A Ghostly Light

by Juliet Blackwell

  “I was thinking the chocolate-covered marshmallow reindeer I get every year in my stocking at Christmas.”

  “You still get chocolate-covered marshmallow reindeer in your Christmas stocking?”

  “Is that weird?” He blushed. “It’s weird, isn’t it? I’m unnaturally close to my mother.”

  “Nothing unnatural about it. At least I hope not—I really don’t want to know that much about you.” I laughed. Steven was the adored only child of a former Vegas showgirl. His dress designs were no doubt influenced by a childhood spent hanging out backstage, and featured lots of spangles and fringe. I loved his designs and wore them often, even to work. Dressing any darned way I pleased was one of the little perks of running a company and signing the checks. “But then you’re talking to a grown woman who lives with her father, so you’ll get no grief from me.”

  “Claire thinks it’s bizarre.” Claire was a whiskey-drinking, cigarette-smoking landscape designer with whom Stephen had a love-hate relationship. Lately I’d had the sneaking suspicion there was more love there than either would admit, but since they weren’t asking for my opinion I kept those thoughts to myself.

  “I love Claire, but I’m not sure I would take relationship advice from her. Especially when it comes to family. She had a pretty rough upbringing.”

  He nodded, staring out the window, absorbed in thought. Or maybe he was sleeping. Either way, I was free to drive in silence, and to ponder what had happened yesterday.

  I had tried Alicia’s number last night and again this morning, but the calls went straight to voice mail. Then I called Ellis, who told me he had gotten her a good lawyer, and that Alicia had been released from questioning very early this morning. He had no further information, but at least she hadn’t been arrested.

  Yet.

  I drove to a project on Russian Hill, escorted Stephen onto the jobsite, told him to apply sunscreen even though it was a cold January day, and asked a young worker named Enrique to keep an eye on him. Then I met with my foreman, answered a question about the sensor on the automatic lights, and checked the lumber supplies. This was a relatively small job: We were building a deck in the rear garden, putting in a new set of French doors leading out from the kitchen, and installing a kitchenette to turn a downstairs bedroom suite into an in-law unit with a separate entrance. These days Turner Construction focused mostly on larger projects, but my dad had renovated this home a decade ago, when he was still running things and my mom was alive, and it was company policy to take care of good clients. Which was why, from time to time, I found myself crawling out of my bed at three in the morning to tend to sewer mishaps or electrical failures.

  With Stephen gone, Dog claimed shotgun and jumped into the copilot’s seat.

  Next, we checked in with my foreman at a “Painted Lady” Victorian renovation in the Haight, then fielded a call from a custom door manufacturer trying to explain where the hell my already-two-months-late special order was.

  I checked the time on my phone. I was meeting Brittany Humm, my Realtor friend, in Oakland at eleven, which meant I had forty-five minutes to kill.

  “Let’s look through the lighthouse file,” I said to Dog, who was dozing but was always happy to be included. “What do you say?”

  He thumped his tail.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  I dug the dossier on Lighthouse Island out of the file box.

  Months ago, when Ellis Elrich first asked me to check out the buildings on the island, Stan helped me research the basic history of the island on the Internet. The Coast Guard was in charge of lighthouses in California; they maintained a website devoted to lighthouses and the keepers who had tended them over the years until modernization had rendered them obsolete.

  I had read this all before, of course, but now thumbed through the downloaded pages looking for something that might cast light on the origins of the lighthouse’s ghosts: the woman at the top of the tower, or the young boy on the shore. Or maybe even something that might offer a clue to yesterday’s murder.

  The lighthouse had been proposed in the late 1860s, when ships were crowding the strait, carrying goods and gold from inland areas to San Francisco and back again. The construction of the Mare Island military facility further increased the ship traffic, so in 1870 the lighthouse authority allocated funds and decided upon building designs. Construction began in 1871, and was completed the following year. The island posed two special challenges: the need to provide sufficient water for the residents and the steam whistle foghorn—hence the rainwater shed and cistern—and the difficulty in maintaining the docks, which were vulnerable during bad storms.

