice behind me. I was scared half to death and the waves were pretty loud but I know the voice was real. It was an old man’s voice and at first it was just laughing. When it finally spoke, it sounded like someone who had smoked stinky cigars his whole life and it said: ‘They’re coming for you, girl. They’re coming for all of you.’ I was still shaking almost two hours later when I got home and Momma punished me for going off without telling her where I was going but I didn’t care. I was just glad to be home safe and sound. I’m never telling anyone what I saw and heard in that cave. And I’m never going back to that beach again.
* * *
Voice recorder entry #28B
(7:15pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
* * *
I’ve somehow managed to lose my flashlight. I carried it with me during my earlier journey down the staircase and I’m certain I brought it back with me upstairs. I clearly recall placing it next to my sleeping bag while I prepared dinner. But now it’s gone. I’ve looked everywhere. Puzzling to say the least.
* * *
Voice recorder entry #29B
(8:12pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
* * *
First my flashlight, and now I’m hearing things again. Twice in the past hour, I could’ve sworn I heard the faint strains of a child singing somewhere below me. Each time I moved to the doorway to listen, and each time the singing ceased. Perhaps the ghosts of Widow’s Point and the storm are playing tricks on this old boy. Despite my initial sense of unease, I’m grateful for the experience. It will make a fine addition to my notes.
Still no sign of that blasted flashlight.
* * *
Voice recorder entry #30B
(8:24pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
* * *
There! Can you hear it? A banging, like someone knocking on the floor right underneath me, and—
* * *
(Loud staccato rapping)
* * *
There it is again!
I’m not imagining it.
Can you hear it?
* * *
Voice recorder entry #31B
(9:07pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
* * *
I find myself becoming obsessed with young Delaney Collins. Her diary is extraordinary, almost as if I have been gifted a magical peephole that gazes directly upon the past. I have come to admire this young lady, as well as fear for her. I already know the final chapter to her story, and I dread each subsequent entry, as I realize it draws us one day closer to the end. Her end. And still I can’t stop myself.
July 11
I don’t care what anyone says. Ghosts are real. Tonight when I was brushing my hair for bed, two hundred strokes for luck, Momma always says, in front of my mirror, I saw her again. The lady in white. I had closed my eyes and was counting out loud 197, 198, 199, 200. When I got to the end I opened my eyes and I was no longer staring at myself in the mirror. Instead, it was her in her white nightgown and she was smiling at me. But it didn’t look like a happy smile. It looked like a hungry smile like she wanted to jump right out of the mirror and eat me. I screamed and fell back out of my chair onto the floor and Father came running. I told him I thought I had seen a mouse or a rat and he just laughed and patted my back and called me his silly girl. After he left I peeked in the mirror again but it was just me in the reflection. Who is she? What does she want? Why am I the only one who can see her? I wish I was older and braver and could find out the answers.
* * *
Voice recorder entry #32B
(9:57pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
* * *
What a night it has been! First, the unexpected arrival of the storm and the disappearance of my flashlight. Then, the mysterious singing and knocking sounds. Perhaps most exciting of all, and I know precisely how trite this sounds, I now feel certain that someone is watching me. Several times I have sensed something…a presence…directly behind me. I have felt it. Yet each time I’ve turned to find nothing but shadows. I’m sure my colleagues would find great pleasure if they could witness my skittish behavior.
I’ve lectured and written ad nauseam about the psychic energy that is often trapped inside houses of haunted repute, especially those places where violent crimes have occurred. I now feel that energy here in the Widow’s Point Lighthouse. And it’s getting stronger.
It’s not yet ten o’clock and I’m already tucked inside my sleeping bag, hoping for an early night. I can hardly see the floor in front of me. The lantern, although in fine working order last night, has proven a poor replacement for my flashlight, as the flame tends to extinguish within minutes of each lighting. Whether this is the result of a malicious gust or geist, I cannot say, but my temporary home certainly has a draft that I hadn’t noticed before. And it’s a chilly draft at that. I had been told that the summer heat would be retained in this old stone monolith, but it seems as if the ocean winds blow colde
r inside the lighthouse than outside.
Speaking of outside, the storm continues to rage. If anything, it’s grown stronger as the night has progressed. Every few moments, lightning slashes the sky, illuminating the room around me with a startling brilliance before plunging it back into darkness. I can’t help but wonder if—
* * *
(A long, silent beat followed by a beeping sound)
* * *
Well, what do you know, ladies and gentlemen, the video camera appears to have come back to life.
* * *
* * *
Video/audio footage #9A
(10:06pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
* * *
As the video switches on, the screen is flooded with murky shadows. Only the time-code can be seen. Then we hear a muted crash of thunder and a flash of lightning illuminates the lighthouse living quarters. A few seconds later, the lightning is gone and we are greeted again by darkness.
“Initially, I dismissed what I was seeing as a trick of the lightning, but then I realized that the blinking red light at my feet was coming from the video camera. When I heard the beep of the battery, I immediately retrieved the camera and ran a series of rapid tests. For whatever reason, it seems to be working just fine now.
“I’m thinking perhaps I jarred something when I moved the camera after dinner or—JESUS, WHAT WAS THAT?!”
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