“How will I know where to look?”
Sara smiled, her eyes hazy with distance, and looked out toward the lighthouse. “You will be shown.”
2
There was a dark chain that stretched from Sara’s chest and passed through the wall as if made of smoke. It rattled in the wind, though Adam knew he was the only one who heard the sound, and disappeared into the shroud of night before he could see the end. Still, judging from the direction it took, Adam knew it was connected to the lighthouse. He couldn’t see the woman whose body it enslaved, not at the moment, but instead saw the steel links end abruptly, floating in midair.
“Sara?” He stood. She’d sat with him for an hour, watching as he tried to read a novel in the firelight to calm his nerves. She’d even brought him a second cup of coffee, this one hot almost to the point of boiling, and he’d poured in a liberal shot of whiskey from the flask in his jacket. That had helped more than the novel, though not enough.
I can hear him in the walls, raking his claws across the beams and pulling out nails with his teeth.
It was too much. Adam held the now-empty coffee cup loosely, dangling it from his index finger by the handle, and wondered if he still had time to run.
He’d moved into the house in late June, taking a job at the marina in town. He worked on engines in the winter and the lake brought in a decent amount of tourists during the summer; Adam spend most of those humid months scrubbing algae from the hulls of boats worth more than everything he owned and wishing he hadn’t quit his job when Kalie died. But he’d needed the change. And, of course his grandfather had left him the house.
Sara had shown up two weeks after he’d arrived, but Adam hadn’t known it at the time. He’d heard the movements late at night, the little creaks and moans, and written it off as an old house behaving as an old house will. As the building still settling, never quite at rest.
He smirked. In some ways, he’d been completely right. In some, he couldn’t have been more wrong. For it had nothing to do with the building at all.
“Walk to the window, Adam.” Sara’s voice floated through the room, disconnected like an echo jumping from a canyon wall. She was there – she was always there – but not fully present. Adam didn’t know exactly what held her back, only that she couldn’t control it.
The lighthouse stood as strong as ever, so starkly white it was almost part of the snow and ice that surrounded it. The beam of light began to drift in Adam’s direction, the movement looking casual, random, and yet completely deliberate – something like a man trying to be inconspicuous, but trying too hard.
Then Sara was by his side. “Do you see the moon, Adam?”
Adam pressed the fingertips of one hand against the cold glass. He shook his head. “No.” The stars gleamed and flickered with not a trace of cloud to obscure them, but the moon had disappeared.
“Then things are perfect.” She smiled. “All but the lighthouse has been removed. It will make for a clearer view of what you really need to see.”
“Removed?” With everything else he’d seen, Adam was hardly surprised that something like the moon could simply be taken away. Still, it stirred up that lingering bit of doubt, that piece of his mind that said that none of this could possibly be real. That it was either an elaborate hoax or that he was, in fact, insane.
But he didn’t feel insane (of course, he doubted the really crazy ones ever did) and it was an impossible hoax. He slid an arm around Sara’s waist, pulling her against him and feeling the warmth of her body. She nestled her head against the base of his neck. And that was all Adam needed to know it was real.
“What does he want?”
“Me, Adam. Nothing more.” Sara’s lips moved against his throat, her breath warm. “I may be dead, but I haven’t been claimed. He’s been sent to drag me from this…I guess you would call it purgatory.”
“But that’s not really what it is, is it?”
“Not in the accepted sense of it, no.” Sara’s shoulders moved up and down slightly. “This purgatory isn’t somewhere I’ve chosen, or even somewhere I was meant to go. It’s more like a mistake. Have you ever seen a rope break, Adam?”
“Of course. It comes apart in separate strands unless you burn the ends.”
“Exactly. It frays.” Sara’s hand found his, and it was shaking. “That’s what my life did, Adam. When I died, I left my daughter behind. My death was slow enough, long enough, for me to dwell on that. And ‘rest in peace’ is more than a slogan for headstones, as it turns out.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My life frayed. Part of me died, trapped beneath that same lake you’re staring at. But part of me refused to let go.” She tipped her head up, her eyes wide and brimmed with tears. “That part of me stayed here, trying to cling to what I’d lost. Now I can’t put it all together again, not on my own. I can’t leave this house.”
