Widow's Point

by Richard Chizmar

  I lay there all that time and listened to the lighthouse whisper its secrets to me and a singular thought echoed inside my exhausted brain: what was I hoping to find here?

  It’s a question I had been asked many times in the days leading up to this adventure—by Mr. Ronald Parker and my literary agent and even my ex-wife, just to name a few—and never once had I been able to come up with a response that rang with any measure of authenticity.

  Until last night, that is, when—during my unexpected bout of insomnia, as I lay there on the chilly floor, wondering if what I was hearing…the distant hollow clanking of heavy metal chains somewhere below me and the uneven scuffling of stealthy footfalls on the dusty staircase…were reality or imagination—the answer to this question occurred to me with startling clarity.

  What was I hoping to find here?

  Inarguable proof that the Widow’s Point Lighthouse was haunted? Incontrovertible evidence that nothing supernatural had ever dwelled within the structure, all the stories and legends nothing more than centuries-old campfire tales and superstition?

  The answer that occurred to me was none of the above—and all of the above.

  I realized I didn’t care what I found here in the Widow’s Point Lighthouse. For once, I wasn’t looking for a book deal or a movie option. I wasn’t looking for fame or fortune.

  I was simply looking for the truth.

  And with that liberating revelation caressing my conscience, my eyes slid closed and I fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.

  * * *

  Voice recorder entry #8B

  (7:27am, Saturday, July 12, 2017)

  * * *

  There are nearly a dozen books and countless websites devoted to the grim history of the Widow’s Point Lighthouse. In 2001, a student filmmaker from Boston College spent almost nine months creating an in-depth documentary focusing on the various tragedies surrounding the infamous landmark. The ninety-minute film, entitled The Curse of Widow’s Point, premiered at the Sundance Film Festival in Park City, Utah, and won several awards, including the prestigious Audience Award. You can still watch it today on DVD and several on-demand television channels.

  Only a handful of these resources have attempted to explore the origin of the Widow’s Point Lighthouse curse. Francis Dobbs, in his seminal volume, The Devil’s Den, claimed that the original owner of the lighthouse, Franklin Washburn II, was a man of unscrupulous business practices and even more corrupt personal integrity. It was rumored that Washburn was responsible for the murder of his older brother while just a teenager laboring on his father’s fishing fleet, as well as several unfortunate business associates in later years. Washburn was also a well-known womanizer, unrepentant gambler, and a violent drunk. Dobbs claimed that it was from Washburn’s own dark heart that the curse was born.

  Harper’s Cove’s first librarian and acclaimed historian, Wilma Forsyth, respectfully disagrees with Mr. Dobb’s assertion. She claimed the stones themselves that made up the Widow’s Point Lighthouse were responsible for its bad fortune. The enormous slabs of granite were taken from a nearby quarry owned by a local man by the name of Gerald McClernan. McClernan and his wife, Mildred, were respected members of their church and prominent business owners. Mildred operated one of the two original bakeries in Harper’s Cove. What the townspeople didn’t discover until years later is that the McClernans were sexual deviants with a penchant for drugging and imprisoning many of the young runaways they encountered at the seaside docks. When they were finally caught, more a stroke of luck than any kind of police investigation, the McClernans had a fourteen-year-old girl chained in their basement. She had been repeatedly raped and tortured. Wilma Forsyth, a devout Protestant, believed with unwavering conviction that the evil found within the McClernan household was transferred to the Widow’s Point Lighthouse along with the stones from the quarry.

  But perhaps the most popular claim comes from longtime Nova Scotia resident and noted Native American historian, Walter Logan. He believed that the tract of land known as Widow’s Point was originally part of a sacred burial ground protected by one of the Micmac Indian tribe’s “protection prayers.” These prayers were designed to ensure that the deceased would not be disturbed on their “walk to the spirit world.” If the spirits were interrupted and not allowed to rest, legend had it they would not be able to find their way and would be cursed to roam the land forever.

