The Lady Of The Lighthouse

by Adrien Leduc

  The week flew by and the following Saturday morning we were all packed and loaded into our van, headed for I-20.

  "Is there a mall there at least?" I ask, flipping absent-mindedly through my magazine.

  "No," my mom answers stiffly.

  Through the corner of my eye I can see Carl Junior smirking at me.

  "And even if there was," she continues, "we're spending this weekend together as a family. That means no mall, no T.V., and no video games."

  Now it's my turn to smirk as I look at my brother - clearly shocked by mom's announcement. The kid only ever leaves the T.V. or sets down his Nintendo DS to eat and use the bathroom - and even that isn't guarateed. So an entire weekend without T.V. or video games? He'll die.

  "Ow!"

  "Sarah," my dad says sternly from the driver's seat.

  "I didn't do anything!"

  "You cut me," my brother blurts.

  "I didn't cut you. How could I have cut you? All I did was put my my magazine on the seat."

  "And you cut me. Look."

  Carl Junior holds an arm up and models an inch long paper cut.

  "That's just a scratch," I say as my mom gives me a reproving stare.

  "Hey, I know what'll get this trip started off on the right foot," says my dad with gusto, trying way too hard to improve the mood in the van.

  "What?" I mutter, gazing hopelessly out the window at my favourite outlet mall as it disappears into the distance.

  "A ghost story."

  My brothers' ears perk up. "A ghost story!?"

  "Yeah. And it's a real one too," my dad says, trying to sound spooky.

  "Oh, God. Do we really have to listen to this, mom?" I ask, though I immediately feel bad for sticking a pin in my dad's balloon of enthusiasm.

  "No, we don't have to, but we're going to. Now keep quiet and let your father tell his story."

  "Fine..."

  "Well," my dad begins excitedly, "this story is about the lighthouse at Aransas Pass - the one we're going to see."

  "Yippee..." I cheer sarcastically.

  "Sarah."

  My mom's voice has an edge to it now and I can tell she's getting close to her boiling point.

  "Anyway," my dad continues, ignoring my remark, "back in the eighties a professor named John Warren of the University of Texas took two graduate students to Aransas Pass to conduct field studies on Spoonbill nesting patterns."

  "What's a Spoonbill?" my brother askes.

  "It's a type of bird."

  "Oh. Is it a big bird?"

  "They can get pretty big."

  "How big?"

  "About the size of a turkey."

  "And why's it called a Spoonbill? Does its beak look like a spoon?"

  "It's beak, or bill as its refered to when one speaks of water birds, is shaped like a spoon, yes Carl."

  "Neat."

  "It is quite neat," my dad agrees. "Anyways, they were busy working on the beach - searching for nests and taking photographs and what not - when a storm whipped up. They'd heard the warnings on the radio that morning, but the weather forecasters had said that the system would dissipate before it reached the western end of the Gulf. Well, as usual, they were wrong. And as dark clouds rolled in and the wind began to howl, Professor Warren and his two graduate students, Michael Fishburne and Harriett Matheson, knew they couldn't make it back into town. So they jump into Professor Warren's jeep and, desperately seeking shelter, make their way north along the gravel road. They know they can't be picky - any source of shelter will do - and when Harriett spots the Aransas Pass Lighthouse - Professor Warren doesn't hesitate to head towards it."

  "Did they make it?"

  "Carl Junior, just listen!" my mom snaps.

  "They do make it," my dad continues, ignoring the interruption. "But by the time they arrive, the storm has gotten much worse."

  "Was there thunder and lightning?"

  I can almost feel the steam coming from my moms' ears.

  "I believe so. And normally hurricanes don't have thunder and lightning as those two weather phenomena are formed by vertical winds - "

  "Dad, just get on with the story," I hear myself say, a little more rudely than I'd intended. Clearly I had become fixated on his story too.

  My dad laughs. "Sorry. I forget you guys aren't geeks like I am."

  I roll my eyes.

  "Anyways, the storm had kicked up something awful and they needed to get below ground. The minute they pull up to the old lighthouse keeper's house - that's beside the lighthouse tower - they grab whatever they could - a few blankets and some crackers - and make their way inside."

  "Ohhhhh, I know," said my brother. "The ghost is in there!"

  When mom doesn't scold him, I throw my brother a dirty look. "Just let dad tell the story!"

  He huffs and folds his arms as we wait for my dad to continue.

  "So, they get inside. And back in the day, it was where the lighthouse keeper and his family had lived. So it was set up like a house - it had a kitchen, a livingroom, and a cellar. Well, as you can probably guess, they decide to head down into the cellar where they'll be safe underground."

  "Is that what you do in a hurricane - go underground?"

  I gape at my brother. "You didn't know that? And you're from Texas?"

  "We live in Longview. We don't get hurricanes in Longview. Dummy."

  "I'm not the dummy. You are. It's the same as when there's a tornado."

  "Alright, kids," says my mother. "Jeepers, can't we have some peace for five minutes?"

  "Sorry, mom."

  "Sorry."

