by Rick Hautala
“Out, out brief candle,” an older man intoned. Abby thought she recognized the expression but wasn’t sure from where.
The ghost girls watched the crowd slowly disperse. Younger children left with their parents while a few of Megan’s older friends from school who had licenses got into their cars and drove off.
“I wish I could cry,” Megan said, looking at Abby with silver light glistening in her eyes. Abby nodded sympathetically, but then a subtle electric charge passed through her … a sense of approaching danger
“Oh, no,” she whispered, so faintly Megan didn’t hear her. It was just as well because she didn’t want to frighten Megan if it wasn’t necessary.
She might be mistaken.
She may not really have heard a dog howling in the distance.
And even if it was a dog, that didn’t necessarily mean it was a Hell Hound.
“We ought to get back to the cemetery now,” Abby said.
It took effort to keep her voice from trembling, but Megan caught something in her tone because she looked at her with widening eyes.
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
Abby was fighting an urge to turn and run, but she already sensed it might be too late. Confused, she looked at Megan and said, “Believe you about what?” Even as she said it, the dog howled again, closer. Abby tried not to let her rising panic show.
“That I fell from the cliff.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Abby said, looking around. Fear touched her with a cold hand. If that really was a Hell Hound baying in the night and getting closer, they might not make it back to the cemetery in time.
She moved to the edge of the cliff and looked down at the dark ocean. Off to the left, the beach stretched into darkness. The ocean was heaving with heavy surf, and off in the distance, pinpoints of lights glittered like diamonds on black velvet. She thought she saw shadows darker than the night moving across the sand, but she couldn’t be sure.
“I did, though,” Megan said. “I was out here by myself, and I fell.”
“Sure … I believe you.”
Abby didn’t want to alarm Megan, but they were going to have to run for it. The problem was, their only sanctuary was in the direction of those approaching shadows.
“It’s tough, when people die,” Abby said, unable to look at Megan because she was staring into the darkness down on the beach. “Lots of times, people get confused. They’re not sure what’s happened, and there’s a kind of amnesia that happens to a lot of people, so they don’t—or can’t—remember what happened. Look, umm, Megan. We really have to leave.”
“I just want you to believe me. I want you to believe that I didn’t jump. I fell! Don’t you believe me?”
The edge of panic in the dead girl’s voice cut through Abby’s rising fear. Now she looked at Megan, and moving close, grabbed both of her arms. “I do, but right now we have to run!”
Her intensity finally registered with Megan. Her eyes widened when the loud, baying howl of a Hell Hound once again filled the night.
Looking down into the darkness below them, both girls were able to see the lone dog loping across the sand. It was heading straight toward the cliffs, and them.
“Reverend Wheeler can’t be far behind,” Abby said.
Taking Megan’s hand, they started to run.
“Where can we go?” Megan asked, already sounding exhausted.
Abby didn’t answer her. They moved as fast as wind-blown smoke up from the cliff, through the tangles of brush, and along one of the winding dirt footpaths until they came to the wide expanse of field on a hill above the parking lot. The sweep of the light from the lighthouse cast shadows that swung across the ground like the fast-moving hands of a clock.
“Where is he?” Abby whispered to herself. “Do you see him?”
Megan heard her and said, “You mean Reverend Wheeler?”
As they ran, Abby shook her head but didn’t pause to explain. She was looking for the Reaper, the one who so often was somewhere close by, the one with the slouch hat and silk veil that covered his face.
“To the lighthouse,” Abby said as she glanced at the tall, white tower that stood on a cliff overlooking the sea. “We’ll have to hide there and hope …”
But even as she said it, the light from the lighthouse subtly changed. Instead of its usual bright beam, it now glowed with an eerie blue iridescence. The shadows it cast twisted and writhed with unnatural activity. There was a small door at the base of the lighthouse, and the girls ran toward it even though, as they got closer, it looked to Abby as though the door was already open. A hulking, black figure was standing in the doorway, hiding in the shadows, waiting for them.