  I’ve written extensive notes involving these theories and several others, which I will discuss at a later time. As for my own thoughts regarding the origin of the Widow’s Point curse, I can only say this: time will tell.

  * * *

  Voice recorder entry #9B

  (8:39am, Saturday, July 12, 2017)

  * * *

  Now that I’ve completed my morning exercises and taken a bit of breakfast, it’s time for another history lesson.

  As I already noted in my opening segment—and I’ll try not to repeat myself too much—Hollywood came calling to the town of Harper’s Cove in September of 1985. More specifically, Hollywood came to the Widow’s Point Lighthouse.

  Although town officials and a handful of local merchants were enthusiastic about the financial rewards Harper’s Cove stood to gain from the production, the vast majority of the townspeople expressed extreme unease—and even anger—when they learned that the subject matter of the film so closely paralleled the lighthouse’s tragic history. It was one thing to rent out the lighthouse for a motion picture production, but a horror film? And a ghost story at that? It felt morally wrong to many of the longtime residents of Harper’s Cove. It felt dangerous. A handful of women from the Harper’s Cove Library Association even gathered and picketed outside the movie set, but they soon gave up after a week of unnaturally harsh weather drove them inside.

  Rosemary’s Spirit was budgeted at just over eight million dollars. The film starred Garrett Utley and Britney Longshire, both coming off modest hits for the United Artists studio. Popular daytime television actress, Lydia Pearl, appeared in a supporting role, and by many accounts, stole the movie with her inspired and daring performance.

  The film’s director, Henry Rothchild, was quoted as saying, “Lydia was such a lovely young woman and she turned in the performance of a lifetime. She showed up on set each day full of energy and wonderfully prepared, and I have no doubt that she would have gone on to amazing things. The whole thing is unimaginable and tragic.”

  Executive producer, Doug Sharretts, of Gunsmoke fame, added: “There were no signs of distress. I had breakfast with Lydia the day it happened. We sat outside and watched the sunlight sparkle across the ocean. She was enchanting. She loved it here. She was excited to shoot her final scenes later that evening. And she was confident that she and Roger would work out their problems and be married. There were no signs. Nothing.”

  The rest of the cast and crew are on record with similar statements regarding Miss Pearl and the events of the night of November 3, 1985. Lydia was, by all accounts, in fine spirits, well liked and respected, and her death came as a shock to everyone involved in the film.

  However, there was one dissenting voice and it belonged to Carlos Pena, Rosemary’s Spirit’s renowned director of photography. At the time of Lydia Pearl’s death, Pena was one of the few members of the crew who refused to comment on record. Most people attributed this to Pena’s reticent nature. He was that rare individual in Hollywood: a modest and private man in a very public business.

  Fifteen years later, dying of lung cancer at his home in Mexico, it was a different story, as Pena told a reporter from Variety: “I’ve worked on over a hundred films and I’ve never witnessed anything like it. It still haunts me to this day.

  “The rest of the cast and crew were on lunch break and I thought I was alone in the lighthouse. I was going over the next scene, pacing out camera shots and thinking about changing the angle on camera number two when I heard someone whispering from the level below me. I was surprised but I figured it was just one of the actors run
ning their lines. After a few minutes, the whispering grew in volume and intensity, to the point where I couldn’t concentrate any longer, so I went to investigate.

  “Some of the crew had constructed a makeshift break room on the next level down. It was cramped quarters but there was enough room for a small refrigerator and a handful of uncomfortable chairs.

  “I was surprised to find the room in total darkness when I reached the doorway. The lights had been on not ten minutes earlier when I’d passed by on my way up to the set. I figured once the person heard my footfalls, they would stop running lines and call out to me, but they didn’t. The whispering continued unabated. It was a woman’s voice, and now that I could make out the words she was saying, it chilled me. Whoever this was, hidden here in the darkness, she wasn’t running lines; she was having a conversation—with herself.

