Beaconfield

by Bri R. Leclerc

  I let my eyes close and passed out.

  My eyes blinked open slowly. My head felt like someone had stabbed an ice pick through my forehead and out the back of my skull. Bile rose in my throat again, but there was nothing left in my empty stomach.

  I tried to push myself up from the ground, but I was unable to move. Pain jolted through my spine and extremities. It was a pulsing pain that started from my head and radiated down to my toes. I hissed at each movement I made.

  I’d been woken up by the sound of my phone ringing.

  “Ridge!” I yelled, looking for him. “My phone’s ringing. It’s my phone!”

  My head was pulsing and felt like it was going to fall off. I tried to force my eyes open so that I could grab the phone out of my jacket pocket. I struggled and then felt Ridge behind me, pulling me into a seated position. I ripped the phone from my pocket and answered it with my eyes still closed.

  “Hello?” There was no sound on the other line for a moment so I asked again, “Hello?”

  There was a crackle of static through the speaker and I felt my heart jump.

  Someone was there. The phone was working.

  “Ma—Mari?” someone asked on the other line, the voice coming through the static.

  I listened harder, waiting for them to say something again.

  “Mari? It’s Mom,” the voice said, this time more clear. I jumped up, my head swimming at the sudden movement, and looked at Ridge as I pointed to my phone.

  “Mom? Oh my god, hi,” I babbled.

  Ridge pulled the phone away from me and put it on speaker so that we could both hear it.

  “What—going on? You—it’s been hours.” The phone continued to cut out, but I knew what she meant.

  “I’m in Beaconfield and something’s wrong. We need help!” I yelled into the phone. We waited for the response but heard nothing but a weak static. “Mom?”

  “Where are you?” My mom’s voice came through the phone.

  “Beaconfield! I’m in Beaconfield!” I yelled. “Mom, please help us!”

  “Mari?” she asked again. A frustrated tear slid down my cheek. I screeched as the static continued. I heard my mom’s voice come in and then out just as fast. Then the phone cut out. The screen went blank, and when I woke it up, the corner of the screen said, “No Service.”

  “Shit!” I yelled, stomping my foot. “She could’ve saved us!” I wanted to throw my phone in the ditch or crush it into a million pieces.

  “I know, I know,” Ridge said softly. He pulled out his phone and checked it. Still no service.

  I looked at the car. It seemed worse now than it had before. I crept around to the front of it and surveyed my damage. I groaned when I saw it. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I said. “I just wanted to be the one to get us out of here, and now, if we ever get out of this, I’ll have to pay to fix your car.” I balled my hands into fists and screamed into the sky.

  Ridge grabbed my shoulders and turned me toward him. He looked me right in the eyes and shushed me. “Calm down. We’re going to figure this out,” he said sternly.

  I was taken aback at him raising his voice at me for the second time tonight. “Ridge, I’m starting to think that we’re not going to figure this out,” I whispered as my head and body continued to throb.

  He pulled me into a hug. I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed. I hissed at the pain, but I didn’t care—that hug was the only thing I needed in that moment.

  We stood there for a moment until a drop of water hit my back and then my neck and my head. It was raining.

  I pulled back from the hug and threw my head to the sky. “Great!” I yelled. “Perfect!”

  I grunted and then rested my head back on Ridge’s chest as the tears started to fall. He rubbed my back while I breathed deeply to get the feeling of nausea to go away. The rain came down in sheets, drenching us. I shivered in my pajamas, glancing toward the destroyed car, and started crying harder.

  Ridge shushed me and rubbed my upper back while saying encouraging things like, “It’s going to be okay.” It made me cry harder.

  We stood there for a few minutes, appreciating the only moments of solitude and calm we’d been given since our reunion.

  I put my hands on the rough fabric of his jacket. I could feel the muscles in his back, strong and sure—the same as younger Ridge had been.