“You were the last one to live here.”
Sara nodded. “Yes, before your family bought it. But none of them took to it, not the way you have. I don’t know what the difference is. But you just…you connect with this place. That’s why you’ve been able to see what they couldn’t, and why you stay here when they abandoned it. It’s more like home to you than it ever could be for them.”
“So what do you need me to do?”
“Burn the ends, Adam.” Sara slid her arms up behind Adam’s neck, lacing her fingers together. He pulled her closer, bringing her up on the tips of her toes. His mind flickered for a brief, heart-wrenching moment to the thing within the walls, ripping out nails with its teeth, but then he brought her to him, and he knew he would do whatever it took.
3
Adam stood on the edge of the cliff, his heart racing inside his chest, and zipped his coat up to his chin. The wind was just as cold as he had expected, pulling the dusting of snow from the ground and sending it swirling through the air. He clicked on the flashlight in his right hand (four D-batteries had been hard to find, but he’d managed) and waved it back at the house. He couldn’t see Sara anymore, but he could see the dark chain. The chain that tied Sara to the lighthouse, the one thing that could show him what he needed to find if he wanted to save her.
Forces were at play. Adam had never been more sure of anything in his life. If the thing in the walls wanted Sara’s soul for hell, then whatever had created the lighthouse (Adam wasn’t quite ready to use the term God yet, but an Opposing Being nonetheless) wanted her to be at peace. To move on to whatever the afterlife held without torment.
Adam shook his head, wondering why this Opposing Being hadn’t cut out the middleman. Why a lighthouse instead of an army of angels with flaming swords? Surely that would have been easier, and he wouldn’t have had to leave the warmth of the fire, let alone wander through thick forest in the dead of night. But then, that was just the old free-will argument rearing its head. Maybe the Forces, such as they were, didn’t want to interfere too directly with the lives of the people below them. Well, some of the Forces anyway. He had no doubt that if the thing in the walls got through, it would rip him into bloody strips before carrying Sara off to its hell.
The lighthouse beam had stopped. They’d watched it happen even as Adam had tugged on his old boots, tearing the worn lining with his urgency to get going. The shaft of light had swung on its slow path until a point not far west of the house. It rested there, unflinching as the stone of the tower.
Adam began walking. The forest sloped gently away from the house, and he paralleled the cliff – making sure to keep a fair distance from it and the frigid water below. His feet crunched against frozen grass that snapped like dry straw; puffs of snow burst up around his boots. The forest was thick, the evergreens not losing any bulk to the season, and Adam pushed branches out of the way as he went. Pine needles cut between his glove and coat sleeve, prickling his skin and sending a shower of snow down his arm in their wake. He cursed under his breath and pulled the sleeve tighter toward his hand.
A trickl
e of fear ran down his spine. No matter how old he got, the forest at night always held a bit of terror. His imagination, honed by countless novels over the years, took the clawed thing from the house and put it ten feet to his left. The wind rattling the branches wasn’t the wind at all, and the branches were the creature’s skeletal arms bouncing against its ribs as it walked. Or its claws, clicking together in anticipation of slicing through Adam’s flesh. Or its teeth, tired of pulling six-penny nails and ready to move on to something else, perhaps something like fingernails–
Adam stopped and closed his eyes. He imagined Sara, her soft smile, her wide eyes. He thought of the feel of her body as he pulled her close, the taste of her lips. When he opened his eyes again, the creature was back in the house, and the forest was safe.
Of course, he told himself, it wouldn’t be trapped in the house for long. He pushed faster, covering more distance. The lighthouse’s glow, uncontested by the moon, told him his destination was close. He tripped, almost running now, and twisted his wrist as he caught himself on a stump. He thrust his body back up, staggering forward, and then fell into a clearing. The flashlight hit the ground, shattered, and went out with a hiss.