  “Uneasy, I reached inside the doorway and turned on the light, and I was shocked to see Lydia Pearl standing in the far corner facing the wall. The whispering continued despite my intrusion.

  “I called out to her: ‘Lydia? I’m sorry to interrupt.’

  “She didn’t respond. I walked closer, my heart beating faster in my chest.

  “‘Is everything okay?’ I was almost upon her now.

  “Again, there was no response. Just that frenzied whispering, as though she were arguing with herself. She stood with a rigid posture, but with her arms dangling at her sides.

  “Once I was close enough, being careful not to startle her, I softly called her name and reached out and placed a hand gently on her shoulder—and she whirled on me, a rattlesnake-quick hand lunging out to claw at my eyes. I back-stepped in shock, blocking her advance.

  “Her face is what I best remember, even now in my dreams. It was twisted in rage. Spittle hanging from her drawn lips. Teeth bared. Her eyes were the worst. They were impossibly large and unlike any human eyes I had ever seen. They were feral and burning with unimaginable hatred. This woman I barely knew wanted to kill me, wanted to devour me.

  “And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Her face relaxed, arms lowered, and she drew back, blinking rapidly, as if awakening from a dream. Her eyes seemed to regain focus and she saw me standing there in front of her, quite a sight, I am sure. She sobbed, ‘I’m…I’m sorry,’ and ran from the room, brushing against me as she fled. I remember her skin was ice cold where she had touched me.

  “Later that evening, when news of her suicide reached me at my hotel, I was not surprised. I was sad, but not surprised.

  “I’ve never spoken of this before and I never will again.”

  According to William Marshall, the reporter from Variety, Carlos Pena had grasped his rosary in his hands and crossed himself numerous times while recounting this unsettling story. Six weeks later, he was dead.

  * * *

  Voice recorder entry #10B

  (10:06am, Saturday, July 12, 2017)

  * * *

  Well, as fortune would have it, I now know who carved “DC” into the wall of my living quarters. I was poking around downstairs in a stack of old newspapers and shipping logs, seeing if there might be anything of interest relating to Widow’s Point history, and I stumbled upon an old diary.

  Scuffed brown leather and spotted with mold, but unlike most everything else in that immense pile of detritus, in fairly readable condition. Scrawled on the inside cover in faded but legible ink was the name Delaney Collins. That’s right, the twelve-year-old daughter of the ill-fated Collins family.

  The initial entry is short and rather sweet:

  February 7

  My name is Delaney. I am 12 years old and I live in a lighthouse in Harper’s Cove, Nova Scotia with my mother and father and brother Stephen. My family moved here almost a year ago and I love it here. I can see the ocean and the trees and sometimes it feels like I can see forever from up this high. The only thing I don’t like are all the stairs. Momma says it won’t be so bad when I’m older and my legs are longer, but I’m not so sure about that.

  * * *

  * * *

  Voice recorder entry #11B

  (11:24am, Saturday, July 12, 2017)

  * * *

  Hello again. I’ve spent the past hour or so scribbling in my notebook and skimming the diary I found. As to be expected when the author is a twelve-year-old girl living in close quarters with her family, most of the entries are limited to sophomoric ruminations and juvenile complaints. Case in point:

  February 24

  Stephen is such a brat. He’s smelly and selfish and mean but he never gets in trouble. It’s always my fault. Especially where Father is concerned. I know he wishes I was a boy, too. Sometimes, I wish I was an only child.

  And yet another work of poetic grace:

  April 9

  Justin Appleby is such a jerk. First he tells me he thinks I’m beautiful and he likes me. Then he tells his friends that I won’t leave him alone and he hates me. He won’t dare say it to my face. If he does he’ll get a punch in the nose.

  Indeed, the innocence of youth, ladies and gentlemen. I don’t imagine I will be finding much of note in this journal, but it’s an extraordinary discovery, nonetheless. Lunch soon and then another history lesson, this one even more scandalous than the last.

