A Ghostly Light

by Juliet Blackwell

  I looked out the window where I thought I had seen a face from the outside. There were six panes in each window, and three of each were broken. On the floor at the base of the window was a neat pile of broken glass, and immediately above it, a piece of plywood had been nailed over one broken pane.

  Dingo had been right.

  Another housecleaning ghost. This was my second; the last one and I had engaged in a gnarly food fight when I suggested she stop baking pies and instead leave this earthly plane. But so far, in my experience, each spirit is distinct. Just like living, breathing people. And fortunately, there were no pies or other groceries in the attic, so I was probably safe from that particular form of ignominious treatment.

  I peered down to the ground below. Broken glass sparkled at the footing of the house. There were far more shards outside than within. So . . . what did that mean? Had someone thrown rocks from the inside? That wasn’t very likely, was it?

  I walked around the attic slowly, palms out, trying to make myself available to anyone—the woman in white, the little boy collecting seashells, even Thorn?—who might want to talk to me.

  “Hello?” I said. “Anyone here?”

  Nothing.

  “I’d like to talk to you,” I continued. “I’d like to help you, if I can.”

  A noise.

  I stopped in my tracks.

  I heard it again. A faint scratching sound. Perhaps a mouse or a squirrel. Again I wondered what kind of animals might live out here on the island.

  Then one of the framed photos in the box fell on its face.

  Not an animal, then.

  “Hello?” I said again. If this ghost was trying to communicate by making noises, it was likely it—she?—couldn’t speak to me directly. But perhaps she could understand me.

  The foghorn blew, making me jump. The noise was deafening. I clapped my hands over my ears and squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for it to stop.

  Alicia was right to worry about guests trying to sleep while in the foghorn building, but folks in the Keeper’s House were going to find the horn challenging as well. I couldn’t imagine sleeping through that. How had the denizens done so, over the years?

  When the horn stopped blowing, I opened my eyes. The overhead light had gone out.

  Whispers. Barely there, tantalizingly out of reach of my hearing. The back of my neck tingled and goose bumps rose along my arms, but I forced myself to steady my breathing and said, “Hello? I know you’re there, but it’s hard to understand you.”

  A face appeared, the face I had mistaken for a mural on the far wall. A woman. I froze.

  The spirit wavered, a hazy mist more than anything. I couldn’t tell whether or not she was the same woman I had seen throw herself from the tower. That vision had been very clear and lifelike, whereas this one seemed more like a dream. She was speaking, her tone pleading. I tried to make out the words, but the only one I could make out was something that sounded like “vigilance.” Was she worried about not being vigilant enough? Could she be concerned that the light wasn’t being tended?

  “I can’t understand you,” I said. “I know you’re there. I want to help you. Let’s—”

  The barely-there image dissipated.

  “Come back, please!” I waited for a long time, searching my peripheral vision just in case. Finally, I flicked the lights back on, then crossed over to the box to pick up the photo that had fallen.

  It was a sepia-toned image of young child, about three or four. He was in formal attire: a coat and tie and short pants, black shiny shoes and bulky socks at the ends of skinny legs. He stared straight at the camera, looking solemn.

  Could this be the boy I had seen down by the water?

  I flipped through the other photos. There were several cranky-looking, bewhiskered men, whom I assumed had been the keepers and assistant keepers, and a couple of group shots of men and women in Victorian dress gathered on the large porch and front steps. I lugged the crate to the top of the stairs to take back with us. If nothing else these would be perfect to frame and use to decorate the hallways of the inn. Maybe my librarian friend Trish at the California Historical Society could help me identify the individuals in the photos. We could mount biographies on plaques next to the photos so visitors could learn about the people who used to live here.

  Keeping my eyes and ears open to another appearance of my mysterious hostess, I opened a wooden crate. Inside were some very old books, several of which seemed particularly apt for a lighthouse: Moby Dick, Treasure Island, The Swiss Family Robinson, Jules Verne’s The Mysterious Island. The pages of these old tomes were foxed and crumbling slightly at the edges; a few had marbled endpapers and leather bindings; their title pages featured that elongated, classical printing common to books of certain age. Beautiful. They would look great on a shelf in the main room, or perhaps kept in a glass display cabinet.

  I flipped open Treasure Island. Inside was an inscription in faded ink, in a dramatically slanted, feminine script:

  To Franklin, my little pirate,

  on your fifth birthday.

  Love you forever and ever,

  Mama

  I glanced back at the photograph of the little boy. Could that be Franklin? And if this was the child whose ghost I had seen by the water—what had happened to him?

  I set aside the books and turned to the old wooden filing cabinet. In the second drawer I hit paydirt—the keeper’s logs. I flipped through the first few. The old, faded brown ink and slanted cursive writing was hard to read. A few passages described the grand opening of the Bay Light; then I skipped from one month to the next, skimming over page after page of entries describing days of endless tedium:

  August 27 Wind SW. Mist but good visibility.

  October 13 Wind S. The Specklin and the Invincible passed.

  December 14 Wind SW. Storm. All is well.

  January 2 Wind S, strong. Cleaned engine room.