  That was . . . worrying. I hadn’t imagined the bay—which was typically serene—could host storms violent enough to tear apart the docks on the island. I hoped we wouldn’t witness such ravages this winter while we were under construction.

  Once built, the lighthouse was tended by keepers and their assistants until 1953, when technological advances rendered their service unnecessary. I glanced at the list of names and dates: R. B. Mathews, 1872–1886; D. P. Page, 1886–1899; G. H. Vigilance, 1899–1905; I. P. Vigilance, 1905–1915; O. C. Shell, 1915-1927; J. R. Wright, 1927–1947; R. P. Andrews, 1947–1953.

  There were grainy black-and-white photos of the buildings, as well as a few portraits of stern-looking, bewhiskered men standing on the porch steps of the Keeper’s House or posed in the doorway to the tower, proudly accepting their official commissions as keepers of the lighthouse. But there were no photographs of children, or of a woman who might have hurled herself off the lighthouse tower. And no clues as to what might still be worth killing for on the island.

  Which reminded me . . . surely that treasure map had been of no significance, right? Maps to buried treasure were a staple of fiction, not reality. As Major Williston had suggested, it was probably part of a game of some sort. I wondered: Did the Scouts ever camp out on Lighthouse Island?

  My phone beeped. I answered a text about an earthquake retrofit, then glanced at the Oakland address of the old home Brittany had asked me to check out. Just in case there were any resident ghosts.

  The thing was, Brittany was actually hoping I would detect a house spirit or two. It surprised the heck out of me, but apparently some folks liked the idea of living with souls from beyond the veil. I supposed as long as everyone—alive and dead—had the right attitude, it could be an interesting arrangement.

  I didn’t usually oblige Realtors this way, but Brittany was one of my first ghost-related friends, who had lent a sympathetic ear—and some valuable insights—when I first became aware of my ability to communicate with spirits. Besides, I wouldn’t mind landing a job in my hometown for a change.

  So Dog and I headed back over the Bay Bridge toward Oakland. Just a contractor and her pup, on the hunt for spirits. The way we do.

  • • •

  I met Brittany outside a house in the Grand Lake neighborhood, which was clear across town from my father’s house. Twenty years ago this area had been considered “transitional,” by which folks meant run-down and a little on the trashy side. But in the last couple of decades Oakland had been rising like a phoenix, stepping out of the shadow of its much more famous sister to the west, San Francisco.

  Before the original Bay Bridge was completed in the fall of 1936, Oakland had been the major city in Northern California, and a crucial stop on the train line, to which a gorgeous downtown full of Art Deco architecture still gave testament. After World War II, the city underwent a sharp decline, but recently that had been changing. San Francisco had become too expensive for artists and immigrants and pretty much anyone who wasn’t stinking rich, and Oakland was the beneficiary. Rising house prices and a hot real estate market reflected Oakland’s new desirability.

  So it was unusual to find a big old home that had sat empty and essentially abandoned for two years. The house I was looking at h
ad been built in the Bay Area Arts and Crafts style, which was characterized by simple but elegant wood construction, numerous built-ins, and, in this case at least, a lot of grand windows.

  “The home was built in 1911, and the last owners lived here for more than fifty years,” said Brittany after we’d traded hellos and got caught up on the latest goings-on in our lives. Brittany was exceedingly blond and perky, and always well put-together, which would have made me dislike her if she weren’t so nice. “Their names were Victoria and Ziggy Wittowski. Ziggy passed away in 2015, and Victoria moved into a skilled nursing facility until she passed away a few months ago. They had no children, so a niece inherited the place. But she’s up in Alaska and hasn’t been very interested in it.”

  “She doesn’t want to relocate?” I asked, scanning the facade of the house, which, for some reason, seemed awfully familiar. I wondered why; I wasn’t well acquainted with this neighborhood and hadn’t done much work in the area. “I thought everyone wanted to move to California.”

