The Long Way Home

by Richard Chizmar

  Fifteen years later, dying of lung cancer at his ranch in Mexico, it was a different story, as Pena told a reporter from Variety: “I’ve worked on over a hundred films and I’ve never witnessed anything like it. It still haunts me to this day.

  “The rest of the cast and crew were on lunch break and I thought I was alone in the lighthouse. I was going over the next scene, pacing out camera shots and thinking about changing the angle on camera number two when I heard someone whispering from the level below me. I was surprised but I figured it was just one of the actors running their lines. After a few minutes, the whispering grew in volume and intensity, to the point where I couldn’t concentrate any longer, so I went to investigate.

  “Some of the crew had constructed a makeshift break room on the next level down. It was cramped quarters but there was enough room for a small refrigerator and a handful of uncomfortable chairs.

  “I was surprised to find the room in total darkness when I reached the doorway. The lights had been on not ten minutes earlier when I’d passed it on my way up to the set. I figured once the person heard my footfalls, they would stop running lines and call out to me, but they didn’t. The whispering continued unabated. It was a woman’s voice, and now that I could make out the words she was saying, it chilled me. Whoever this was, hidden here in the darkness, she wasn’t running lines; she was having a conversation—with herself.

  “Uneasy, I reached inside the doorway and turned on the light, and I was shocked to see Lydia Pearl standing in the far corner facing the wall. The whispering continued despite my intrusion.

  “I called out to her: ‘Lydia? I’m sorry to interrupt.’

  “She didn’t respond. I walked closer, my heart beating faster in my chest.

  “‘Is everything okay?’ I was almost upon her now.

  “Again, there was no response. Just that frenzied whispering, almost a hissing, as though she were arguing with herself. She stood with a rigid posture, but with her arms dangling at her sides.

  “Once I was close enough, being careful not to startle her, I softly called her name and reached out and placed a hand gently on her shoulder—and she whirled on me, a rattlesnake-quick hand lunging out to claw at my eyes. I back-stepped in shock, blocking her advance.

  “Her face is what I best remember, even now in my dreams. It was twisted in rage. Spittle hanging from her drawn lips. Teeth bared. Her eyes were the worst. They were impossibly large and unlike any human eyes I had ever seen. They were feral and burning with unimaginable hatred. This woman I barely knew wanted to kill me, wanted to devour me.

  “And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Her face relaxed, arms lowered, and she drew back, blinking rapidly, as if awakening from a dream. Her eyes seemed to regain focus and she saw me standing there in front of her, quite a sight, I am sure. She sobbed, ‘I’m…I’m sorry’ and ran from the room, brushing against me as she fled. I remember her skin was ice cold where she had touched me.

  “Later that evening, when news of her suicide reached me at my hotel, I was not surprised. I was sad, but not surprised.

  “I’ve never spoken of this before and I never will again.”

  According to William McKay, the reporter from Variety, Carlos Pena had grasped his rosary in his hands and crossed himself numerous times while recounting this unsettling story. Six weeks later, he was dead.

  (Voice recorder entry #7B—

  11:44am, Saturday, July 12, 2017)

  Hello there, again. I’ve spent the past hour or so scribbling in my notebook, thoughts and observations to look back upon once this experience is over. I’ve learned not to rely too heavily on memory. Memory is a tricky beast, as I have learned the hard way over the years. It’s not to be trusted.

  Lunch soon and then another history lesson, this one even more scandalous than the last.

  (Voice recorder entry #8B—

  11:49am, Saturday, July 12, 2017)

  Did I mention that several times now I’ve heard the echo of footsteps in this lonely place? Last night and twice again this morning. I’m fairly convinced that it’s not my imagination, but if that is truly the case, then what is it I’m hearing? The Widow’s Point Lighthouse, all these years later, still settling into the rocky earth below? The harsh Atlantic wind searching for entry and creeping its way inside these heavy stone walls? Hungry rats scavenging for food? Restless spirits?

  (Voice recorder entry #9B—

  1:01pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)

  Despite the highly publicized and controversial death of actress Lydia Pearl in the fall of 1985, the Widow’s Point Lighthouse—save for a handful of NO TRESPASSING signs set about the perimeter—remained unguarded and largely accessible to the general public. It wasn’t until almost three years later, during the late summer of 1988, that the razor-topped security fence was erected and local authorities began patrolling the area.

  This is the reason why:

  In the spring of 1988, fifteen-year-old Michael Risley had just finished his freshman year at Harper’s Cove High School. Michael wasn’t considered particularly popular or unpopular. In fact, he wasn’t considered much at all. Even in a school as small as Harper’s Cove, he was largely invisible.

  Because of this, no one knew of Michael Risley’s fascination—his outright obsession—with the occult and the Widow’s Point Lighthouse. No one knew that he had spent countless hours in the local library doing research and talking to the old-timers down at the docks about the turn-of-the-century legends regarding devil worship taking place in the woods surrounding the lighthouse.

