The video shifts and we hear heavy breathing growing more rapid by the moment. Then the rustle of footsteps, moving cautiously at first, but gaining urgency. The echo of boots slapping pavement quickly transitions to boots clanging against metal as Livingston ascends the stairs and ventures outside onto the lighthouse’s catwalk.
We hear the door being yanked open and are overpowered by the cacophony of the storm. Wind howls, rain lashes, thunder roars. Skeletal fingers of lightning dance across the violent sea.
Livingston moves closer to the iron railing and points the camera at the ocean below. Enormous swells crash on the rocks below, sending sprays of whitewater high into the night. The camera zooms closer—and Livingston gasps.
“My God, do you see it?!” His voice is swallowed by the wind. “Someone needs to help them!”
The screen goes blank.
* * *
Video/audio footage #10A
(10:50pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
* * *
We see Thomas Livingston’s haggard face staring back at us. His hair is dripping wet and he’s shivering. His bloodshot eyes dart nervously around the room. For the moment, the lantern is lit, bathing his skin in a glistening orange glow.
He looks at the camera for maybe thirty seconds but doesn’t say anything. We can see him searching for his words. Finally:
“I know what I heard. And I know what I saw.”
He sounds as if he might break into tears.
“I heard it crashing upon the rocks.”
He glances at the ground, steels himself, then looks back at the camera and continues.
“It was a massive ship. At least two hundred feet long. And it broke into a thousand pieces when it hit the rocks. It was an awful sound. Dozens of men…thrashed and tossed upon the rocks…impaled on splintered planks…flailing and drowning in the waves. I can still hear their screams.
“I recorded all of it, I’m certain of that. I knew what I was witnessing wasn’t possible, but I saw what I saw and I kept the camera rolling…”
A deep breath.
“But there’s nothing there now. I checked the video after I returned inside and changed into dry clothes. I checked it a dozen times. There’s nothing there.”
He looks up at the camera and the brash showman we saw earlier is gone.
“You can hear the thunder and the crash of the waves. You can see the lightning flash and the ocean below…but there’s no ship anywhere to be seen. No bodies. No screams.”
Livingston rubs his eyes with his fists.
“I offer no explanation, ladies and gentlemen, because I have none.”
* * *
* * *
Video/audio footage #11A
(11:16pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
* * *
The video turns on and once again we see a shaky image of the churning ocean at the base of the cliffs. The rain has slowed, but the wind is gusting and shards of lightning still decorate the sky.
“It’s taken me the better part of an hour to summon the courage to come out here again.”
The camera zooms in for a closer view. Waves crash onto an empty shoreline.
“The ship is gone.”
The camera zooms back out.
“But I know what I saw.”
After a moment, the camera lowers and we hear footsteps on the catwalk, then a loud clanging.
“What the…?”
The camera shifts as Livingston bends down and steadies on the object he almost tripped over.
The missing flashlight.
“Jesus.”
* * *
Voice recorder entry #33B
(11:33pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)
* * *
I must sleep now, if such a thing is possible in my current state. I’ve had enough adventure—or shall I say misadventure—for one day. Do you remember earlier when I said I was only here for the truth? Well, that was a fucking lie.
* * *
Voice recorder entry #34B
(1:12am, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
* * *
Sleep eludes me thus far, so I’ve returned to the diary. I honestly don’t know if I can bear to read much further. This is dreadful.
July 29
I’m going to talk to Momma again today. I have to. Last night was the worst ever. It felt like a nightmare but I know it really happened. I had fallen asleep early because I was so tired from the hike Father took us on to explore the woods. We saw deer and rabbits and squirrels and even caught tadpoles with our hands in a pond we came across. It was a fun day and other than a nervous moment when I thought I saw one of the symbols from the cave carved onto a tree trunk nothing scary happened. I even ate two portions of Momma’s meatloaf at dinner and was sound asleep not long after. But then something woke me in the middle of the night. I don’t know if it was a noise or if I felt something. All I know is that I opened my eyes and the room was silent and at first all I could see was darkness. Then my eyes started to get used to the dark and I could make out the outlines of furniture in the room. I moved my head a little and saw another shape much closer. It was Stephen and he was standing at the foot of my bed. He was standing perfectly still staring at me and he was holding Father’s hunting knife in his hand. I whispered his name but he didn’t move or say anything. It was like he was in a trance or sleepwalking. Uncle Phillip is a sleepwalker so I know a lot about it. I called his name again and when Stephen didn’t answer I got out of bed very slowly. My heart was beating so hard I could hear it. I crept up on him and tried to reach for the knife but he tugged it away before I could stop him. I kept saying his name over and over again and I finally slapped him right on the face and he woke up. He blinked his eyes like he didn’t know where he was and then dropped the knife and started crying. At first I thought it was because I had slapped him but he kept saying ‘I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry’ over and over again so I think it was because of the knife. He looked like he might get sick. We promised to not tell Father and Momma and I let him sleep in bed with me for the rest of the night. He fell asleep after a little while with his head on my shoulder. But I didn’t sleep a wink.