  “I guess she prefers Alaska. If she put a little money into fixing it up, she could sell it for a lot more than she’s asking, but she just wants to be rid of it.”

  This surprised me. I loved my city, and the home’s location was especially nice. The beautiful old place on a hill was within easy walking distance of Lake Merritt and the newly invigorated Lakeshore-Grand shopping area, which was chock-full of cafés and boutiques and restaurants, as well as the huge old 1920s Grand Lake Theatre.

  “Okay if I bring Dog in?” I asked. “He’s a good ghost dog.”

  “Sure! I love Dog, and the house is empty anyway.”

  Brittany and Dog shared a happy reunion, and then we climbed the front steps to a side porch and unlocked the front door. A sunroom opened onto a grand paneled entry, with wooden Moroccan-arched doorways leading off in several directions and a large landing on the stairwell that looked big enough to be a stage.

  The house had the distinctive, musty scent of a vacant home that was meant to be filled with life and energy and furniture. Still, for a place that hadn’t been lived in for a long time, it was in great shape. Phenomenal shape, actually. Not only had it been well built to begin with, but miraculously the wood finishes hadn’t been painted over, and most windows still had their original wavy glass. The stained glass light fixtures appeared original as well, and the electrical switches featured mother-of-pearl buttons.

  Sometimes a little neglect is good for a house. Brittany had warned me about ugly 1970s-era bathrooms and kitchen, but otherwise this home appeared to have avoided any major wretched remodels.

  But something was wrong.

  As we stood in the entryway, I had a vision of a set of curtains made of bed sheets, hanging on a piece of clothesline, strung across the landing at the bottom of the stairs. Children were putting on some sort of performance, and chairs were set out in the main hallway for the grown-ups.

  A vision, or a memory? Surely this wasn’t an actual memory. I’d never set foot in this house before. Maybe it reminded me of something out of a movie, or a photo I’d seen.

  But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had been here before. I knew the home’s layout: To the right was the dining room with a built-in hutch and bar on one wall, a swinging door to the butler’s pantry on another wall, and a bowed wall of windows overlooking the garden. The swinging door was propped open ever since the accident that broke a favorite platter one Thanksgiving. Off the hallway to the left, a massive set of French doors opened onto a living room with a beautifully beamed cathedral ceiling and huge windows on two sides. The Christmas tree would sit in front of the east-facing window. To one side was a fireplace with an inglenook made of wooden benches that doubled as storage. Puzzles were kept in one bench, blankets in the other. How could I possibly know—much less remember—such things?

  I started feeling dizzy. Oh, great. Was I going to start experiencing vertigo while standing on flat land?

  “Mel? Everything all right?” asked Brittany.

  Her voice brought me back to the here and now. “Yes, I . . . sure.”

  “Did you see something?”

  “No. I mean yes. I mean, no, not a ghost, anyway. But . . . it’s the oddest thing. I feel like I’ve been here before.”

  “You mean like déjà vu?”

  “Sort of.” I glanced down at Dog, who was sniffing around but seemed entirely unperturbed. Clearly he was not sensing anything. So what was this feeling? “Maybe . . . could my parents have done work on this place when I was a kid, do you think?”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” Brittany said. “Though I don’t think the former owners did much of anything, other than the bathrooms and the kitchen, which look home-remodeled to me. But you’re the expert.”

  “Who was the architect, again?”

  “His name was John Hudson Thomas. In his day he was ranked up there with the likes of Bernard Maybeck and Julia Morgan, but he isn’t nearly as well-known today, possibly because he didn’t design many public buildings. He focused on residential projects in the East Bay; you’ll find his houses all through Berkeley and Oakland and Piedmont.”

  “Have you been in any of his other houses?” Maybe I’d visited another place he had built, which reminded me of this one.

  “Sure, I’ve seen several. His style is very distinctive; a lot of the design elements are repeated, such as the pattern of the windowpanes and the foursquare pattern of raised tiles.” She gestured toward four wooden tiles arranged to form a simple square.