As he lifted his head, Adam saw the break in trees was far more than a simple clearing. A headstone, modest and cut in a simple square, sat at the far end. It looked as if it hadn’t been touched in years. He could see no paths to this place and the forests around Torch Lake were dense so far from town. The grave could have sat undisturbed for another century and a half if the lighthouse hadn’t led him to it.
“You’re here, aren’t you?” Adam stood, brushing the snow from his legs. Part of him still wanted to turn and run; another part felt like he was walking on holy ground and needed to remove his shoes. But then he glanced over his shoulder, at the lighthouse, and all that changed.
The lighthouse looked bigger than ever, a massive, grand structure more striking than any he’d seen. The stonework was perfect, mortar holding each chiseled rock in place. Windows ran up the tower, trimmed in deep blue with shutters to match. Those shutters were open, revealing a circular staircase that twisted up the center of the spire. But the pinnacle, that was what did it. The metal dome was untarnished, not damaged by age or the elements. It was made of out blackened steel, but trimmed in gold. The glasswork had designs playing though it (somehow Adam found he could see them all the way from the ground, as if the tower had drawn closer; the light, in all its brilliance, still wasn’t so bright as to force him to look away). The edging of this artwork was cut into the glass, but the rest looked like fog. And, as he watched, the designs changed. They began as pines brushed with winter, then shifted to what appeared to be falling snowflakes, then shifted again to resemble a face. Adam shivered and grinned at the same time as he recognized Sara looking back at him, her soft smile pulling her lips upward. The beam of light appeared to shine directly through her eyes.
“What do I need to do?” Adam asked the question aloud, sure now that the lighthouse, or the Being responsible for it, could hear him. Could direct him once more.
He didn’t hear the reply, not audibly like he heard Sara, but a voice spoke inside his head – a deep, distant voice, yet warm and welcoming all at the same time.
You already know.
“No.” Adam shook his head and his eyes dropped to the headstone. The years had worn off any writing, but that didn’t shake his faith that it was Sara’s grave. If anything, it strengthened it. “What now?”
Think. Remember.
Adam swallowed hard. He walked to the grave, careful not to actually walk on top of it, and knelt. Sara wanted him to fix things, needed him to release her from her guilt and horror at abandoning her daughter. Needed him to let her rest in peace. Needed him to–
–burn the ends.
Grinning, Adam reached into his pocket. He still had the small box of matches from lighting the fire. He brought the box out and thumbed it open; three matches sat inside, rolling against each other with the motion.
Now he just needed something to burn. Her life was frayed, Sara had said, frayed like a broken rope. And if there was any place that rope would come from, it would be her grave. He suddenly wondered if beside the chain holding her to the lighthouse – holding her to her final chance at escape – was a lone strand of rope.
The woods were littered with brush and fallen branches. They were a bit wet from the snow, but not thoroughly soaked. Adam gathered a small heap and began to arrange them on top of the grave. It felt almost wrong, like he was violating the place, but he pushed the sentiment aside. Sara wouldn’t be offended; she’d be grateful. He piled the smallest sticks first, then the driest of the larger ones. Paper would have been nice, but he no longer had time to go back to the house.
Somewhere, a window shattered. Adam gasped and looked instinctively at the lighthouse, but the misted glass stood unbroken. He saw Sara’s face, still smiling, but then the shapes changed. They drifted, forming a scene he knew all too well – the sitting room, near the fireplace. Sara crouched in the middle of the room, one hand raised, her eyes wide now with fear. Her mouth curled back in a scream, a scream that Adam heard on the wind. Broken glass lay around her feet.
A shadow moved, stepped into the picture. It was a gaunt thing, vaguely human, with a hunched back and hands that hooked into claws. Ribs stood out against its skin like a cage covered in wallpaper. It was the kind of creature that tore nails out with its teeth. Sunken eyes glared with a hatred that was older than any of the trees in the forest, older than Torch Lake itself. It threw its head back and howled, a sound that covered the entire spectrum of sound, from the low growl of rage to the piercing scream of something both dying and infuriated.