— 2 —
“Mark Mathison. What are the chances that’s his real name?”
It was late. Almost eleven o’clock at night. Coffee cup in hand, Detective Gray was standing behind Jesse Ellis as he sat hunched over the keyboard propped on his lap, and tapped away on the keys. He frowned as he glanced from time to time at the text displayed on the monitor on his desk.
“My guess is it’s not. Guys who operate like this, they don’t want to leave a clear trail. They’ll change their handles every time they go looking for someone new.”
Detective Gray sighed and rubbed his face as he considered if this was a dead end. A few suggestive e-mails don’t amount to squat, as far as evidence went. He was sure teenagers and kids made this kind of teasing, semiseductive chatter all the time. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred—hell, nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of ten thousand, it didn’t amount to anything.
“Uh-huh … Just like I thought,” Jesse said.
“What?”
“Looks like the same guy, but this is an earlier e-mail sent from a different IP address.”
Detective Gray straightened up and took a sip of the coffee that had long gone cold as he asked himself what he had, dreading this would turn up another dead end.
He didn’t have much—so far, just a name—no doubt a false one—no address, no phone number, no description, no nothing.
“Whoa, there,” Jesse said, snapping Gray out of his reverie.
“Got something?”
“Maybe. Looks like there might be a jpeg attached to this one.”
Detective Gray bit down on his lower lip, preparing himself for the inevitable disappointment if Megan McGowan had already deleted the attached picture file.
Jesse clicked a few more keys and then waited. Gray kept thinking, Please, please, please don’t have deleted it … Please help me find the person who killed you.
The status bar showing the download was moving much too slowly, but Gray resisted asking Jesse if he could hurry it up. The tension inside him was almost unbearable, but he had to get lucky here because the investigation of the crime scene had turned up absolutely nothing. After the memorial service out there tonight, against the wishes of the police department, any remaining traces of evidence would certainly have been obliterated.
Suddenly, a picture popped up on the monitor. Detective Gray let out the breath he’d been holding and leaned back to take another sip of cold coffee. He didn’t even notice how bad it tasted.
“That’s what you might call Bingo, huh?” Jesse asked, looking up at Detective Gray with a wide grin.
“You might,” Gray said as he leaned forward and studied the picture. It showed a man in his late forties or early fifties—long, brown hair, tired-looking dark eyes, and a thin, emaciated face that reminded Gray of the old punk rocker Iggy Pop.
“Least we got a start,” Gray said. “You positive this is a pic of the guy who was e-mailing her?”
Jesse nodded curtly and gave him a half-squint that silently asked: How much an idiot do you take me for? He clicked on a few windows and then, after a second or two, the printer on the desk beside him started humming as it churned out the image. When it was done, Gray picked it up and, holding it at arm’s length, studied it for a full minute in silence.
“Run this through our face recognition data base on sex offenders,” he said. “See if we get a hit.”
“Already on it,” Jesse said, and Gray was surprised when the computer made a single short beep sound. Jesse muttered, “Bingo.”
“Got a match?” Detective Gray leaned so close to Jesse he could feel his breath rebounding off the back of the man’s neck as a mug shot and stats popped up on the screen.
“Andrew Collins,” Jesse said. “Last reported address, 75 Mitchell Drive, South Portland. And Bingo again. He’s listed as having served eleven years for gross sexual assault of an underaged girl back in the eighties.”
“My, my,” Detective Gray said, smiling as he straightened up. His left hand went to the small of his back to massage the wire-tight muscles. But he was feeling good. For the first time since Megan McGowan turned up dead at the foot of that cliff, he was relieved to have something solid to work with.
First thing tomorrow morning, he would have to pay Andrew Collins a little visit and see what he had to say for himself.