  “Why is this happening to us?” Ridge asked quietly. There was defeat in his voice, the same defeat that I felt in my chest. That darkness coiled in my stomach, taunting me.

  Still wrapped around him, I looked down the road behind us, back into Beaconfield. Since we couldn’t leave, the only other direction was back toward town. Back toward my grandmother and the rest of the crazies. I’d wanted my return to Beaconfield to be a way for me to close the book on the period of my life that held so much gray. I wanted to get some closure as to why my parents hadn’t let me return. I was beginning to understand why my mom had been so headstrong.

  In that moment, I wanted my grandad to be there with us. He would’ve known what to do. He would’ve taken charge and wouldn’t have been scared, not for a moment.

  I looked back to the road and saw the flashing lights of a cop car in the distance. A smile grew over my face as the car came closer, the lights blinding through the rain. I put my hands over my head, waving the car down. It slowed to a stop.

  “Help has arrived,” Ridge said from behind me. He wrapped an arm around my shoulder. I leaned into him, trying to keep the rain off me.

  The cop was motionless in the car for a few moments before the door swung open. He got out and approached us. He was walking slowly, but it was because he was elderly. He held one hand on his hip and the other seemed to hang down sort of lifelessly. He moved slowly toward us, like he was barely moving at all. When he finally stopped a few yards in front of us, Ridge smiled at him.

  “Officer Garrett. How are you, sir?” he called out over the sound of the rain.

  The policeman stood in the middle of the road, staring at us, the light from his car casting a shadow on his face. The man didn’t move, just hung his head.

  Ridge turned to me slowly. We gritted our teeth and then looked back to the officer. “Sir?” Ridge asked again, his voice shaking a little.

  “You can’t leave,” Officer Garrett said.

  A wave of fear and terror washed over me. Tears instantly returned to my eyes, and I felt faint. I clutched Ridge’s arm. Officer Garrett’s voice was so deep and demonic that even the ground felt like it was shaking.

  Ridge sprinted away, dragging me with him. I screamed as we ran back into town. My ankle protested, but we had to keep moving. I glanced over my shoulder to see if Officer Garrett was following us. He still stood in the middle of the road. He stared at us but didn’t move.

  “Run, Ridge!” I yelled ahead of me.

  He pumped his arms, and his sneakers hit the wet pavement hard, the rhythm of it setting my pace.

  I was never a good runner, but in that moment, my body didn’t care.

  We continued to run back toward town. I groaned as I pushed my complaining ankle, making me light-headed. As we came over the hill into downtown, I noticed that the townspeople were gone. The town seemed dead around us. There were no sounds from animals or humans—there was only the wind. Thankfully, the rain had stopped.

  I stopped and put my hands on my knees, panting.

  “Let’s stop at the diner,” Ridge said, and I silently thanked him.

  We walked quickly to the diner, making sure that no one was following us. We approached the door to the diner, and Ridge peeked into the window. When he nodded to me, I opened the door, the bell tinkling softly as it swung open.

  The diner was dark and empty.

  “Grab a water,” Ridge said, motioning toward the cooler behind the hostess stand.

  I couldn’t pull the door open fast enough. The cap proved to be a struggle with my shaking hands. I chugged the bottle while Ridge caught his breath.


  “Are we the only normal ones left?” Ridge asked under his breath with aggravation.

  I shrugged with a mouthful of water.

  Once I was ready to move again, Ridge led me to the back. He pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen. The lights were off and an eerie blue light washed over the room. It was quiet in here, the only sound the humming of the refrigerators.

  “Mom?” Ridge called out. No response. He tried again. “West?” Still no response. “They’re not here,” he said.

  “That’s okay,” I responded. “We’ll find them.”

  He hung his head and water dripped off his hair, so I grabbed a towel from a nearby stainless-steel counter and used it to squeeze the water out. He laid his head back into my hands and groaned slightly.

  “We’ll figure this out, Ridge. I know we will.”