* * *
Voice recorder entry #35B
(3:12am, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
* * *
(Sound of footsteps descending the stairway)
* * *
Sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy, seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three…
* * *
Voice recorder entry #36B
(3:35am, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
* * *
Two-sixty-six, two-sixty-seven, two-sixty-eight.
* * *
(Shuffling of footsteps as Livingston reaches the bottom, turns around, and immediately starts climbing again)
* * *
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen…
* * *
Voice recorder entry #37B
(4:09am, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
* * *
…two hundred and ninety-nine, three hundred, three hundred and one, three hundred and two, three hundred and three, three hundred and four, three hundred and five…
* * *
(Livingston’s voice is monotone, deliberate, as if he has been hypnotized)
* * *
Voice recorder entry #38B
(6:42am, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
* * *
The night was endless, a nightmare. If I slept at all, I don’t remember. The hours passed in a fever dream. At one point, I heard someone crying, a woman, but was too frightened to get up and investigate. A short time later I thought I saw something moving in the doorway, the pale outline of a person, but it vanished when I fumbled with the lantern. It’s so cold in here I can’t stop shivering, even inside my sleeping bag. My entire body aches, and my feet are filthy and tattered, as if I‘ve walked a great distance without my shoes.
I need to eat and drink, but I’m too exhausted.
* * *
Voice recorder entry #39B
(7:29am, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
* * *
It occurs to me now that someone might be playing a cruel and elaborate joke. Either that old bastard Parker or perhaps my bitch of an ex-wife. To what end, I haven’t the slightest idea, but I don’t know what else it could be.
All of the water bottles I brought up with me last night are empty. And I certainly didn’t drink from them. I was too shaken to even take a sip. And the crackers and the cheese I carried up, all stale. The apples and the one remaining pear, rotten to the core. I need to somehow summon the energy to walk downstairs to the cooler. My mouth is so dry I can barely spit. My stomach is growling.
* * *
* * *
Voice recorder entry #40B
(8:17am, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
* * *
I’ve nearly reached the bottom, thank God. Just another couple dozen stairs.
* * *
(Labored breathing)
* * *
The video camera is once again malfunctioning. It was my intention to bring it with me to chronicle what I found below, but the camera wouldn’t even turn on this morning. I tried several times to no avail, leaving me with this crummy voice recorder—sorry, Sony, and go fuck yourself while you’re at it.
* * *
(A deep breath and the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairway ceases)
* * *
Thank God…after everything else that has occurred, I almost expected the cooler to be gone.
* * *
(Cooler lid is lifted. A rustling of ice as a plastic bottle is lifted out. The snap of the cap being loosened and a loud gulp of water being swallowed, then—a chorus of violent gagging and vomiting)
* * *
Voice recorder entry #41B
(9:09am, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
* * *
All of the water is contaminated. Pure salt water. Every goddam bottle. The caps were all sealed tight. This isn’t a joke. This isn’t a prank. This is…something else.
All of the food has gone bad too. There are maggots in the lunchmeat. The fruit is rotten. The bread is brittle and spotted with mold.
I’m so tired. I feel like I’m losing my mind.
* * *
* * *
Voice recorder entry #42B
(9:48am, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
* * *
I tried pounding on the front door, but no one came. Of course. The security gate is locked tight and won’t be opened again until tomorrow morning when old man Parker arrives. Next, I tried prying the door open with a piece of scrap metal but it wouldn’t budge. I searched for other means of escape but there’s nothing. This place is like a prison. I’m considering bringing down my sleeping bag, lantern, and the rest of my supplies and holing up down here until tomorrow morning. It somehow feels safer here on ground level.
* * *
(A chortle of muffled laughter in the background)
* * *
Now that I’ve calmed down, I’ve given the situation a lot of thought. I can survive just fine until tomorrow morning without food and water. I’ve done it before.