— 3 —
The closer Abby and Megan got to the lighthouse, the more threatening the structure looked. Earlier in the evening, it had appeared to Abby as it no doubt appeared to anyone in the land of the living—a tall, white tower with red trim. Next to it was a two-story house where, years ago, the lighthouse keeper had lived. Now, it was a museum and gift shop. At the top of the tower, encased in glass, was a powerful lens that shot a beam of light into the night. The lens was constantly spinning, so from any viewpoint, it flashed steadily. Abby had learned years ago that Portland Head Light had been commissioned by George Washington, and she had a clear memory of seeing its beam of light winking on the horizon the night the Faire Childe ran aground.
Within the span of a few seconds the lighthouse had transformed into a derelict. The light in the tower shifted from a single, clear white beam to an eerie blue glow that sizzled like water on hot stones as it swept the night. By the time Abby and Megan were halfway to the lighthouse, the brilliant light went out altogether, plunging the wide expanse of lawn into deep, inky darkness. Worse still, a dim glow suddenly appeared in one of the upstairs windows in the lighthouse tender’s house. Abby wanted to ask Megan if she saw it, too, as a ghostly woman, her face as bone-pale, resolved out of the darkness in the upstairs window. She was staring out at the night, not really looking at Abby and Megan as they ran. Her eyes were wide open in shock; her mouth was hanging open in what looked like an eternal, silent scream.
The night was eerily hushed. Other than the distant surge of waves and the baying of the Hell Hound down on the beach, another sound caught Abby’s attention—a faint strain of piano music that drifted like dust on the wind. It swirled louder, then faded, and then grew louder again. Abby was sure it was coming from the lighthouse, but the sound wavered louder and softer, seeming to come from several directions at once—behind her … to the left … from the beach … and then from the right. Abby wondered who the woman in the window was and what her sad story might be, but then, from over the hill in the direction of the parking lot, there came another howling sound.
Another Hell Hound.
Abby glanced at Megan, who was still running beside her, and saw the stark terror in her eyes. It seemed as though no matter how fast they tried to move, the lighthouse, their goal, kept sliding away from them.
“It sounds like they’re trying to surround us … cut us off,” Megan said, gasping. She knew she shouldn’t be out of breath, but the surreal quality of the night distorted all of her reactions.
Abby couldn’t contradict her. She glanced to the right, and on the crest of the hill, lined against the night sky, she saw the silhouettes of three of the beasts. They were huge, towering against the night sky like thunderheads.
Abby and Megan raced forward with all the willpower they had, but Abby was suddenly convinced the shape in the doorway was Reverend Wheeler, waiting there in the darkness for them … for her!
When they were less than a hundred feet from the lighthouse, the face in the upstairs window of the keeper’s house also resolved more clearly. Abby could hear the woman’s voice now. She was screaming, wailing, “I didn’t mean to do it! But he came at me with an ax … And I didn’t … I didn’t mean to do it … But he came after me …” And then the sound of piano music rose higher. The tune was an old one Abby remembered: “Listen to the Mockingbird.”
They had no choice. The lighthouse was their only hope, but Abby was convinced that this was it. She had done well staying out of the Reverend’s grasp up to this point, but now it was over. It was inevitable he would catch her. His Hell Hounds had cornered her, herded her, in fact, into a trap. She tensed, waiting to see him emerge from the darkened doorway so he could claim her soul. If she could have cried, she would have.
Chancing one last glance behind them, Abby saw the pack of Hell Hounds, bounding after them over the crest of the hill. Then they were lost in the shadows, but their eyes glowed with baleful red light. Their baying howls rose in the night, making the darkness vibrate.
We’re done for, Abby thought but didn’t dare say.
She felt terrible that she had been so foolish as to fall into this trap. She should have insisted that she and Megan remain in the cemetery until dawn. It would have been safer to explore whatever had been going on at the cliffs in the morning. But Megan had insisted, and Abby would never, never have allowed her to go alone, even if it meant this.
Less than ten feet from the door to the lighthouse, she and Megan drew to a halt. The shadow in the doorway didn’t lunge out at them. It remained perfectly motionless. For a heart-stopping moment, Abby hoped in vain that it had simply been a shadow she had imagined was a person. But before relief filled her, someone stepped out onto the single granite step. Abby couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw the long black cape, the wide-brimmed slouch hat, and the flimsy length of black silk that covered the “person’s” face.