  “What about the homes’ layouts? Are they similar as well?”

  She shook her head. “Not that I’ve seen. As far as I know his houses were all custom built to each client’s specifications. This house was, for sure. I can’t imagine there’s another quite like it. Isn’t it special?”

  “Yes, it’s beautiful. So, let me guess: The doorway over there leads to a small study, and beyond that is a bedroom and bathroom, right?”

  Brittany’s eyebrows rose. “Right. That’s some pretty powerful déjà vu.”

  “If Thomas was a well-known architect, maybe I’ve seen photos of this house in a book, or on a website. Or maybe . . . maybe I saw the blueprints and conjured the house in my imagination?”

  Brittany smiled. “I suppose it’s possible. Do you look at old sets of archived blueprints in your spare time, then?”

  “Not really,” I said. “But I swear I know this house. Off the kitchen is a door that opens onto a small hallway. It leads to the rear door, as well as a small room with a sink, and a WC. It’s the maid’s room; a servant used to live there.”

  Brittany blinked. “Um, yes, pretty much.”

  “This is so weird.” I glanced down at my canine companion. He tended to do a strange mewling, barky thing when he sensed spirits. But at the moment he seemed fine; a little bothered, perhaps, by the lack of interesting morsels of food anywhere, but otherwise completely mellow. Making me doubt myself. “What am I sensing?”

  “You got me,” Brittany said, concerned. “I thought I was open-minded with all the ghost stuff. But this seems like something else, doesn’t it? Do you want to keep going? We can leave if it’s bothering you.”

  “I’m okay,” I said, shaking my head. “Let’s keep going.”

  The wide central stairway with shallow steps led to an upstairs landing. There was a small storage closet with a wooden laundry chute, as well as three bedrooms, one with a small enclosed porch. A large bathroom had a claw-foot tub and a separate shower; it had been redone in ugly seventies colors and styles, yet I could see how it used to be: seafoam green walls, white subway tiles, a pedestal sink. And Brittany had been right: This looked nothing like a Turner Construction remodel, even from the early days. The peeling linoleum tiles and pitted grout job were signs of a do-it-yourselfer.

  Still, I anticipated every view, knew where every closet was. I could hear my m
other’s voice: The old closets had windows in them so the clothes didn’t get stuffy.

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry, Brittany, I can’t go any further.”

  “Of course. Whatever you say, Mel; I apologize if this has upset you. I just hoped you’d be able to tell me about any possible lingering spirits . . .”

  “Have you had any reports of ghosts here?”

  “No, not at all. I only thought there might be something because of the age of the place. Hoped, I suppose.”

  “I’m not sensing any spirits,” I said. “But I can’t shake this feeling of familiarity. It’s too . . . weird. I feel spooked.”

  “I’m really sorry! I got nothing but good vibes from this place. I thought you’d like it.”

  “I do, I mean, I sort of love it, actually. But . . .”

  “But you sense something bad?”

  “Not bad, no. Just . . . weird.”

  “Let’s call it a day, then, shall we?”

  As Brittany locked the door, I stood on the front lawn and gazed at the house, wondering how a place I had never seen before could feel so darned familiar.

  Clearly I had a lot more to learn about the exciting, multilayered world of ghost busting.

  Chapter Nine

  I told Brittany I’d be in touch, and she waved as she drove off in her shiny new Prius. Dog jumped into the passenger’s seat of my battered little Scion, and I climbed behind the wheel, but paused before starting the engine.

  “Is it just me, or was there something really strange going on in there?”

  Dog’s head lolled over to me. Not that I expected him to answer. Dog was the hairy, silent type. Except for an occasional fit of maniacal barking, but that was usually squirrel-related.

  “I mean, it wasn’t a ghost, right? I mean, not a ghost ghost. You didn’t do that weird mewling thing you do around spirits.”

  He thumped his tail. I smiled and petted his head. Just the feel of his silky hair under my fingers made me feel calmer, more centered.