It's that season again, when lighthouse ghosts appear and we tell their stories. Hardly a lighthouse exists that does not have some ghost tale attached to it. I hope you like this one!
A few years ago, I began writing a novel for young readers (tweens, as we call them) about a young girl in the late-1890s, named Libby, who knows much about lighthouses and the sea. Her father was a sea captain and her great uncle is the skipper of the lighthouse tender Arbutus. It sails the southeast coast delivering supplies to lighthouses. Libby's great uncle is taking her to Sanibel Lighthouse to live for a year before she goes to a school for young ladies in New Orleans. On the way, the Arbutus stops at several lighthouses. The following Chapter 2 excerpt details fifteen-year-old Libby's visit to Carysfort Reef Lighthouse in the Florida Strait. There, she and her Scotty dog, Duffy, meet the keepers, dine with them, and spend the night on the huge iron lighthouse. Libby, as you'll read, takes a "shine" to the youngest lightkeeper, a handsome young man named Vincent. And, as you might imagine, things go bump in the night on Carysfort Lighthouse!
Chapter 2
The Ghost of Captain Johnson
Thumping sounds on the deck above wake me. Duffy is standing by the door whining, no
doubt needing to relieve himself. As a
puppy traveling on the Arbutus, he has
learned to use a dirt box, much the way a cat does. Uncle Caleb made the box for him when we came
aboard the Arbutus, and it is obvious
he is anxious to get to it.
"Yes, Duffy. I'll hurry.
Let me pull on my dress and shoes and straighten my hair."
I make myself presentable and open
the cabin door. Duffy scurries to the
ladder and leaps up three rungs on his own before allowing me to carry him the
remainder of the way. Once topside, he runs
toward the stern and disappears around some buoy chains to find his box.
The morning air is brisk, alive with
the shouts of the crew as they prepare to dock at Carysfort Reef Lighthouse. I step to the starboard rail and see the huge
metal lighthouse in the distance. It
resembles a giant birdcage, and for a moment I imagine a monstrous seagull
nesting inside it. Papa always said I
have great imagination.
By the excitement and business of the crew, I judge we have
dropped anchor and the launch is being readied.
The reef is so shallow the Arbutus
cannot steam too close to the lighthouse for fear of grounding. Supplies, mail, and visitors are transferred
to the tower aboard a smaller vessel called a launch.
Several men are gathered about the
scuttlebutt, a barrel of drinking water.
They wave and motion for me to join them. A ladle of cold water is offered, which I
gratefully accept.
"Goin' aboard the lighthouse, Miss
Libby?" asked Mr.Burns, one of the hoistmen. "The keepers there is a lonely lot. Do ‘em good to see a young lass like yerself. And 'ey'll be layin' a fine table too."
His Scottish accent delights
me. I notice his powerful hands as he
gives me the ladle to drink from. As a
hoistman, his job running the windlass requires strength and brains. He must see that heavy cargo is safely moved
from the lighthouse tender to the launch by a derrick equipped with pulleys.
"Oh, yes, Mr. B. I wouldn't miss it. The keepers are wonderful cooks, I'm
told. Uncle Caleb said to eat only a
biscuit this morning, as they will want us to have a big late-morning breakfast
with them."
"Aye, and they've hens, too,
for eggs. You can see ‘em cluckin’ about
on the deck next to the dwellin’. May be
that Mr. Hodges 'll 'ave puddin’. Tapioca
puddin’. Will ye bring me some?"
I giggle and point to the pocket of
my dress: "Aye, Mr. B. I'll sneak you some pudding in my
pocket!"
A hearty laugh passes around the
circle of men, but shouts from the helm make them scatter to their appointed
places, leaving me alone at the water barrel.
I scoop out a handful and splash it over my face. It makes me shudder, so cold it is. I am looking forward to a long, hot bath when
I reached Sanibel Island.
I watch as the crew rigs the derrick
and begins moving heavy cargo from the deck of the Arbutus to the launch. Mr.
Burns expertly maneuvers the windlass and hoist, lifting boxes and crates and
pallets filled with coal bags and oil drums, sacks of flour and sugar. I look toward the lighthouse in the distance
and squint my eyes, trying to see the hens he mentioned. There are tiny dots moving about on the
lighthouse deck – men, maybe a dog, perhaps the smallest ones hens.