  February 5 Wind so bad, I think it should blow the tower over.

  I passed toward some newer ones, and my eye fell on the word “Vigilance.” Was this what the ghost had been referring to? It was the name of someone, not a characteristic. A name particularly well suited to this profession, I thought.

  December 10 Wind SW. Wind still bad, but clouds have lifted—Mrs. Vigilance keeping the lighthouse in my husband’s stead for the evening.

  December 25 Wind S. Not a vessel for two days, and nothing to light for and this is such a dreary place.

  January 16 So dull. Wind blowing violently.

  May 19 Nothing but gloom without and WITH IN.

  June 27 Wind SW. Summer never arrives in such a place. Tender Manzanita pilot uncooperative, talked to wife.

  September 2 Wind N. Hazy but calm. The Manzanita passed. Two Other vessels.

  September 5 Wind NNE. Commenced blowing at two o’clock a.m. Noon, blowing a gale and a heavy sea running over the wharf at three p.m.; washed away lower portion of steps.

  October 8 Wind NW. La Belle France spotted, apparently in distress. Docked, repairs made. Set sail for San Francisco before nightfall.

  October 9 Wind NE, cold, light, foggy. Sustained an injured ankle. My search is fruitless. My heart is broken. Several vessels have passed. Mr. Vigilance has fallen.

  October 10 Wind NE squally. Still I search.

  October 11 Wind SW. Search is fruitless. I shall not relinquish hope.

  October 12 Wind S. Light haze. Since Mr. Vigilance has departed this earth, keeping the lamp has fallen to me. The search continues.

  Search? What had she been she searching for?

  “Mel?”

  I jumped.

  “Sorry,” said Landon. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “No problem. I was just a little absorbed in these books.”

  “So I see,” said Landon, his eyes casting about the attic. �
�You’ve been up here awhile, and the silence was beginning to make me nervous. Have you seen or heard anything?”

  “I saw something at first, but nothing now,” I said, standing and gathering the later journals—there were eight volumes—and heading toward the stairs. “But look what I found: some photos, and these keeper’s logs. They’re fascinating.”

  “Here, pass them to me,” Landon said.

  Landon packed the logs and photos into cardboard boxes; we would take them home to read at our leisure.

  “Here,” I said, handing him a few of the old books, as well. If they belonged to the boy I’d seen by the shore, they might well be significant. If not, they were still cool old books.

  As I stepped out of the attic onto the little stair landing, I had the strongest sensation I was being watched. I turned back.

  Find . . .

  I felt, rather than heard the word.

  “Find what?” I asked.

  “What did you say?” asked Landon, waiting with the boxes on the landing below.

  “Sorry,” I said with a shake of my head, then nodded toward the attic. And repeated, “Find what?”

  I heard, or rather felt, nothing more. After several long moments, I continued down the stairs. When I stepped into the hallway, my work boot trod on a yellowed, crumbly old piece of paper. It had a drawing on it, marked with an “X.” I picked it up.

  Another map? This was getting ridiculous.

  “Is that a treasure map?” asked Landon, peering over my shoulder.

  “It looks like it, doesn’t it? I found a similar one the other day, and handed it over to the police.”

  “You’re thinking there’s a treasure buried on this island? And that it might be connected to the murder?”

  “No, I think it’s some sort of children’s game, probably,” I said while I studied the map. This one was similar to the other one in style, but the clutch of keeper’s buildings was positioned lower on the page, and the “X” was near the rocks behind the lighthouse tower, rather than behind the foghorn building.

  “It looks old,” Landon said.

  “True, but . . . surely it’s not real. Even if there were such thing as real pirate treasure maps, just how many treasures could have been buried on an island this size? If there was rampant piracy—and buried treasure—in the San Francisco Bay, why don’t I know about it?”

  “Why would you know about it?”

  “I’m a native. I know stuff like this. Pirates frequenting the San Francisco Bay and burying treasure is not something the local history buffs would have overlooked. At least, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t.”

  Landon smiled. “You’re not a tour guide. Often locals are the last to know. Why don’t you run it by your friend Trish at the historical society before dismissing it out of hand?”

  “I guess you’re right. I wanted to enlist her help anyway, to see if she can identify some of the people in those old photographs. But . . . especially if these maps are real, why would they just be wafting around the island like some sort of leftover party favor?”

  “That’s an excellent question. I can think of one straightforward way to test if the map’s real.”

  “Go to where ‘X’ marks the spot, and dig?”

  Landon smiled. “Great minds think alike.”

  • • •

  Inside the Keeper’s House demolition was progressing nicely, the men laughing and occasionally bursting into raucous Samoan folk songs as they wielded sledgehammers and crowbars to tear the place apart. My fingers itched to join them. There was something very satisfying about smashing things. Maybe I should suggest Luz start a therapy program in which wealthy people paid a lot of money to destroy old buildings in order to relieve stress.

  On second thought . . . frustrated CEOs probably wouldn’t be careful about saving the dentil moldings.

  Landon and I carried the boxes of attic goodies down to leave with Stephen and Waquisha.