  “What’s our next step?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” I said. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  Ridge gave me a soft smile and put an arm around my shoulders as we walked out of the diner.

  The library sat on a hill behind Main Street. It was a short walk from the diner.

  I grabbed Ridge’s hand. It was cold in mine, and the autumn breeze blew the rain off the trees at us. We were still soaked with no way of getting dry anytime soon.

  Ridge and I walked to the library in silence, our heads on a swivel, staying on guard. There was an eerie feeling in the air. It was too cold for October and there was no one on the street. I still had the feeling of being watched.

  The sea breeze blew through the trees and brought the scent of the water with it. I took a deep breath. The memory of my time here washed over me.

  When I was young, my grandfather and I would walk to the library on rainy summer days. It rained a lot in this small ocean town. I’d spend hours in the big chairs, curled up with a book. My grandfather would walk past, looking for history books that interested him. His face would poke between the stacks every thirty minutes or so to check on me.

  As we walked through the doors, I heard the familiar squeak of the hinges and smelled the old books. I looked around the room. The lamps that sat on each of the large wooden tables were dimmer than I remembered. There was a soft yellow light throughout the library. Tall, sturdy shelves curled around the room. The air smelled of crisp paper, dust, and leather.

  There were a few people milling about. They all seemed to have the same blank stare. I saw one woman, I thought she was the lady that owned the only bar in town, and she was circling a desk, not looking at anything, just walking. Slowly. Around and around.

  I shivered.

  In front of us was a large desk, and behind the counter sat old Miss May. I remembered her from my childhood. Miss May had always worked here. When I was younger, I was convinced she lived in the library.

  We approached the counter, but she didn’t look up.

  I cleared my throat. “Good morning, Miss May,” I said to the librarian.

  She looked up and stared at me with a blank expression.

  I looked to Ridge, and he swallowed. “Marigold Wilder,” I said as I pointed to myself.

  She simply handed me a pen and then looked back to the book on the desk in front of her. She absently turned the pages.

  I wrote my name down in the attendee book. One of the names stood out to me—West Abbott. He’d come in yesterday, his name scribbled in poor penmanship. I pointed it out to Ridge.

  He nodded and then scanned the library, probably hoping to see his brother.

  I brought Ridge to my favorite spot. It was a large oak table the sat in the quietest corner of the building. Though today, no one in the library seemed to be speaking, so noise wasn’t an issue. There was only the ticking of the clock on the wall and the floorboards creaking under our feet.

  The table sat by a window that looked out at the town and had a single lamp. I turned to the stacks, running my fingers along the spines, searching for the right one. I snaked up and down the aisles. I got to one end of the library, and when I turned the corner I let out a small yelp, falling backward. Ridge caught me, wrapping his arms around me.

  A man stood at the end of the aisle, staring at us, unblinking.

  “Sir?” Ridge asked him.

  He took a shuffling step toward us, and Ridge and I stepped back quickly. The man continued walking toward us slowly, not making eye contact. Ridge’s grip tightened on me as the man passed us and wandered through the library.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  “It’s like they’re going through the motions of life, but they’re completely unaware of everything else,” Ridge said as I peeled his arms off me.

  “I hope he’s all right.” I almost followed the man, but then I thought better of it.

  “He was acting like everyone else,” Ridge said with a shrug.

  I turned back to the shelves and continued searching the books. I tried to shake off the feeling of being watched, but I felt it all the way down to my bones. It made me shiver.

  “So, what are we doing here?” Ridge asked, glancing at the books alongside me.

  “When we were kids, we used to be obsessed with ghost stories. And there was this book that my grandfather gave me with a collection of Maine ghost stories and hauntings. Everything from haunted hotels and summer camps to whole towns. One of those towns was Beaconfield. That’s why I always wanted you to go ghost hunting with me.”

  “Okay, and what do we plan to use that for?” Ridge asked. He pulled a book of maritime history from the shelves and flipped through the pictures of the boats.

