Luisa Buehler
Chapter One
"It's behind that wall."
My brother's whisper brought Joan and me to his side. We'd climbed
up to the lantern room in the old lighthouse over an hour ago, ostensibly to
take notes and measurements.
"I don't hear anything."
"There can't be anything behind
these walls, Marty–they're made of three-foot-thick stone. Behind is out there." Joan motioned toward the windows.
"There it is again. Hear it?"
I heard a faint scratching.
Joan shook her head. "I didn't hear it. If it's anything, it
has to be coming from downstairs. Sound displaces in lighthouses…something
about the cylindrical shape."
Marty started down the stairs. Joan
shook her head and smiled. "It's probably an island rat," she
whispered.
"Yuck. The brochure said nothing
about rats, island or otherwise." I referred to my childhood friend's
letter inviting me to
"People live here year round. It's only us 'cottagers' who
can't cope in the dark months. Besides, you get a better price when people are
freezing and longing to have their own cottage by May. It's all about
marketing, Gracie."
I smiled and grumbled at my oldest
friend. We'd been through elementary and high school together.
"Hey. Down here. I found something." We hurried to the
main gallery. Marty crouched on the floor next to the only furniture in the
room, a small built-in bookcase. The
"If this is supposed to become a historical marker and
museum, where is the furniture–in storage? The bareness does show off the old
timber and beams' architectural style."
"Whatever furnishings had been here
were 'liberated' by islanders or cottagers years before. I have it on good
authority that if you take tea with some of the families on the island, you'll
be sipping from and probably sitting on items from here."
"Maybe the keeper took away his
things when the lighthouse shut down."
"No. It's a safe bet that the last lighthouse keeper didn't
take anything, besides his own life."
Chapter Two
The hair on the back of my neck stiffened. "Someone died here?"
Joan recognized my discomfort. "Yeah,
well sort of. I mean, his family found him and rushed him to the mainland, but
with the ferry running late because of the storm that came up he didn't make
it."
"So, he didn't die here." I don't know why I pursued
that distinction. "Right?"
"They're pretty sure he died at the landing, but technically
no one checked his pulse while they were in the lighthouse."
"Sounds to me like you're splitting hairs, Joan, trying to
build a possible ghost story around this place to suck in…uh, attract more
tourists." My brother smiled at his long-time nemesis.
"Martin Morelli, are you accusing me of fabrication for
profit for a non-for-profit cause?" Her blue eyes sparkled with humor at
the chance to spar with her childhood adversary.
"Yes, and I think it's brilliant. Nothing pulls them in
faster than a haunted house. Right, Gracie?"
Of my four brothers, Martin, the
youngest, bore the title of 'least sensitive' with nonplussed acceptance. The
reason I came to
Joan smiled and nodded her head. "The committee for
restoration and revitalization thinks so. We're going to do more research, get
some photos, and do a display of the history of the lighthouse keepers through
the years."
"Have any others died here?" Marty's voice sounded like
he'd asked for ice cream.
"No, not that we can tell. But we're hopeful about the second
keeper, Burton Havilland. Details are sketchy."
"Would you two stop; do you hear yourselves?" I shook my
head and started for the door.
"Wait, Gracie. I want to show you what I found. The
scratching I heard came from behind the bookshelf, which is an unusual design.
It's built in two pieces, one inside the other. The bottom's been chewed out,
and that's what clued me in to the design. There's a double wall, so if one
knew to yank or pull on something," he motioned for Joan to take the other
side, "one could probably slide this front piece out."
The small edge didn't allow for a good
grip. Their fingertips slipped from each angle they tried. I stood squarely in
the middle of a round room, smiling at the juxtaposition. The room seemed
colder than when we'd first entered, the temperature must be dropping. I zipped
up the jacket I'd let hang open. My fingers pulled a length of clothesline from
my pocket and slowly slid the rough texture across my palm. I hurried to loop
the line end over end and through to complete one pattern, then another, and
another. Cold cramped my fingers, but I continued per the plan to do ten before
I could stop. The air condensed in the small space and rolled around at our
feet. How odd. I've never seen that. Must
be an anomaly in round rooms. The interior fog rose to waist high.
