by Ron Ripley
A spike of jealousy drove through the morning haze of Scott’s brain and the emotion burned violently as Shane gestured to him.
“Come on in, Scott,” the older man said. “Take a seat. Sorry about the lack of hygiene here, but I have only the one cup.”
Courtney took a last drink, passed the tin mug to Shane, and Shane got up and went to the stove. He used a t-shirt to take the bluestone percolator off the iron heating plate and poured the dark, rich liquid.
The smell was phenomenal and went a long way towards easing Scott’s jealousy.
“Take a seat,” Shane said, passing the cup to Scott. “And I’m sorry, but I don’t have any sugar or cream. Don’t use the stuff myself.”
“I think it’ll be alright this morning,” Scott replied, sitting down between Courtney and Shane.
The older man, who was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a black tee shirt, rummaged in a box on the countertop. He pulled out a bulky, brown plastic bag of some sort and handed it to Scott.
Scott accepted it with his free hand, read the label on the package and said, “What’s an ‘MRE?’”
Shane grinned and leaned against the counter. “In theory, it is a ‘Meal Ready to Enjoy.’ The newer generations, they aren’t half bad. The ones I first ate when I joined the service, well, those were of dubious culinary delight.”
“This says vegetarian lasagna,” Scott said. “So, it’s a dinner?”
“It is a fifteen hundred calorie meal,” Shane corrected. “I hope you’re not going to be burning through so many calories today that you’ll need more than one of those a day. I found a case of them out back, tucked behind the wood. Looks like Mike Puller either shopped at the local Army surplus store, or he had a buddy who could get him the stuff for free. Either way, this stretches out our food supply.”
“What’s in it?” Scott asked. “Just the lasagna?”
Shane shook his head. “No. There’ll be a powder mix for a beverage, some sort of snack, a bread product, and a desert. Also some matches, gum, wet-wipes, and a heater for the food. Lots of stuff we can use. If we have to.”
“Did you eat yet?” Scott asked Courtney.
She nodded. “A little bit. Something called a Ranger bar. Basically a chocolate protein bar.”
Scott was going to ask a little more, but his stomach growled. He took a sip of his coffee, winced at how hot it was, and blew on it to cool it down a little.
“I’m going to take a walk,” Shane said. “I’ll see you both in a bit.”
When he had left by the back door, Scott turned to Courtney and asked, “What the hell were you doing in here with him?”
Courtney frowned at him. “Really, Scott?”
“Yeah, I mean, you got up and left me in there?”
“You were asleep,” she said, her eyes going cold with anger. “What did you want me to do, sit there and hold your hand while you slept?”
Scott felt his face redden.
“And all I was doing, Scott,” she said in a low voice, “was getting some coffee and a little to eat. What did you think I was going to be doing? Making out with him? You know, you act like you’re in high school sometimes.”
Scott forced himself to take a drink, in spite of how hot it was.
“I don’t come down on you when you talk to a woman,” Courtney continued, “so you sure as hell better not give me a hard time for talking to a man.”
“Fine,” Scott mumbled. “I’m sorry.”
“Fine,” Courtney snapped. She got to her feet.
“Where are you going?” Scott asked.
“Back to sit with Eileen and Dane. They’re better company asleep than you are awake,” Courtney said, and Scott groaned as she left the room.
Smooth, Scott, he chided himself. Real smooth.
Chapter 10: Wandering Where He Shouldn’t
Dane had disengaged himself from Eileen’s arm and slipped out of the house as he heard Courtney’s voice raise up.
Dude will never learn, Dane thought, easing the front door closed. Always harassing her. Told him before how Courtney won’t put up with that.
He looked around the front of the island, frowned at the sight of the yacht not a quarter mile off the pier, and turned his attention to the rest of Squirrel Island. Especially its lighthouse. The last time he had been in a lighthouse had been on the Marginal Way in Ogunquit, Maine. And he had still been in grammar school.