Doc quietly moves next to me and hands me a biscuit.
“Might be an hour or two before you
sit down to breakfast, Libby. Best have something to keep the walls of your
stomach from rubbing together. Have you
packed an overnight bag? Your uncle
plans to stay the night, I’m told.”
“Oh…yes. I will, Doc,” I reply, a bit surprised by
this news. “Staying on the lighthouse at night should be fun!”
“Hmmph!” Doc says folding his
arms. “You wouldn’t get me to stay in
that metal contraption for all of Captain Kidd’s pirate gold!”
I smile, remembering the crew
talking of the ghost that supposedly haunts the lighthouse.
The Arbutus seems to take forever to ready the launch. Though I know enough about ships and
navigating to appreciate the delicate maneuvering required to safely move heavy
cargo, I am anxious to get to the lighthouse.
It’s a famous one in these waters, the first of a string of tall iron
lighthouses built along the treacherous Florida Reef. In fact, as Doc explains, its foundation is anchored
into the reef.
“Built in the 1840s by a famous
engineer named George Meade,” Doc says. “Bet
you know that name, Libby, from your studies of the Civil War.”
I rub my chin, pretending not to know, then
let my eyes brighten like a lightbulb is going on in my head: “Yes! General George Gorden Meade! Wasn’t he the Union
general who defeated General Robert E. Lee at Gettysburg?”
“One and the same,” replies
Doc. “Some say it was the turning point
of the war, the battle that was the beginning of the end for the
Confederacy. Such a bad time it was, Libby. I lost a dear friend at Antietam,
and my brother came home from the Battle
of the Wilderness missing an arm. Lucky for me, I was in the South Pacific at
the time working on a whaleship, or I might have been in the thick of it too.”
“Oh, I’m glad you weren’t in the war, Doc. So sorry about
your friend and brother,” I say, and quickly change the subject. “So Meade also built lighthouses?”
“Oh yes. Many of
them, long before the war. He built the
first screwpile lighthouse in the nation, at Brandywine Shoal in the Delaware Bay. Big
hulking iron thing with tube legs anchored into the bay floor. Folks said it wouldn’t last a month, but it
still stands. Meade did such a fine job
on it the government sent him to Florida
to build the reef lights.”
Doc motions toward Carysfort Reef Lighthouse.
“I was a young lad when it was first lit in 1852. Meade devised special screw-shaped feet for
each leg. There are nine legs, called
piles, in all. Each one is screwed down
into the coral reef and anchored firmly with a disk, a kind of shoe to hold it
in place. The open metal framework on
the lighthouse lets wind and waves pass through easier than if the tower had
solid walls.”
It makes sense to me.
This stretch of coast is called Hurricane Alley, and a lighthouse needs to
be wind and water resistant. I had read
about the first lighthouse at Sand Key, nine miles off Key West.
Built of stone, it suffered miserably in storms until, in 1846, a
powerful hurricane toppled it and killed its keeper and his family. A screwpile lighthouse, like this one at
Carysfort Reef, replaced it in 1853 and has stood strong for nearly fifty
years.
Finally, the launch is loaded and ready.
I race down to my cabin and fetch a
tapestry bag for overnight items. Back
on deck, Doc and Santy and Paolo insist on hugging me, as if I’m going away
forever.
“Be careful not to tangle with old Cap’n Johnson, now!”
Doc warns.
“Yes, and leave him on the lighthouse when you come back,”
Santy adds. “We’ve trouble enough on
this ship. No need of a ghost!”
Paolo shrugs and chuckles.
He gives me a second hug and holds my arm firmly as a section of the
rail is removed so that I can board the launch. I am tethered in a bos’un’s
chair, with Duffy in my lap, and sent down to the launch by means of ropes and
pulleys. Were it not for the launch rocking wildly below me, and my dress lifted
up by the wind’s curious fingers, I might have enjoyed the unusual ride.
Uncle Caleb, wearing his blue wool uniform with the tender
service insignia on the hat and his rank on the lapels of the coat, follows me
down into the launch. Several of the
crew who are holding me nimbly hand me into my uncle’s strong arms. Duffy is shivering either with excitement or
fright. I cannot tell which. The launch pitches roughly in the waves, then
moves toward the lighthouse, powered by the muscled arms of four men at the
oars.
