Prologue
“…AND so with a burst of fire and brimstone the evil spirit snatched Obadiah from the lip of the well and the brilliant light of day and life that lay before him, so close he could almost touch it, and dragged him back down into the deepest pit of hell.”
The speaker held the last syllable, letting the words hang heavily in the chilly night air. For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire and the sound of the water hitting the shore. The small group of boys shivered with morbid delight as they sat in the damp sand and huddled closer to the flames before breaking the silence with their excited demands.
“Tell us another one.”
“Do you know one about the lighthouse?”
Their storyteller hesitated before leaning closer to the group of boys. “Plenty of dark tales about this lighthouse. Full of death and danger on the big lake. Ghosts too.”
The boys clamored as one, eager to hear more, the lure of the unknown calling to them from the darkness as the storyteller held up his hand to catch their attention before giving in and beginning another tale.
“It was in the mid-1800s; lumber was king and fortunes were made ripping the pine from Michigan’s forests and shipping it to Chicago and Wisconsin.” He swept his eyes around the group of boys, making sure no one had wandered off, drawn by instinctive fascination to the surf.
“The lighthouse here at White River was an important one, manned by one keeper and one keeper only. It was a hard and solitary life with only a local crew of volunteers that would come to aid in rescue and recovery efforts. Captain Cason was a stranger to this land, exiled from his native England. He’d been a ship’s captain and had sailed most of the known world before he retired young.
“The reasons are lost with time. Some say his wife had just given birth and wanted him on dry land.” The storyteller’s voice lowered ominously. “Others say he committed a deed so foul that the sentence was banishment from his ship and the life he loved, and he was left stranded here on the Michigan coast, alone in the windswept tower of the lighthouse.”
“Oooooh,” the boys breathed as one, each speculating as to what foulness could have been the captain’s base crime, suitable to earn such a terrible punishment.
“Still others say he fell in love and here is where he and his lover retreated to spend their lives together; outcast and adrift from Society. Whatever the reasons, Captain Cason was a braw man. Hard as the stone the lighthouse is made of they said, and just as fearless. He saved more men from this Point than any other Keeper and on his watch the lighthouse burned brighter and clearer than either before or since.”
“So what happened to him?” one of the bigger boys called out from the darkness. The low flames flickered, casting scant light on the face of the storyteller as he continued.
“Well, not a soul really knows for sure but ’tis said he and his one true love fought and his love left the lighthouse, leaving Captain Cason alone. A great storm blew in—gale strength winds and waves strong and deep, high enough to swamp the best of them.
“Too late the captain’s love had realized they couldn’t be apart and had taken passage aboard a schooner called the Titan, which was caught out in the storm. The ship foundered and split clean open, mayhap by lightning, mayhap by God’s wrath.
“The storm was so fierce the local volunteers couldn’t make it to man the rescue boat, and Captain Cason took her out alone against the elements. He battled with great might, but couldn’t reach the vessel in time and all aboard were lost. They say he found his one true love washed up on the shoreline: hair dark as night, tangled with weeds from the lake bottom and stirring softly in the current, skin cold and pale.
“The captain cursed God and swore he’d never save another soul since he couldn’t save this one. The captain drowned that day as well, holding close the corpse of his love and refusing to let go even when the tide rose, kissing the lips that could never warm to his again. Be it fact or fiction, their bodies were never found.
“And so for his sin he haunted this lighthouse, God’s punishment for his curse, unable to join his one true love in heaven until he saved another soul.”
“Aaaaahhhhh.” The group of boys looked up at the abandoned lighthouse as one, straining to see some sign of the captain’s haunting spirit in the darkness. “So he’s still here?”
“Well, now.” The storyteller began again, satisfied with the results of his tale. “Let me put a bit more wood on the fire, and I’ll tell you another tale of the old lighthouse. One more recent and more strange. You see, there was an artist….”
Chapter One
VINCENT stumbled as he climbed the stone steps to the main door of the old lighthouse, watching with detached amazement as his hand shook, making it difficult to fit the old-fashioned key into the lock where it turned grudgingly.
He was weaker than he’d thought. The short hike from the end of the lane, where the local taxi had dropped him off, left him trembling and gasping for air, but it didn’t matter. He had made it, and that was enough.
The door was stiff, resistant even, and he shouldered it open as the warped wood stuck slightly to the frame, seemingly determined to deny him entrance. He dropped his pack down in the middle of the floor, listening as the assortment of medications rattled in their plastic bottles.
His nose twitched at the stale and fetid odor he attributed to disuse. A few open windows would take care of it. Vincent walked over to the front room and tried to open the rusted locks in the casements with no success, tugging before he just shrugged and gave up. He’d figure it out later.
What mattered was that finally he was alone.
He knew there would be a small uproar when it was discovered he’d left the hospital, but he couldn’t seem to make himself care. Vincent had discovered that a chronic illness didn’t make him a nobler individual—not even close.