  "And so," my dad continues, ignoring this latest interruption, "they're all down in the cellar, right? It's pitch black. They don't have candles. They don't have flashlights. It's getting late anyways - it's sometime after supper - and so they snack on the crackers that Michael had grabbed from the jeep, they chat a bit, and after a little while, they go to sleep. Well, sometime in the middle of the night, Professor Warren awakes and feels someone massaging his shoulders. Thinking that its Harriett, he lies back and enjoys it before falling back to sleep. A short time later, Michael awakes, and he too feels someone massaging his shoulders. And, just like Professor Warren, he thinks it's Harriett and so he lies back and enjoys the shoulder rub before returning to sleep. Oddly enough, Harriett, who's been asleep the entire time, awakens to feel someone massaging her shoulders. Well, unlike the two guys, she screams and flails her arms and wakes up Professor Warren and Michael and they all rush upstairs."

  "Was it the ghost massaging their shoulders?" my brother asks, his mouth in the shape of an "O".

  "Well, just a second. See, Harriett accuses the two - Michael and Professor Warren - of being innappropriate. But then they tell her that they too awoke to someone massaging their shoulders and sheepishly admit that since they thought it was her, they didn't object. As much as Harriett is offended by this information, she's more frightened by the idea that someone else - or something - may be in the cellar and may have been touching them. They call down the stairs. 'Hello? Is anybody down there?' And nothing."

  "So what do they do?"

  "Well, the storm has passed by this point - luckily it didn't do any damage to the lightkeeper's house or to their jeep - and so they decide to head into town. They arrive at Aransas Pass fifteen minutes later - after seeing a number of felled trees and utility poles along the roadside - and they pull into a twenty four hour diner. You know the kind that are attached to those gas stations?"

  "The ones where all the truckers go?" I ask, glancing at my mom because I know she hates twenty four hour diners - "greasy spoons" is what she calls them.

  "Yeah, those," my dad answers.

  He changes lanes to pass a slow-moving pick-up truck before continuing his story. "Anyways, they arrive at this diner and all the local yokels are sitting in there chatting about the storm. So Professor Warren, Michael, and Harriett all head inside and order a big meal. After a little while one of the men asks where they'r
e from and what they're doing because they look like they're from out of town with their big city clothes and their different accents and what have you. And Professor Warren tells them who they are and explains that they're from the University of Texas at Austin and tells them that they're studying Spoonbill nesting patterns and what not. And then one of the women asks how they managed the storm and Professor Warren tells them that they took shelter in the lighthouse. Well, at this, several of the people are shocked. One old man says, 'You know the old lighthouse is haunted, don't ya? Especially during a storm.' And Professor Warren says, no, he had no idea it was haunted.

  'Oh yeah. People round here seen lights on inside - in the middle of the night - when no one's supposed to be there. They've seen the Lady of the Lighthouse - that's her name see - the Lady of the Lighthouse - through the window. She's got long hair hanging down past her shoulders and she's wearin' her nightgown.' And at this, Harriett immediately becomes scared and she tells them about the midnight shoulder massages. Well, that about does it. The whole place says that was the Lady of the Lighthouse comforting them during the storm. They explain that it was a storm that killed her - a hurricane in nineteen-o-six. Brick wall of the house fell in on her. Her husband and daughter weren't at the lighthouse at the time - according to the story - they were at his sister's in town, visiting, when the storm kicked up. Anyway, they found the woman's body the next day and buried her not far from the house. And from that day on, so they say, she still calls that lighthouse home. And every now and again - especially during a storm - she comes out.'"

  I've got goosebumps now and a chill despite the hot sun streaming through my window. "Um...dad? Why are we going there? I don't want to be somewhere where there's a ghost."

  "Sarah, sweetheart," says my mom gently, "it's just a story - and besides - I thought you said you don't believe in ghosts."

  "Well...I..." I splutter.

  "Finish the story, dad!"

  "Don't shout, Carl Junior," my mom snaps, suddenly, turning in her seat and glaring at us. "Sarah. It's just a story. And we're not staying at the lighthouse. Your dad just plans on taking us there for some exploring. Taking a few photos. That's all. We're staying at a motel in town."

  I sigh and feel my shoulders relax. "Alright."

  "So what happened, dad?" asks my brother impatiently. "How does the story end? What happens to them?"

  I watch as my dad shrugs. "Nothing happens to them. They go home, write a report to document their findings with regards to the Spoonbill nests, and they never speak of the incident again."

  "Well," my mom sighs. I can tell by the way she says it that she's glad dad's finished his story. "That's that then. Nothing happens to them. My guess is that it was the professor giving the shoulder massages all along. I'll bet he woke up, couldn't see properly in the dark, moved towards the male graduate student - what was his name?"

  "Michael Fishburne."

  "Yes. Professor Warren moves towards him and begins giving him a shoulder massage and then realizes after a minute that he isn't Harriett. He goes back to his corner of the cellar, lets Michael get back to sleep, and awhile later moves to Harriett and gives her a shoulder massage. Maybe he was hoping for something more from her even. Obviously he had misread the signals though - Harriett sounds like a smart girl and smart girls aren't interested in schmucks like that - and when she cries out and makes a fuss and they all go upstairs, the professor pretends he'd gotten a shoulder rub too. Even though he didn't. He was just saying that to cover his tracks," she says, finishing her story with a measure of authority that makes it hard to disagree with her.

  "That's definitely possible, honey," says my dad encouragingly.

  I sit back in my seat, not entirely convinced by my mom's explanation.

  What if the Lady of the Lighthouse is real? What if we see her?

  After a minute my dad cranks the A/C, puts on a DVD, and we drive for the next hour in complete silence, Josh watching the DVD and me thinking about the mysterious Lady of the Lighthouse.