* * *
(Another burst of laughter, which Livingston obviously doesn’t hear)
* * *
I just have to keep my wits about me.
* * *
(More laughter and then: “I’m coming, darling. I’m coming.” The voice belongs to a man, deep in tenor and tinged with an Irish accent. A loud, wet cracking is followed by guttural cries. The man laughs again and there are several more wet smacking sounds. Livingston takes no notice)
* * *
Whether this is all somehow an elaborate ruse designed to make a fool of me or truly the work of whatever spirits inhabit the lighthouse, I don’t care anymore. I’ve already got what I came for. The videos and audiotapes I’ve made are pure gold. More than enough to seal another book deal. Toss in the other things I’ve witnessed and heard, and we most likely have a movie, as well. It’s pay day, folks, and just in time for me. Hell, I don’t even have to embellish that much this time around. The only thing I truly wonder is—
* * *
(Livingston gasps)
* * *
Get off of me! Get the fuck off of me!
* * *
(Frantic footsteps pounding their way up the stairs, finally slowing after a number of minutes. Heavy breathing)
* * *
Something grabbed me down there. I felt it on my shoulder…squeezing. Then I watched as a hank of my hair was pulled away from my head. But there was nothing there. My goddam hair was moving by itself.
* * *
(Footsteps pick up the pace)
* * *
How in God’s name have I not reached the top yet?
* * *
(More footsteps)
* * *
…one hundred and seventeen, one hundred and eighteen, one hundred and nineteen…one hundred and twenty…
* * *
Voice recorder entry #43B
(10:27am, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
* * *
…two hundred and sixty-six, two hundred and sixty-seven, two hundred and sixty-eight, two hundred and sixty-nine, two hundred and seventy…
Dear God, what is happening?
* * *
Voice recorder entry #44B
(time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
* * *
(Note: from this point forward, the voice recorder’s time-code is corrupted for reasons unknown, displaying only 0:00 for the remainder of the recordings)
* * *
There are things occurring here clearly beyond my comprehension. Forget the hundreds of impossibly extra stairs I just climbed to reach the living quarters. Forget the fact that I witnessed an ancient fishing vessel crash upon the rocks last night or watched my hair floating in mid-air right in front of my eyes this morning. Forget the cooler full of contaminated water and the piles of rotten food. None of that matters.
But the bloody fucking hammer with the initials J.O. carved into its polished wooden handle I just found lying atop my sleeping bag is another story entirely.
Get me the fuck out of here!
* * *
Voice recorder entry #45B
(time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
* * *
This can’t be real.
* * *
Voice recorder entry #46B
(time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
* * *
(Pulsating BEEP-BEEP-BEEP of a telephone busy signal)
* * *
Come on, you son of a bitch!
* * *
(Busy signal is silenced)
* * *
Worthless piece of shit!
* * *
(Deep sigh)
* * *
Okay, fine, I admit it. I snuck in my cell phone. Big fucking deal. It was the one and only ground rule I broke, and I did it for security purposes. Not that it’s helped. Damn thing is useless. Despite the high ground, despite the cell tower not a mile down the road, and despite the four bars showing on my iPhone screen, I haven’t been able to connect on a single call. I even tried outside on the catwalk.
Delaney Collins was right. Something is very fucked up here.
* * *
Voice recorder entry #47B
(time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
* * *
I’m sitting with my back against the wall, shaking so hard it feels as if I’m suffering from a seizure. The lantern is aglow for now, and I can see the entire room and the doorway from this position. But I can’t take my eyes off the bloody hammer.
All I have to do is make it until eight o’clock tomorrow morning. I would tell you what time it is now, but my motherfucking watch has stopped working.
* * *
* * *
Voice recorder entry #48B
(time unknown, Sunday, July 13, 2017)
* *
*
I can barely still the tremors in my hands long enough to read. Just a handful of pages remain.
August 9
I am alone. Stephen refuses to talk about it no matter how much I try to make him feel safe. I don’t blame him. He’s just a kid and I can see how scared he is. Momma doesn’t believe me. Father isn’t an option. I think it’s the lighthouse doing this. It’s almost like it’s playing a game with me. I keep having dreams about someone chasing me through the lighthouse. Up and down the stairs. I’m crying and terrified and trying to hide but he keeps finding me. I can’t see who is chasing me but I know it’s someone bad. This is a bad place. Something is wrong with it. I don’t think people are meant to live here.
Widow's Point Page 6