Lighthouses

by Trost, Cameron

  LIGHTHOUSES

  An Anthology of Dark Tales

  Black Beacon Books

  Lighthouses: An Anthology of Dark Tales

  Published by Black Beacon Books

  Edited by Cameron Trost

  Cover art and design by Greg Chapman

  Copyright © Black Beacon Books, 2015

  Light House, Dark House © Greg Chapman

  Scrimshaw © Duncan Richardson

  Horror at Hollow Head © Cameron Trost

  Psychopomp © Mark McAuliffe

  Trepidation © Danielle Birch

  Cloak of Madness © Matthew Wilson

  The Cape © B. Michael Radburn

  The Last Keeper © Linda Brucesmith

  In Search of Jimmy © David Dolan

  Into the Light © Alice Godwin

  The Crystal Lighthouse © Sam Muller

  To Keep the Lamp Alight © Steve Cameron

  The Tower © B. T. Joy

  Will o’ the Wisp © Deborah Sheldon

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Black Beacon Books

  www.blackbeaconbooks.blogspot.com

  This anthology is dedicated to the lighthouses and beacons of the world. Not only have you been invaluable to every generation of seafarer, you are also an endless source of inspiration to writers of mysterious and atmospheric tales.

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  OTHER TITLES FROM BLACK BEACON BOOKS

  Subtropical Suspense

  A Thrilling Anthology

  809 Jacob Street

  A Horror Novella by Marty Young

  The Loving Husband and the Faithful Wife

  A Suspense Novella by Kit Power

  Hoffman’s Creeper and Other Disturbing Tales

  A Collection by Cameron Trost

  Vaudeville and Other Nightmares

  A Collection by Greg Chapman

  www.blackbeaconbooks.blogspot.com

  Contents

  Light House, Dark House Greg Chapman

  Scrimshaw Duncan Richardson

  Horror at Hollow Head Cameron Trost

  Psychopomp Mark McAuliffe

  Trepidation Danielle Birch

  Cloak of Madness Matthew Wilson

  The Cape B. Michael Radburn

  The Last Keeper Linda Brucesmith

  In Search of Jimmy David Dolan

  Into the Light Alice Godwin

  The Crystal Lighthouse Sam Muller

  To Keep the Lamp Alight Steve Cameron

  The Tower B. T. Joy

  Will o’ the Wisp Deborah Sheldon

  LIGHT HOUSE, DARK HOUSE

  Greg Chapman

  At first glance, Barry thought the St. Christopher Lighthouse had been poorly named.

  Even in the stark light of late morning, the towering structure seemed obscured by shadow. Gulls flew around it, but never landed, like vultures waiting for some creature to die within. The waves rolled in and crashed against the lighthouse’s craggy foundations, but never quite eclipsed its dark stature. To Barry, St. Christopher’s Lighthouse was not a beacon, but a warning to stay away.

  He retrieved his Nikon from its case to get a closer look at the lighthouse. Through the long lens, Barry discovered the lighthouse was caked with what appeared to be black scale, or mould, he couldn’t be sure. Picturing a lighthouse, one thought of a grand white tower, its cone of light piercing the darkness and offering safety to those lost at sea. This lighthouse was the complete opposite; weathered, run-down, almost decaying. The building had been neglected for many years, possibly decades. Still, St. Christopher’s Lighthouse would make an interesting point of difference for his book, a chronicle of the country’s lighthouses. He took a few shots, the lighthouse disappearing into darkness with each frame, night to day, then night again. The images he captured piqued his interest. All he needed now was a local who could tell him about the building’s history.

  He adjusted the lens zoom to examine the lighthouse in its entirety. The light room at its apex was as decrepit as the whole, the windows grey with grime and caked sea salt. He imagined the light inside was long dead.

  He thought of the danger the lighthouse posed. Weren’t they meant to be maintained so ships could pass by safely? Where was the lighthouse’s caretaker? Eager for answers, Barry scanned the lighthouse’s base for any sign of life and found a small house at the front; a cabin, caught in the lighthouse’s shadow.

  Barry scanned the hill around him for signs of passers-by. The area seemed deserted, not even any tourists around taking pictures of their own. The sea breeze intensified in a wild gust and Barry had to steady himself against the hood of his car; even the weather was freakish. He barely managed to hear the ring of his cell phone over the howling air. He looked at the screen and saw it was his daughter, Meredith.

  ‘Merry! I was hoping you’d call,’ he said.

  ‘Hi…’

  Meredith’s voice was distant, even with the added nuisance of the wind. It had been almost a month since he’d last spoken to his daughter, since the separation. With Meredith away at college, informing her of the divorce seemed like an even greater betrayal.

  ‘How are you?’ he said. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  Again the silence.

  ‘Merry?’

  Meredith’s reply was torn apart by the wind.

  Barry put his back to the breeze so he could hear, but it came from all sides. ‘Merry? I can’t hear you! Are you there?’

  He heard his daughter’s voice as static. ‘Where… you?’