  “Something I saw earlier reminded me of one of the stories. I want to find it. I think it’ll help us.”

  Ridge laughed and rubbed a hand through his shaggy hair. “You’re not still on that ghost thing, right?”

  “Why is this funny?” I asked, turning to him quickly.

  His smile faded instantly. “Well, I mean . . . It can’t be a ghost. They’re not real.” A flush crept up his neck and he looked down as if he didn’t believe the words he’d said.

  “How do you explain everything that’s been going on?” I asked. “Ah! Here it is.”

  I pulled the large book from the shelf, An Encyclopedia of Maine Ghosts and Hauntings. I ran back to the table and slapped the giant tome down and opened it to the table of contents. I sat in a deep red chair, and Ridge settled into the chair across from me.

  “I think I read through this whole book maybe six times when we were kids. I was so in love with it. When my parents came to visit one weekend, I had it in my room and my mom was so upset that she and Grandma got in a huge fight. My mom doesn’t believe in ghosts, but you know that Grandma does. Ever since then, my grandma insisted that I only read it here in the library. But my grandpa did buy me my own copy years later.”

  “So what can it tell us now?” Ridge asked. He folded his hands on the table and rested his chin on them. He stared up at me with those big blue eyes, and my heart melted slightly in my chest.

  I swallowed and traced my finger down the page numbers of the table of contents, looking for the right one. “There’s a story in here about the town and its hauntings . . .” I trailed off as I looked for the right page.

  “There are so many Beaconfield ghost stories. What’s so special about this one?”

  “I remembered this one story about a woman and it’s in here.”

  “What woman?”

  “Her name was Elizabeth Harp. I remember seeing her name in West’s room last night, scratched on to a piece of paper. The ghost could be her,” I said, shrugging.

  Ridge covered his mouth, trying not to laugh. He shook his head when I glared at him. “What does that book say about Ms. Harp?”

  I settled into my chair and smoothed out the pages. “‘The Waiting Woman.’ Here it is!” I said excitedly. “I’m not going to read the whole story, but I’ll cover the basics. You know my grandmother’s family, the Sanders family, has always lived in that house, and they spen
t their time in the lighthouse. All of the kids grew up inside the house. Years watching that light going around and around.

  “We aren’t old enough to remember what it was like when they were manual, but my grandparents still brought me there and explained how it worked. I fell in love with the Maine Coast because of Grandpa and his love of the lighthouse.

  “Anyway, many years ago, a man left the port here in Beaconfield to sail to Nova Scotia. He kissed his wife goodbye and told her that he’d return in due time. The woman, Elizabeth, watched from the lighthouse every night, waiting for her husband to return, but he never did.

  “She can be seen standing at the top of the lighthouse, pacing back and forth on the catwalk. She’s waiting for her lost husband, waiting for him to return home. The spectral woman has been said to sometimes climb to the top of the railing and fall from it, only to disappear before hitting the ground.

  “It’s said that the woman died falling from the lighthouse about two hundred years ago, waiting for her husband. And after the woman died, a group of men came to Beaconfield with her husband’s body in tow to bring him home. The people of the town realized who it was and they buried him in the town graveyard next to his wife.”

  I flipped through the pages of the story, making sure that I remembered all the facts correctly. When I was satisfied, I looked up at Ridge.

  “West wrote this woman’s name down on one of the drawings in his room,” I said, concluding my story. Ridge just blinked at me, mouth open.

  “You’re telling me that Elizabeth Harp is a ghost and she’s possessing my brother?”

  “Yes, I think that’s exactly right,” I stated matter-of-factly.

  Ridge stood from his chair and paced back and forth in front of me. He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end.

  I stifled a laugh. He looked ridiculous, but this was no time for jokes.

  “This is a lot, Mars,” he said, shaking his head as he continued to pace. He kept muttering what sounded like the word “ghost” under his breath.