  Already a small pile of valuables to be saved and restored had formed: carved balusters, newel posts, a leaded window; porcelain sinks and lavatory taps; a pair of sconces and a small crystal chandelier; several locksets and back plates and crystal and brass doorknobs. And wood of all sorts, since I insisted the crew salvage even baseboards and dentil moldings, as well as all doorframes and doors that were taken off their hinges. And the hinges, for that matter.

  Waquisha was cleaning wood pieces with a small stiff brush, while Stephen buffed brass door hardware with a wad of cotton balls and a few drops of solvent.

  “This is a great start, guys, thank you. Landon and I are going to check out something behind the lighthouse tower. Shout if you need me.”

  “Oh sure,” said Stephen, waggling his eyebrows. “You two lovebirds go ‘check out something’ behind the lighthouse tower. Have fun.”

  I glared at him, but wasn’t about to explain what we were up to in front of the always-serious Waquisha. What was her deal? Not everyone had to be cheerful all the time, after all; I lived in the Bay Area, I was well schooled in the need to respect different cultures and personalities and approaches to everything from sexuality to how one spiced one’s tacos.

  Still, I hoped she would loosen up soon.

  Landon and I grabbed shovels from the toolshed. One was caked with dirt, which reminded me of something.

  “The day of the murder,” I said, “when I was trying to borrow a boat radio, I saw a dirty shovel in the hutch of one of the boats.”

  “Why would someone on a boat need a shovel?”

  “That’s what I was wondering.”

  “Whose boat was it?”

  “I’m not sure.” The sailing trio had been on Terry’s boat when they returned to harbor, and Paul Halstrom was aboard one named Flora when he glared at me earlier. “But . . . it could have been Major’s. Possibly.”

  “You might want to mention that to the police at some point.”

  I nodded and took the treasure map out of my pocket. “You’re probably right. But my phone doesn’t work out here, and for now we have a treasure to uncover.”

  Following the map, we skirted the cluster of buildings and headed for the rocky shoal on the other side of the light tower. The map showed a small thumb of land sticking out into the bay. A few trees and plants were sketched on the plan, as well.

  “Obviously the trees and bushes would have changed over the years,” Landon said, studying the yellowed paper. He pointed. “But this cove looks about the same, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes—and look, that’s the little cave, right there!” I said, feeling like a child on a quest for Easter eggs.

  We made our way down a sandy slope and over jagged boulders to the cove. Near an outcropping a large crevice in the rock wall formed a small cave.

  “So, now what?” I asked, brushing dirt and moss from the seat of my dress. I’d had to slide down the slope’s last few feet. “It should be right around here, right?”

  We studied the map. Landon nodded. “Looks like it’s located between the cave and this rock formation. Right about . . .” He marked an “X” in the sand with the heel of his boot. “Here.”

  We started digging.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Forty-five minutes later we were still at it. We had unearthed a number of seashells, a little bottle, a couple of smooth stones, a marble, half a crab carcass, and two coins: a nickel from 1903 and a penny from 1900.

  No treasure chest, no mounds of gleaming jewels. No Spanish bullion or Peruvian treasure of any type.

  “Well, this is a bust,” I said, disappointed, perched on a rough brown rock and kicking aside the crab shells.

  I had forgotten to apply sunscreen, and the morning’s fog had ceded to a brilliant January afternoon, the sun burning my cheeks; I had sand under my fingernails and a blister between thumb and forefinger. I felt whiny.

&nb
sp; I was turning into Stephen.

  “That nickel might be worth something,” said Landon. “Old coins can be very valuable.”

  “Maybe. But it’s certainly not a treasure worth killing for.”

  “It was worth a try,” said Landon, surprisingly upbeat for someone who had given up his free day to chase island ghosts and dig in the sand with yours truly. I studied his cable-knit sweater and longish brown hair, handsome face aglow from the exercise, and felt a surge of affection and desire.

  He tilted his head. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said, feigning a sudden interest in the barnacles clinging to the rock I was sitting on. I could feel the telltale heat of a blush in my cheeks, though that might have been the sunburn. I cleared my throat. “So, I suppose it’s possible the treasure was already discovered. Either that, or we misread the map.”

  “Or, most likely, there was never any treasure in the first place,” said Landon. He came to stand right in front of me. His voice dropped. “Hey, Mel, are you okay?”

  I nodded.

  “You sure?”

  I nodded again.

  “Perhaps being back at this crime scene has shaken you up more than you’d like to admit?”

  I laughed at that. “The truth is . . . my reaction to you shakes me up more than the crime scene. How twisted is that?”

  He gave me a questioning smile. “What reaction to me?”

  “Look at you: You’re gorgeous, and smart, and . . . I dunno, sexy.”

  Now he laughed out loud. “And this is a bad thing?”

  “Not bad. Just . . . a little scary.”

  His mouth came down on mine in a brief but intimate kiss. Then he wrapped me in his arms. “Murder and ghosts don’t faze you, but a man in love is scary?”

  I went still. This was the first time the “L” word had been said between us. I was at a loss with how to respond.

  “Mel, I’ve been thinking,” Landon began. “We—”

  “Mel?” A shout came from up above—one of the demo guys was calling for me.