  ‘Honey, listen, I’m down on the coast for work. The wind is really bad. I’ll have to call you back, okay?’

  The wind abated long enough for Barry to hear the engaged signal. Whether Meredith had ended the call, or the reception had failed, he couldn’t be certain, but he hoped it was the latter. His relationship with Meredith — and his wife, Laura — had always been rocky. As a freelance photographer, he was constantly on the road. Bitterness swelled inside him as thoughts of the divorce raged in his mind. He resented his wife for not talking to him about her concerns. Worse still, he resented her for not seeing that his absences weren’t voluntary. He was only doing his job and putting food on the table.

  Guilt twisted its fierce barb into Barry’s heart as he thought of the moments he’d missed in his daughter’s life — the school recitals, her school awards, and others he couldn’t recall because he’d been halfway around the world photographing war zones or government upheavals. His wife had reminded him of every one of his ‘failures’, but he’d chosen to ignore her warnings out of spite and pride. Yet, since becoming a freelancer, he’d strived to spend more time with Meredith, but found that being freelance meant he had to be even more in demand if he was to feed himself.

  Barry tried to call his daughter back. He knew she’d be waiting for him to call. Her grades had slipped since the divorce and she’d become distant. Meredith had always been a placid girl, cautious, yet very self-aware. Things could get the bet
ter of her if she didn’t stay in control, and weeks would go by when he wouldn’t hear from her. If there was ever a time she needed him, it was now. Barry swore when the call went through to voicemail, but he made a point of leaving a message.

  ‘Merry, honey, it’s dad. Call me back when you get this. I really want to talk to you.’

  Barry got back into his car to escape the wind. He sat in the driver’s seat, staring at the screen of his phone, begging for it to ring and his daughter to be on the other end. Minutes passed. He called Meredith again and left another message. Despair broiled inside him and he found himself drawn to the lighthouse. The sun was approaching its zenith, yet the lighthouse remained immune to its light.

  ‘She’ll call back,’ he told himself before stepping out of the car. The wind had all but died off and the ocean had become an ebb; the waves caressing the rocky shore. He started walking toward the lighthouse, eager to ease his worried mind.

  As he came closer, he was astounded at how it seemed to dominate the skyline. It was much taller than it looked. The house at its base truly was ramshackle. He took several photographs of the façade; the wood so cracked and worn it looked like the building was a wound that had scabbed over.

  He reached up with a shaky hand and knocked on the door. Flecks of ancient paint fell like dust beneath his rapping and he wiped his hand on his jeans. When there was no answer, he peered through the cobwebbed windows, careful not to make contact with the glass. He could make out the shape of a table and chair inside and a collection of old pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. He felt the urge to go inside, to answer the call of the artist. He ignored the lingering doubt in the back of his mind and turned the doorknob, surprised to find it unlocked.

  The stench of offal and salt assailed his senses, but he saw nothing in the room that could cause such a stink. The room was covered in thick layers of dust and insect carapaces. Daddy-long-legs spiders hovered in ceiling corners, their narrow legs arcing at the newcomer. Barry stepped inside, his boots crunching on sand and seashells. The cabin, just like the lighthouse, was unattended.

  He took his camera out and took some photos of the room; the rusting pans, the spiders, the razor-sharp shadows in every corner. He took careful steps, eager not to make a noise, which was foolish, given the fact there was no one around. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling there was a presence tingling at the edge of his vision. It was as Barry bent to take a photo of the chair, which had clearly been pushed in under the table by someone, that a fresh wave of wind flooded the room. The pans rattled and swayed under its power, the steel clanking together in a shrill chorus, but it was the long sigh of old door hinges which made Barry jump.

  An old man was standing in the doorway. He was at least a foot shorter than Barry, and his heavily bearded face was crowned with a tatty sailor’s cap. Pale, deep-set eyes examined the photographer, but seemed unperturbed by his presence in the shack.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think anyone was here,’ Barry said.

  He flinched when the old man slipped a hand into the pocket of his long weatherproof coat, only to feel like a fool when he produced a pipe. The old sea dog proceeded to light it, puffing out blue smoke, but offering no words. Barry swallowed hard at the man’s indifference.

  ‘This lighthouse has to be one of the oldest I’ve ever seen,’ Barry said. ‘How long have you been lighthouse keeper?’

  The sailor puffed his pipe. ‘Many a year,’ he replied.

  Barry offered a nervous smile and tried to ignore the foul aroma of the pipe. He held up his camera. ‘Oh, that’s great. I should introduce myself. My name’s Barry Levin. I’m a photographer, as you might have guessed, and I’m travelling the country taking photos of lighthouses. I’m putting a book together. Would you mind if I took some photos of your lighthouse?’

  The old man pulled the pipe out his mouth to lick at his lips thoughtfully. ‘Makes no difference to me,’ he said.

  ‘Uh, okay... I might start outside then, and maybe, if you’re interested, I could get a photo of you in your shack?’