Adam went for the matches, dropped them, then got one out. He dragged it along the rough strip on the side of the box. Nothing. He tried again, harder, and the match snapped in half.
Glancing up, his hands working at the matchbox without aid from his eyes, Adam watched as the demon-thing stepped to loom over Sara. She turned his way and looked like she was standing before a firing squad.
The next match was in his hand before he knew it, and he scraped it against the side of the box one, two, three times. Nothing. The head peeled back, red flaking off in chunks. Adam threw it away. He fumbled out the last one, his fingers holding it so tightly his knuckles turned white, and pulled it across the side of the box. Again, nothing happened.
They were wet. Suddenly, he knew. He’d fallen over and the matches had gotten wet in the snow. But they didn’t feel wet. They felt fine. Still, they must have taken enough water that they would never light.
In desperation, tears running down his cheeks unnoticed, Adam tried one last time. It looked as useless as before; the match made half the trip without reacting. Then, at the last second possible, it lit.
With a scream that was half surprise and half pure joy, Adam shoved the match into the fire. He almost did it too hard, snuffing it out against the damp wood. But the flame stayed strong and, after an agonizing moment, the smallest of the branches caught. The fire spread, slowly at first but gaining speed as it went. Gaining urgency, maybe. Adam blew lightly on the flames, fueling them. They grew brighter, more robust, and Adam heard the creature shriek again. This time, it was in pain.
He saw Sara standing now, the creature in front of her. She had her hands out, but not to fend off an attack. She held the chain in her hands, and it was covered entirely in fire. The metal burning and twisting and melting. She’d wrapped it around the creature’s neck and its skin seemed to be melting off. It tried to slash the chain with its claws; the fingers fell away with a burst of black smoke. The beast howled a final time, raggedly, and the chain cut through its neck. There was no blood, just another burst of smoke, and Sara was alone.
At his feet, the fire roared with new life, and Adam thought he smelled something other than burning wood. Something foul, deep and horribly decayed, like a swamp or a mass grave rapidly combusting. He stumbled backward
, covering his face, but the smell was gone as quickly as it had come.
Sara’s chain began to burn brighter and Adam had to shield his eyes. Her form flickered, becoming less solid, more like smoke itself. Adam peered between his fingers, feeling his heart ache with sorrow and elation meshed together. Then the chain turned to smoke in Sara’s hands, and she was gone.
Adam dropped back to his knees, his hands falling from his face as the glow from the lighthouse became bearable again. He realized he was crying now and made no effort to stop himself. Wind froze his cheeks. The lighthouse began to shrink, to fall back.
Wiping his eyes, Adam tried to force his sorrow down a notch. He was alone, again, but things were set right. Whatever – whoever – had picked this as a battleground had been beaten back, at least for now.
Softly, like distant thunder, Adam heard Sara’s voice on the air. “I’ll find Kalie,” the voice said. “I’m sure she’s here, and this is a wonderful place.”
“I know,” Adam said, pulling himself to his feet. He could still see the lighthouse, smaller for the moment but no less beautiful, and it seemed to him that maybe that beauty was a fragment of the world Sara had gone to. A glimmer, like stars in the blanket of night.
Candles
1
“The Bible says that the dead walked,” Caitlyn said. “It’s right there after Jesus dies. I remember. It says that the temple curtain tore in two and the dead walked in the streets.”
“I know,” Father Gannon replied. The light flickered off his face, throwing shadows over his eyes and turning his thin white hair into a halo. His skin, usually like paper with blood barely held beneath, looked translucent. “Why is that important?”
Caitlyn felt her fingers digging into the backs of her hands; the nails were long and ragged, but they’d lost their last nail file and no one dared go out to look for another. “Because of how they are, out there.”
The Deep Hours of the Night Page 6