Dane walked over to the front of the lighthouse and saw the padlock on it was undone. The whole place was open for exploration. He grinned, slipped the padlock out of the latch, set it on the ground beside the door, and let himself in. The circular room he found himself in was dimly lit and wider than it seemed from the outside. A metal staircase wound its way up, protruding from the wall. From several windows scattered along the lighthouse’s length, morning light drifted in.
Around the base of the building were boxes of supplies. Mostly electrical wiring, paint, all of the necessities needed to bring the buildings up to code and make them livable. There was even a stack of one-gallon water jugs, maybe thirty or forty altogether.
Dane walked over, grabbed one of the gallons and opened it. He drank long and deep from the tepid water.
Even though it’s warm, Dane thought, it still tastes damn good.
He continued to drink for a minute, and when he had his fill, he capped it and returned it to the floor. He looked at the staircase, grinned, and started up it. The old metal groaned slightly beneath his weight, and a bit of panic flashed through him as he feared the whole assembly might pull out of the wall.
But it held.
With a sigh of relief, Dane continued up the stairs. Several times he hesitated, contemplated a retreat to the ground level again, but with each moment of hesitation, he shook off his fear.
When he reached the top of the lighthouse, he found himself beside the giant lantern. The old brass fittings were dull, and some were green with age. A radio with a handheld microphone was on a shelf, and the view from the top was nothing less than spectacular. Dane could see the coastline clearly, other boats and small ships sailing in the morning breeze. Down below, appearing deceptively close, lay the yacht. As he watched, the yacht swung out wide to the extent of her anchor, the line going taut.
“It’s beautiful up here, is it not?”
Dane screamed with fear and surprise. He twisted around, his heart pounding.
A middle-aged man stood by the exit. He wore a thick knit sweater, corduroy pants, and heavy boots. He had a reddish brown beard, trimmed neatly, and a black cap usually seen in old pictures of early merchant captains.
However, the similarity ended there, for the man’s eyelids were stitched open, the eyes black and the skin of his face cracked above the beard. His lips looked hard, as if formed from twisted plastic, the line of his mouth grim.
And Dane could see through him. The world behind the man was opaque, as though swaddled in fabric, but the man felt terribly real.
Dane cleared his throat and whispered, “Yes. It is beautiful.”
“My name is Clark, and I am the keeper,” he said. “I must ask, why are you here?”
“Um,” Dane said, then he found his voice and said louder, “We went adrift last night. Put another anchor out and came in on the jolly boat. Trying to figure out what we’re going to do now because someone stole the jolly boat last night.”
“No one stole the jolly boat,” Clark replied. “The others slipped your line last night and sent her out. She came back, of course.”
“The boat’s back?” Dane asked, surprised. “We can leave then!”
“Are you a shipwright?” Clark asked, a note of bitter humor in his voice.
“No,” Dane said, slightly taken aback. “Why?”
“Alas, the scraps you’ll find will not help you any,” Clark chuckled. He turned his blank gaze out onto the water. “She came in hard, as they always do, and broke apart on the rocks.”
Dane took a deep breath, prepared himself
to ask another question and then thought, Wait a minute. This is bull. I bet this is all a set-up. Some hidden camera. I bet it’s just some sort of projector. There’s no such thing as ghosts.
“Sure they did,” Dane said, relaxing slightly, glancing around and trying to spot the projector. Just a joke. A bad one, but still a joke.
An expression of surprise flickered across Clark’s ruined face.
“Listen,” Dane said, grinning, “you have yourself a good day. I’m heading back down to the keeper’s house to see what other crap Shane has cooked up.”
He stepped towards the stairs and Clark whispered, “Stop.”
The word was spoken with authority, harshness, and a coldness which instantly brought Dane to a standstill.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Clark asked.
“Out,” Dane replied.
“No. We are bound here, for her to harness our strength. To build up her own.” Clark said. The hands which had been kept clasped behind his back came out. They were thick, their backs and palms spider-webbed with fine, almost lace-like scars. And in the right hand was a knife of terrible, frightening design. It was curved like the moon in its last quarter. A deep gray handle, with a mirror image curve to the blade, was gripped tightly by Clark.