Instead it had left him angry and discontent, selfish and introverted. He cared—he still cared deeply about those he loved—but right now he needed all his energy, all his emotional strength, just to get through each day, and he didn’t have any to spare.
Tired. God, was he tired of the hugs and the suppressed tears of those around him, platitudes that were voiced because no one knew anything else to say. Vincent wanted to scream and yell and wallow in what lay ahead and he couldn’t do that when he was expected to be strong for everyone else.
Those he loved each had their own perception of how he would face the end—one based on their own immediate needs—and he found he simply couldn’t bear it any longer. What about his needs? What about his wants?
Why was he constantly torn between doing what was best for those around him and doing what was best for himself?
Vincent needed to do what he had always done; he needed to immerse himself in the moment. He needed to paint and write and find a way to cope with the end of this life. He couldn’t do any of that surrounded by the hushed voices with their demands that he rest and save his strength.
Rest. He’d be resting soon enough.
Luckily his doctor had strong views on the rights of the dying, and with his help Vincent had readied himself. He’d gone over his decision with both a counselor from the recommended hospice and his physician. They had given him a timeline of what to expect and enough pain medication to hopefully see him through it.
Even taking residence at the old lighthouse station had been at the suggestion of his doctor. He knew the Preservation Society had been renting it out for the last few summers.
Now here Vincent was, on his own, crawling off like a wounded animal, every instinct telling him to find a place to die alone. He was afraid, he wouldn’t deny that, but at least in solitude he could face his fear without distraction, absorb it and let i
t consume him until he could hopefully emerge on the other side—ready.
Vincent joined his pack on the floor of the hall, placing his head on the bulky surface and closing his eyes for just a moment. He’d look around soon enough. His tiredness made it easy for him to drop into an uneasy slumber and he never noticed the shadow that crept over him and hovered, motionless, watching as he slept.
As one, the sealed windows on the first floor opened, shutters slamming against the stone sides of the old lighthouse as the cold breeze off the lake blew in one side and out the other.
Chapter Two
IT WAS a knock on the door that finally woke Vincent. He stared groggily about; he didn’t remember opening the windows but the fresh lake air had removed all but the worst of the mildewy smell. He rose unsteadily to his feet, calling out to whomever was at the door.
“Hold on.”
He ran his hand through his hair and opened the door. It was the delivery service with the rest of his things. Not much, enough for the next month or so. Supplies for painting and a few of his cameras, clothes and some personal items he’d carefully chosen to have around him during his final days.
The deliveryman stared at him, and Vincent knew he must look strange: too thin and pale, hair too long, bruises from the IVs and injections visible, the clothes that had fit him when he’d entered the hospital the last time hanging from his frame. He hugged his arms around his waist, self-conscious at being caught off guard.
“You can set the boxes there,” he said softly as he averted his eyes. “I’ll decide where everything goes later.”
Vincent tipped heavily. He didn’t know when he might need the fellow’s help again and knew the extra money might go far toward making up for any apparent strangeness. He felt more refreshed after his nap and excited to investigate the rest of the building.
As promised, the renting agency had left the small fridge filled with food and there were some canned goods in the cupboard as well. Vincent grimaced. The pain medication took away his appetite and made what he did eat taste strange, but the doctors had told him that he would need to make sure to eat if he wanted to stay independent.
The kitchen was small, but like the rest of the building, the overabundance of windows made it seem larger. He wandered through the rest of the station, a few small rooms on the main floor with a bathroom so old-fashioned it certainly qualified for the ancient term “water closet”. Judging by the faded wallpaper, it had apparently last been refurbished in the 1930s.
Vincent found it eerie the way the place was still furnished with the belongings of a bygone era. He knew it had been used as a museum during the ’70s but had somehow expected the artifacts to have all been cleared away.
It was sad to think that no one cared what happened to these leavings of another’s life. His mind drifted to his house and the clutter left there. Would it be the same when he was gone?
He opened a closet off one of the small bedrooms, noticed the men’s clothes still hanging on the rod and shut the door, grimacing at the creak of the stiff hinges. Vincent turned away and then heard the creak again. Surprised, he saw the door to the closet had opened. He must not have shut it all the way.
It took only a moment to push it shut, this time making sure he could feel the catch before walking toward the desk in front of the window. A pipe and a hand-held telescope sat next to a writing pad and some pencils. Vincent shivered; everything looked like it was waiting for someone to come home. He just didn’t feel that the house was waiting for him.
He picked up the telescope, feeling the heavy weight and marveling at the craftsmanship. There was a small brass plate screwed to the side. Vincent held it up to the light of the window and squinted at the small engraving. His lips moved as he read the words inscribed over a century ago. To O. from C. Look for me and to your side I shall always return.
Vincent carefully put the telescope back down and stared over the desk, out the window toward the lake. He wondered what kind of man it took to live here alone and isolated from everything but the elements. He guessed he was about to find out. The noise interrupting his thoughts was soft, but it registered nonetheless, bringing him back to the present as he stared at the open closet door.