“It’s you!” Abby said, unable to believe it wasn’t the Reverend standing there.
The silent, dark figure nodded and then turned and looked at the Hell Hounds, who were rapidly closing the distance. His cloak swirled like smoke when he raised his arm and pointed to the doorway. Abby didn’t need to be told twice. Grabbing Megan’s hand, she tugged her into the darkened doorway and, without any hesitation, began to clamber up the circular metal stairway leading to the light at the top of the tower.
“Are you sure? Are we safe?” Megan asked.
“We can trust him.”
Megan moved more slowly, as though exhausted, but Abby knew that was a product of memory and the power of suggestion. It had taken her a long time to forget about the natural, automatic reactions of a living body, and she still experienced them from time to time.
Abby led the way up the flight of stairs. The darkness in the stairwell was thick … impenetrable. Only her hand sliding along the railing gave her any measure of reassurance.
“Who was that?” Megan asked, but Abby didn’t reply. She wasn’t in the mood to try to explain this particular Reaper to Megan, not yet. Maybe once—if they made it back safely to the cemetery.
Round and round they went up the spiral staircase. The darkness swayed and compressed around them. The only sound was the baying of the Hell Hounds, but Abby noticed that they sounded further away, not closer. She cringed when she sensed rather than saw other presences in the darkness, and she hurried up the stairs to put as much distance as she could between them and whatever horrors waited for them outside.
At last, they reached the top of the staircase and entered the room at the top of the tower. The light was extinguished. The mechanism that rotated the lens was old and rusty, draped with cobwebs like it hadn’t been used in years. The faint sound of a piano playing “Listen to the Mockingbird” drifted to them.
Emotionally exhausted, Megan leaned against the glass wall and then slowly slid down until she was sitting on the floor with her knees pulled up in
front of her. She clasped her hands together and leaned her head forward, and then she began to sob.
“It’s all right,” Abby said. “We made it. We’re safe here. I promise you.”
She wanted to go to the girl and comfort her but instead walked over to one side of the tower and looked out. Far below, moving like a raven’s wing in the darkness, a figure—no doubt the Reaper who had saved them—was moving swiftly across the dark land. The Hell Hounds were in rapid pursuit, their barking growing fainter and fainter with distance. Only after they all disappeared behind a bluff in the distance would Abby allow herself to feel a measure of relief.
But it didn’t last long.
Much closer to the base of the lighthouse, she saw another figure. Abby recognized Reverend Wheeler instantly. A jolt of fear hit her like a sudden thunderclap. The Reverend’s riding cloak swirled around him like a billowing cloud as he strode purposefully across the lawn, following his Hell Hounds. The wind tousled his long, gray hair. Abby watched him. When he was only a few paces from the lighthouse, he stopped in his tracks and turned. Abby saw the wicked glint in his eyes as he surveyed the area. He leaned forward and appeared to be sniffing the air.
Dropping to her knees, out of sight, Abby trembled in the darkness, sure he had seen or smelled her. After a few terrifying seconds, she got up the courage to peek up over the edge of the thick windowsill.
Reverend Wheeler was still standing motionless, like a marble statue, but Abby sensed that his eyes were shifting back and forth, searching for whatever—whomever he had sensed.
Don’t look up! Don’t look up! she thought as frantic rushes of panic filled her like ice water.
If he came up there … if he started up the spiral staircase … they were trapped. Doomed! There would be no escape this time.
A deep, cold trembling took hold of Abby as she watched the motionless, silent figure, waiting for him to move on in pursuit of his Hell Hounds.
Please, just go! Go! Go!! she chanted in her mind. Leave us alone!
But the figure remained so motionless Abby began to wonder if she might be looking at a shrub or rock that, in deep shadows under the lighthouse, only looked like the Reverend.