If, if this real, Dane thought, trying not to allow fear to dominate him, then he’s a ghost and he can’t hurt me. Ghosts can’t hurt me. They can’t hurt anyone. Even the guy who offed himself, he did it himself. That’s all. Be strong. No fear.
No fear.
Dane straightened up and took a step closer to the stairs.
Clark advanced as well, saying, “I am the Keeper of the Lighthouse, and you will not leave until you have my permission to do so.”
Dane let out a laugh, and then a moan of surprise and pain.
Clark’s empty hand had swung out and smacked Dane solidly on the right cheek, the ghost’s cold hand knocking Dane back and into the glass. He caught himself on the slight edge, horror growing in his heart.
“No, you shall go nowhere without my permission,” Clark growled. “I am the Keeper, as surely as I was once captain. And let me tell you, my boy, there is nothing quite as fearful as a captain on his ship, or a Keeper in his lighthouse.”
How can he hit me? Dane wondered, ignoring Clark. How is it even possible? If he’s a ghost. They can’t hurt you.
They can’t hurt me.
But they did, Dane thought, reaching up and touching his sore, throbbing cheek. He hit me hard.
“I need to leave,” Dane whispered. “I need to go back to my friends.”
“No,” Clark stated. “There’s work here that needs doing. You look like a strong lad. Welcome to the Squirrel Island Lighthouse, boy.”
“No,” Dane whispered, then screamed, “No!”
He rushed for the stairs, but Clark met him there easily. The knife was a blur in Clark’s hand, and he stepped deftly to one side. A sharp, terrible pain erupted in Dane’s belly.
Dane fell sideways, landed first on his knees, then his hip, and finally his side. His head thunked loudly against the wooden floor, and he panted as he lay there. Fearfully, he reached down, touched his stomach, felt a warm, sticky liquid, and let out a sob.
When he brought his hand back up to examine it, he saw there was dark, rich blood upon it.
“Careful, lad,” Clark said sympathetically. “It’s a wicked blow I’ve dealt you. Reach much farther down and you’ll feel your innards, which the Lord, in His magnificence, never meant for us to embrace.”
Dane sobbed and felt something slip out of his stomach. He heard it slap wetly on the floor.
I’m going to die here, Dane realized morosely. Oh God, I’m so sorry for everything I’ve done. I’m so, so sorry.
“If you’re praying, son,” Clark said, putting his knife away and folding his arms over his chest as he stood there, “I’d say don’t waste your breath. You will not leave this place. No, you’re here forever, just like the rest of us. Since I’ve brought you over, though, well, you’ll be with me.”
Clark grinned. “Which is good. We have a great deal of work to be done in this lighthouse if we’re to be getting it shipshape and Bristol fashion. Yes, a good deal of work.”
Dane wanted to scream again, needed to scream again, but the pain was too intense. To even speak would have caused intense agony. Instead, all he could do was bleed out on the aged floor, and wait to die while his murderer kept a careful watch.
Chapter 11: And So It Begins
Shane stood on the pier and looked out at the yacht.
I need to get them off of this island, he thought. This place is bad, and it’s going to be too much for them. Might be too much for me.
He reached back, patted the iron knuckles in his pocket, and sighed.
Yeah, Shane told himself, it’s going to get bad. I can feel it.
A scream ripped out from behind him and Shane twisted around. Something stood at the top of the lighthouse. The shape was the barest hint of a person from where Shane was.
Why in the hell would one of them scream like that?
Courtney and Scott came out of the house, followed by the young woman, Eileen.
But not Dane.
Dane, Shane thought. He pulled the iron knuckles out, slipped them onto his right hand, and rushed up the slight incline to the lighthouse and found the door still locked. He kicked the door with all his strength, putting his foot close to the padlock. The force of his blow snapped the screws of the latch, and the wood ripped as the deadbolt tore through the aged and weathered wood.