Closing the door with a snap, Vincent shook off his fancies and wandered further; there was a small cellar where he assumed the oil for the big lamp had been kept and from it a spiral metal staircase led up to the tower that housed the actual light. He climbed carefully, feeling a sense of vertigo the higher he rose through the tower until he arrived at the top.
The view was spectacular and for a moment, caught between the clouds and the sound of the water below, Vincent had a sense of smallness, of his place in the world around him. There was a bigger picture; there was purpose. He just needed to expand his horizons to see it.
It was with a lighter heart that he clambered down the spiral stairs before the alarm on his watch chimed and he realized it was time for his medication again. For that brief, tantalizing moment he’d forgotten. He swallowed the pills dry and picked up his cell.
Easy enough to ignore the waiting messages, and he called his doctor’s voice mail instead, letting the man know that he’d arrived safely and thanking him for recommending the isolated location. No one would think to look for him here.
Brushes and paints called him to try and capture the feeling at the top of the tower, but he contented himself with taking a sketchpad and some pencils to the bedroom where he flopped down on the bed. Thankfully, the linens were fresh, and he knew he wouldn’t stay awake much longer.
This would be a good place, a true place to find the meaning of these last days, and he was thankful.
Chapter Three
THE first several days passed quickly. Vincent busied himself by unpacking. Hardest was deciding where he would get the best light, and he debated before finally setting up easel and canvas. He felt more at home, more at peace in the old station. Other than doors that refused to close properly and windows that blew open when he least expected, it was a fine, sturdy structure.
Vincent found some notes on its construction, details of the native limestone and yellow brick that had withstood the test of both the years and the elements. There was a history here that he found soothing, a sense of timelessness that called to him.
On one of the shelves, there was a biography of one of the lighthouse keepers he set aside to read. A Captain Oliver William Cason was the subject and the book had been published by a small, local press.
There were some old photos within its pages and Vincent stared at the stern face of the captain, standing beside a dark haired man in one stiffly posed portrait that appeared to be a parody of the wedding portraits common to the time. There was something about the eyes staring back at him….
The same eyes stared out from the walls of the station, photo after photo of times and lives past. There were prints of some of the boat crews, the so-called “angels” of the surf, as well as photos of the station in all types of weather and stages of construction. It was fascinating to Vincent, a glimpse into another world, but even more so was the face of the man who always, in all the images, could be found beside the captain.
Vincent looked closer at one of the ancient prints, seeing some kind of marking on the man’s cheek area that he couldn’t decipher. At first he’d thought it was a flaw in the photo, but then, as he wandered through the station really looking at the photos that covered the walls, he realized it was there in all of them. Another curiosity.
He’d tentatively started painting, unsure of what he was expressing but trusting that it would reveal itself. It was an exploration of sorts, a way to bring his feelings into the light. The pain hadn’t been bad, just more of the gnawing feeling, like something inside was trying to claw its way out, but the medication helped. Vincent didn’t like to take it, but knew he didn’t have much choice.
The beach and rocky coastline called to him, and he’d carefully strolled both, not wanting to go too far in ca
se he got tired, but eager to see the beauty of the dunes and the wildlife that inhabited them. There were shells to be found, different from those of the ocean but interesting, as well as bits of wood and debris that washed ashore. And the tower. Always, Vincent would return to the tower, climbing the spiral staircase and letting the wind cleanse away his confusion and fear.
The nights had been the worst as he adjusted to his new surroundings. Objects he found fascinating in the light became surreal and distorted in the long hours of the night, with only the sound of the waves and the wind to keep him company. The old structure had more than its share of creaks and groans, and every ghost story he’d ever heard came back to haunt him at three in the morning.
Tonight was no exception, and, accepting he wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon, he let his toes touch the chilly wood floors and lead him to the kitchen. Vincent yawned as he turned on the light and decided to try making some tea, but as he reached for the pot to fill it with water, the lights suddenly went out.
Vincent felt like a child, fumbling his way back over to the switch and flipping it again; he didn’t think a fuse would have blown but what did he know? He was relieved when the light came back on and went back to the sink, only to stand dumbfounded when the lights went out again.
“Okay,” he muttered under his breath before filling the pot anyway and placing it on the small stove, turning the burner on high before he went back to the switch. Vincent flipped it once again and then held it this time, not sure what he was expecting. When nothing happened, he grunted and walked back towards the stove.
Where the burner was out.
Vincent grunted again and turned the burner back on, watching as the gas caught and lit from the small pilot. Even as he did so the lights went out again. “Damn it!” he exclaimed, not sure why this flustered him so much, just knowing that his emotions were closer to the surface now. He strode back over to the toggle switch and watched as the lights blossomed overhead once more and then turned back to the stove, knowing this time that the burner would be off.
After the Storm Page 1