  * * *

  Voice recorder entry #12B

  (11:49am, Saturday, July 12, 2017)

  * * *

  Did I mention that several times now I’ve heard the echo of footsteps in this lonely place? Last night and twice again this morning. I’m fairly convinced that it’s not my imagination, but if that is truly the case, then what is it that I’m hearing? The Widow’s Point Lighthouse, all these years later, still settling into the rocky earth below? The harsh Atlantic wind searching for entry and creeping its way inside these heavy stone walls? Hungry rats scavenging for food? Restless spirits?

  * * *

  Voice recorder entry #13B

  (12:17pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)

  * * *

  I’m honestly not sure what to make of this. I was sitting here finishing up my notes when I decided some fresh air would serve me well. I left my notebook open to the page I was working on and went out onto the catwalk for perhaps fifteen minutes. Twenty at the most. When I returned, I found something unexpected awaiting me. Somehow, in my absence, my notebook had been turned to the next page, which should have been unwritten upon. Instead, I found three words printed there in careful block, capital letters:

  WE ARE HERE

  To hell with the spook show clichés, folks, I have goosebumps crawling all over my arms. My spine is tingling. I have no rational explanation for what has just occurred. I only wish the video camera was working so I could record it.

  * * *

  Voice recorder entry #14B

  (1:01pm, Saturday, July 12, 2017)

  * * *

  Okay, now that my head has stopped spinning long enough for me to organize my thoughts, it’s time for another story from the lighthouse’s illustrious past.

  Not even a year after the much-publicized and controversial death of Hollywood starlet, Lydia Pearl, the Widow’s Point Lighthouse was once again thrust into the spotlight when the nine-year-old twin daughters of real estate tycoon Harlan Ellington disappeared on the afternoon of July 7, 1986.

  Mr. Ellington and his family—wife, Lorraine, beautiful and poised and very old money, and daughters, Katrina and Danielle, every bit as striking as their mother—were spending the summer in Harper’s Cove to be closer to Mr. Ellington’s brother in nearby Cambridge. This arrangement also allowed Mr. Ellington to investigate numerous potential real estate acquisitions, including the long abandoned Rocky Point golf course and the acreage of land upon which the Widow’s Point Lighthouse was situated.

  Rumor had it that Mr. Ellington was putting tremendous pressure on the Parker family to sell so he could develop the land into an exclusive gated community with the finest seaside views in all of Nova Scotia. Rumor also had it that a representative of the Park
er family had repeatedly told Harlan Ellington to go fuck himself.

  Despite the Parkers’ belligerent refusals to entertain even the most lucrative of offers, most Harper’s Cove locals were extremely welcoming to the Ellington family. Many would claim this was simply good old Nova Scotia hospitality at work while the more pessimistic among them would claim that the townspeople simply smelled out-of-town money. Mrs. Ellington was widely known as a big spender in the downtown shops and boutiques, and Mr. Ellington was praised as a generous tipper in the many pubs and restaurants.

  On the day of the twins’ disappearance, Mr. Ellington and his wife met with Steven and Jennifer Kepnes, husband and wife hotel owners from nearby Reston. The two couples sat down for a lengthy and lavish lunch in downtown Harper’s Cove, and then took a stroll together in nearby Grant Park. By all accounts it was a lovely and productive afternoon.

  Or so they thought.

  What the Ellingtons didn’t realize is that at roughly the same time that dessert was being served, their nanny, a local girl named Sheri Delmonico (still hungover from celebrating her nineteenth birthday the night before) was falling asleep on the antique sofa in their rented house on Tupelo Lane, leaving the twins unsupervised.

  When the Ellingtons returned home later that afternoon, they found their now frantic nanny circling the house and calling out for the girls. While Mrs. Ellington scolded the sobbing nanny for her blatant irresponsibility, Mr. Ellington quickly searched the interior of the house. Having no luck, he canvassed outside in the yard and finally poked his head inside the open garage, which is when he noticed that the girls’ bicycles were missing.