The door sprang inward, bounced off of the inner wall, and shivered to pieces. Only a long, ragged edge was left, hanging madly from the old rusted hinges. Shane ran straight for the stairs and raced up, ignoring the way the metal quivered beneath his feet, or how the old bolts in the brick walls groaned.
Shane threw himself through the opening at the top of stairs and came to a sharp stop.
Dane lay on the floor, eyes wide in death while blood leaked out onto the floor. The young man’s guts were in a slipshod pile, spilling out of the gaping hole in the boy’s belly.
Shane’s attention snapped from the dead youth to the ghost who stood off to one side, close to the mammoth lantern which served as the lighthouse’s beacon.
The man smiled at Shane. “You’re a fighter.”
Shane nodded.
“They boy’s dead.”
“So he is,” Shane said. “You killed him.”
“It was required,” the man said soberly. “Name’s Clark. Clark Noyes. I’m the Keeper.”
“Shane Ryan,” Shane replied. “I’m here to find out why that was required.”
“You’ll need to speak to Dorothy,” Clark answered. “If Dorothy will speak to you. You’ve been to sea, and not like this lad. No pleasure trip, aye?”
Below them, someone called his name and Shane yelled down, “Stay outside!”
“What ship?” Clark asked pleasantly.
“Depended on where I was and when,” Shane replied warily, trying to keep his attention from Dane’s pale, bloodless face. “Did a tour with the Sixth Fleet, though, Mediterranean.”
“Sailor?”
Shane shook his head. “Marine.”
Clark grinned. “Excellent. Well, if you’ll excuse me, Shane, I’ve work to do, and so does this lad. As you can see, the lighthouse is in sorry shape. We’ll have her righted soon enough, though. That we will.”
The man vanished.
Work to do, Shane thought. He returned his gaze to Dane. The boy was dead. Undeniably so. But it seemed as though his spirit wouldn’t be allowed to leave.
Dane had been enslaved.
Chapter 12: Horror
Scott stood outside the broken door of the lighthouse with both Courtney and Eileen. None of them spoke. They had all heard the scream. A terrible sound Scott was sure would haunt him for the rest of his life.
When they had raced outside, they had seen Shane down on the pi
er.
But no sign of Dane.
None.
Then Shane had run up to the lighthouse, kicked his way in, and gone after Dane. Scott and Eileen had hesitated at the entrance.
Courtney had not.
She had stepped into the old building and called up to Shane, who, in turn, had told them all to stay outside.
And so Courtney had gone back out, stood beside Eileen, and together the three of them waited, not so patiently, for answers. Scott could vaguely hear a conversation going on between Shane and someone else, but he couldn’t make out any of the words.
It only lasted for a few minutes, and then Shane had called to them.
“I’m coming down now,” Shane said from the top. “You need to stay back from the door. This isn’t going to be pretty, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be nice. Courtney?”
“Yes?” she said loudly, and Scott felt anger and jealousy rear their heads again as the older man said his girlfriend’s name.
“Behind the house, by the wood, is a blue tarp. Grab it, will you?” Shane asked.
“Sure,” Courtney said, and she hurried away.
“What’s going on?” Eileen called out, desperation in her voice. “Is Dane up there with you?”
“Yes,” Shane replied.
“Oh, thank God,” Eileen said, her shoulders dropping in relief. Then she said, “Is he hurt?”
“He’s dead,” Shane answered.
“Oh Jesus Christ,” Scott whispered. Eileen sank down to the ground, put her back against the old bricks of the lighthouse, and stared dully out at the Atlantic. And then Courtney was back, carrying the blue tarp with her. It was balled up in her arms. She glanced at Eileen and frowned.
“What’s wrong?” she asked her friend.
Eileen shook her head.
“Dane’s dead,” Scott replied.
“What?” Courtney asked. “What do you mean he’s dead? How can he be dead? We heard them talking up there.”