  The old man took another puff and then tamped the pipe into the palm of his hand, rubbing the tobacco remnants between his wrinkled fingers. Barry took his silence as acquiescence and turned to head out the door. The caretaker’s voice drew him back.

  ‘There’s a lot more to see in the light room,’ he said.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Barry said, hesitantly standing on the threshold.

  ‘The light room,’ the old man said. ‘You should start there.’

  Barry scratched at his hair nervously; the old man’s blank stare crawling into his skull and planting a seed of fear. The photographer tried to ignore the bad sensations and act professional.

  ‘You’ll take me on a tour? That’d be fantastic. How old is this lighthouse, if you don’t mind me asking?’ he said.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s seen many days and nights. It’s one of the oldest light’ouses there is.’

  ‘And you’ve been its caretaker all that time?’

  ‘Aye. I’ve been here every one of those days and nights, watching and waiting.’

  Barry smiled. ‘I bet you’ve got some stories to tell. I’d love to hear a few.’

  ‘There’d nought be enough time in the world for my tales of woe. I’ve heard so many over the years and they all sound very much the same. I see the same souls day after day, hour after hour.’

  Barry wasn’t sure what the caretaker meant. He found the old man’s words confusing and archaic, but then he realised he could be talking to someone who was more than one hundred years old.

  ‘Well, I’d love to see your lighthouse if you’re happy to show me around.’

  The old man didn’t answer, just turned his back on Barry and vanished through the doorway from whence he’d first appeared. Barry heard his shoes ascending the stairs; an open invitation to follow. Taking a deep breath, Barry followed. The staircase spiralled up like a twisted backbone. The old man climbed the steps effortlessly and only once looked back over his shoulder to see if Barry was following.

  ‘How rude of me,’ Barry said, trying to catch his breath. ‘I meant to ask your name.’

  ‘Leopold,’ the old man said, his voice bouncing off the staircase walls.

  ‘Well, thank you for letting me take a look around your lighthouse, Leopold.’

  Leopold made no response. He finished ascending the stairs and bent to unlock the door to the light room with a large brass key that jangled amongst dozens more in his hand. The door opened and Barry gasped in fright.

  In the centre of the light room shone a blazing glow; a dazzling orb, shifting, spinning — and screaming. Barry’s instinct was to shield his eyes from the sun-like light, yet he was desperate to understand it. Within the shimmering sphere, he could see eyes and mouths, all agape and crying out for mercy. Human faces seemingly trapped inside some beautiful horror.

  ‘Oh, my God — what is this?’ Barry said.

  Leopold harrumphed and retrieved his pipe to relight it. ‘There’s no brighter light than the human soul,’ he said. ‘That’s what that is.’

  Barry stared at the orb, trying to determine whether the old man was mad — or if he himself was. The impossible light spun in the air, a nightmare carousel of suffering. He could hear the souls’ screams for release. The light also gave off a fierce heat, like they were burning.

  ‘This can’t be real!’

  ‘Aye, but it is,’ Leopold said, puffing on his pipe. ‘They power this lighthouse, these lost souls.’

  ‘Lost… lost souls?’

  Leopold stepped closer to the glow, basking in its light. ‘There ‘ain’t no sanctuary here. No light to lead you to safety.’

  ‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’

  The orb’s shrieks rose as Leopold pointed out some of the faces in the crowd with his pipe. ‘Free will brought them here, but my will keeps them here.’ He looked at Barry. ‘Their light feeds my darkness.’


  Barry clawed at his hair. Madness gripped him. His chest tightened and sweat ran down his back. He dropped his camera on the floor and its flash fired, setting off a fresh cacophony of screams from within the ball of light. Amongst the screams for help, he heard a soul call for its father.

  DAD!

  Barry knew the voice. He’d heard it not long ago, broken and desperate for connection. Meredith’s face suddenly pushed through the others inside the light to shriek for him.

  DAD!

  ‘Merry!? Oh, sweet Jesus!’

  He saw her anguished face, mouth contorted in agony. She reached out from the light, wrists bearing vertical slashes. At the sight, Barry’s voice joined in his daughter’s sickening chorus.

  ‘Merry!’

  Leopold smiled and puffed. ‘She called to say goodbye, you know?’ he said. ‘Before, when she rang you outside, she wanted you to know how alone she was. How you’d left her all alone. She killed herself because you forgot about her. I’ll say it’s not much of an excuse for taking one’s life, but it’s suicide nonetheless.’

  Barry fell to his knees, the intensifying light burning his eyes, the sound of his daughter calling tearing at his heart.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ he said. ‘You made her do it. But don’t you fret now, Barry. I’ll take good care of her.’

  DADDY!

  Barry scrambled to his feet, ran out the door, and rushed down the stairs. His legs descended step after step, heels clacking on stone, the scream of his daughter’s lost soul in tow. The staircase twisted inwards and around, disorienting Barry’s vision, a blurred spiral that infected his mind. All he could think of was reaching his phone and calling his daughter. As he stumbled down, he pulled his phone free and dialled Merry’s number. It answered on the first ring with a high pitched squealing through the earpiece.