"Joan, this is the oddest fog I've ever seen. Does it happen
often?" The cloud climbed and circled around our heads. Joan and Marty's
figures grew dim even though they stood a scant ten feet away. The sharp cold
held my feet to the floor and crept up my legs, forcing the blood and muscle to
harden. A feeling of dread skimmed my spine in a way that made me cry out as a
figure turned toward me–wild, tortured eyes, sunken into a drawn face
surrounded by tufts of matted gray hair. His gaze held mine, then he purposely
looked at his hands thrust deep into the shelf. He lifted his forearms against
the wood and turned to me again; then the mist covered him.
"Gracie, are you alright?"
Marty shook my shoulder.
"Grace, you're scaring me. What's wrong?" Joan stood
next to me. When had they approached?
"Where's the fog?"
"What fog? You asked me that
before. When I turned around, you were rooted to this spot staring at me. Only
I got the feeling it wasn't me you were seeing."
I could feel a deep flush on my face and yanked at my zipper. The
cool air rushed at my neck and I welcomed the natural crispness that cleared
the eerie daydream from my mind. "Whew, I guess I overheated or something,"
I offered.
"More like overreacted to something." My brother's
concern shone in his eyes.
One way to find out, I thought, and
approached the bookcase dead center. "Have you tried this?" I reached
deep into the case and lifted my arms against the top. The shelf shifted
slightly under the pressure, and I felt rather than heard a latch open. I
gripped the wood with my palms and pulled slowly. Did I imagine wisps of
long-imprisoned air escaping to curl around my head on their path to freedom?
The smell of desiccated air filled my nose and the shelf unit slid effortlessly
across the smooth floor until I felt a catch stop it.
"How did you know…never mind." My brother's voice
sounded strained.
Marty and Joan leaned in from each side.
"There's something there." Joan's voice quivered with excitement. I
felt Marty push forward and reach into the space. He carefully handed out a
long narrow box and reached in again. This time he held an oilskin-covered
packet the size of an 8 x 10 frame. Joan eagerly accepted it. "This is
great. Maybe there'll be pictures and notes."
Marty straightened, holding a long thin fillet knife gingerly
between two fingers. The blade gleamed intermittently between spaces of silver
and smears of a brown stain. "I'm no expert, but I think the dark stuff is
blood."
"It's a filleting knife. Blood wouldn't be unusual, it's not
like it's a knitting needle." I didn't want the experience in the mist to
be anything more than fatigue from a long drive and nerves from a tumultuous
sendoff.
Joan and Marty stared in silence, and I
read the message in my brother's eyes. He knew the demons I'd been fending off;
he'd some of his own. I'd accepted Joan's invitation as a way for my youngest
brother and me to clock out from the daily grind and change our pace and focus.
Marty's wife Eve left him the day after Christmas, offering reconciliation only
when he stopped self-medicating and sought counseling for his potential
addiction.
"Should we put it in a bag or something? You know, for
prints?" Joan's voice sounded serious. What had been a smiling, excited
face now fell with concern.
We had sapped the joy from her discovery. Why couldn't anything
happen lately in my life without a hidden agenda, motives, or murder. Murder?
Who said murder? My mind begged off the question as soon as I thought it. Too
much death had smothered my life this past year; too many tragic circumstances
and desperate people. Always, feeling the fugue that lured me, embroiled me
beyond my control.
I shrugged. "It does seem odd that someone would hide it.
Maybe we should handle it carefully and take it over to the mainland tonight,
turn it over to the police in
Joan nodded. "I've a plastic shopping bag in the car. I'll
get it."
Marty pushed the bookshelf back into its sleeve. "Nifty design; great
hiding place. That reminds me, how did you know the secret of the bookcase?"
"Geez, Marty. You make me sound like Nancy Drew."
"I got dibs on being your chum, George," Joan called
from the doorway and handed Marty the bag. He wrapped the knife in it.
"It looks like rain's coming. I brought more." As we
wrapped the box and packet, I wondered if you could lift fingerprints from
oilskin.
A clap of unexpected thunder startled me, and I lurched against
the bookcase. Lightning sliced sideways across the still sunny sky.
"Let's
go. These storms come up fast." Joan stood near the doorway. Another clap
of anger filled the room and vibrated through the floor. In the eerie silence I
heard a dull click and felt a weight against my leg; I stepped away and the
bookcase slid slowly toward me.