  And, because of this, no one knew that Michael Risley had spent much of his freshman year performing his own satanic rituals in those same woods just outside of the Widow’s Point Lighthouse, sacrificing dozens of small animals, on several occasions even going so far as to drink their blood.

  By the time July rolled around that summer, Michael was ready to graduate from small animals and move on to bigger things. On the night of a Thursday full moon, he snuck out of his house after bedtime, leaving a note for his parents on the foyer table, and met two younger kids—Tabitha Froehling, age 14, and Benjamin Lawrence, age 13—at the end of his street. Earlier in the day, Michael had promised them beer and cigarettes and dared them to accompany him to the old lighthouse at midnight. Every small town has a haunted house and for the children of Harper’s Point, it had always been—and always would be—the Widow’s Point Lighthouse.

  The three of them walked side-by-side down the middle of First Street, their shadows from the bright moonlight trailing behind them. They walked slowly and silently, backpacks slung across their shoulders. It was an idyllic scene, full of youthful promise and innocence.

  Early the next morning, Michael Risley’s mother read the note her son had left on the foyer table the night before. She managed to call out once to her husband before fainting to the hardwood floor. A frantic Mr. Risley bound down the stairs, carried his wife to the living room sofa, read the note grasped in her right hand, and then immediately called 911.

  The police found Michael and the other two children exactly where the note had told them they would be. A break in the thick forest formed a natural, circular clearing. A fire pit ringed in small stones was still smoldering at the center of the clearing. Tabitha and Benjamin lay sprawled on their backs not far from the fire. Strange symbols, matching the symbols adorning many nearby trees, had been carved into their foreheads with a sharp knife. Both of their throats had been cut, their chests sliced open. Their hearts were missing. Deep, ragged bite marks covered their exposed legs.

  Michael was discovered several hundred yards away—at the base of the Widow’s Point Lighthouse—naked and incoherent. The officer in charge claimed in his written report that it was like looking at a “devil on earth.” Michael had used the other children’s blood to paint every inch of his body red. Then, he had consumed portions of both
hearts.

  According to the note he had left, Michael believed that once this final ritual was completed, he would be “taken in by the Dark Lord and spirited away to a better place.”

  Instead, at some point during the long and bloody night, Michael Risley’s sanity had snapped, and the only place he was spirited away to was the mental hospital in nearby Coffman’s Corner.

  A week later, the security fence was in place.

  (Voice recorder entry #10B—

  3:15pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)

  On a whim, I took the video camera out onto the catwalk a short time ago and gave it another try. It’s such a gorgeous afternoon, the sun high in a cloudless sky, the ocean, unusually calm for this time of year, sparkling like a crush of fine emeralds scattered across a tabletop. I spotted a pair of cruise ships steaming south on the horizon. Later, a parade of fishing vessels hauling the day’s catch will journey past on their way home to port.

  I filmed the entirety of this spectacle and tested the footage when I returned below. Alas, the screen remained blank.

  (Voice recorder entry #11B—

  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 through the grassy hills of Gettysburg, another haunted place where history and death lock arms and dance for all to see. A spectacle of names and dates flittering through your conscience 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 #12B—

  5:10pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)

  I’ve just tested several bottles of water from the cooler and discovered something mildly 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 overgrown 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—(chuckles) and always has been—my greatest companion.

  (Voice recorder entry #13B—

  5:29pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)

  Ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three…

  (Voice recorder entry #14B—

  5:53pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)

  My goodness, I am winded. The journey down these twisting stairs felt endless, but the journey 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 summit just yesterday, but I 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 just add to the mounting atmosphere.

  (Voice recorder entry #15B—

  6:01pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)

  Many of the historical volumes I read about the Widow’s Point Lighthouse discussed the frequent storms that hit this particular 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 shoreline at the base of the cliffs.

  I stared in awe—and yes, I admit, a sliver of encroaching fear. I have never witnessed the sea in such a state.

  (Voice recorder entry #16B—

  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 #17B—

  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 #18B—

  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 #19B—

  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 at 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 of it. I can hardly see the floor in front of me. The lantern, although in fine working order last night, has proven a sad 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 colder 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 #6A

  (10:06pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)

  As the video switches on, the screen is flooded with murky shadows. Only the time-code can be clearly 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 mostly 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 quick tests. For whatever reason, it seems to be working fine now.

  “I’m thinking perhaps I jarred something when I moved the camera after dinner or — JESUS, WHAT WAS THAT?!”

  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 transitions to boots clanging against metal as Livingston ascends the stairs and ventures outside onto the lighthouse’s catwalk.

  We hear a 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?!” he yells, his voice swallowed by the wind. “Someone needs to help them!”