Within minutes we draw near the iron
legs of the lighthouse and tie up at the landing. Three keepers, who peer excitedly at me from
the deck, suddenly straighten and salute my uncle, who returns their tribute. Little is said until I am safely handed up to
the keepers and planted firmly on the landing platform, along with Duffy. I turn and peer into the most beautiful eyes
I’ve ever seen, those of the youngest lightkeeper. Slowly, he releases his hold on my arm and
smiles, patting my dog.
My uncle is soon beside us, sighing with great relief that
we’ve arrived safely. Uncle Caleb brushes
off his jacket a bit, smiles broadly, and shakes hands with the keepers. They wear uniforms, somewhat similar to my
uncle’s, but with different insignia.
Uncle Caleb clears his throat and makes introductions:
“May I present my great-niece,
Olivia Spenser, daughter of my sister’s son, Captain Jonathan Spenser. And, of
course, her dog, Duffy. He has more sea time than most sailors! Libby, meet Captain Herman Hodges, principle
keeper of Carysfort Reef Lighthouse, and his assistants, Peter Simonson and Vincent
Tremont.”
Captain Hodges carefully offers his
right hand – a perfectly normal hand with all fingers intact – tips his hat and
gives a polite nod. He pats Duffy’s head
and mutters something about a “salty sea dog.”
The assistants also nod to me politely.
Mr. Tremont – the one with the beautiful eyes – seems hardly older than
me, but I know he must be at least eighteen to be in the lighthouse service.
“I am well-acquainted with your
father, Miss Spenser,” Captain Hodges says, smiling warmly. “We’ve passed many an hour together in port,
for I was master of a fishing schooner before the war left me with this
infirmity.”
He slaps his stiff right leg, a
wooden leg that gives off a muffled thump.
I notice three fingers missing on his left hand and realize there was a
bit of truth to the story Santy told.
“Ah, this,” he says holding up his
maimed hand, with only a thumb and index finger remaining. “A fishing accident. Fed three fingers to a shrimp net when I was
a hand on the schooner La Petite out
of New Orleans. I was just a boy then. I’ve learned to operate just as well without
them.”
As proof, he quickly unbuttons and
rebuttons his blue wool jacket. I’m
impressed and giggle politely with delight.
Duffy is mistrustful, however, and utters a soft growl. Captain Hodges makes a scary face, and this
sets Duffy barking.
“Is this any way to treat the crew
of Carysfort Reef Light, Sir Pooch?” the captain asks Duffy. “Why, you’ll change your opinion of us a bit
when you see what’s for breakfast!”
Mr. Tremont heads off to help the
crew unload the launch, while Mr. Simonson excuses himself and heads up the
ladder into the quarters – a round metal house set within the iron legs of the
tower. He goes to work in the kitchen.
Already, the smell of baked ham is wafting outside. My stomach growls impatiently. The crew of the launch and Mr. Tremont have
begun hauling crates and boxes and drums of kerosene onto the landing. They sing as they work, making the heavy
chore easier to bear.
The hens now appear from a box-shaped little house on the
far-side of the landing and begin clucking in anticipation.
“Yes, yes, do come out now! They’ve brought cracked corn for you
biddies!” Captain Hodges says, shooing them away.
Duffy growls again, but I quiet him. There are five hens, all plump Plymouth White
Rocks, and one rooster who struts haughtily.
Captain Hodges introduces each one by name – Maria, Antonia, Isabella, Carmen,
and Juanita, plus Ulysses the rooster.
The hens, he says, are named for his Cuban wife and four daughters who
live in Key West
and are the finest cooks and seamstresses in the entire South. The rooster takes the name of Union general
and post-war president, Ulysses S. Grant, under whom Keeper Hodges long ago
proudly served and lost his leg.
“Such an arrogant sort old Ulysses
is,” Captain Hodges says, pointing to the proud fowl. “Thinks he’s king around here. Chases Mr. Simonson when he’s got potato
rinds to discard and fights with the gulls.
Yet, he’s the first to run for cover when there’s a thunderstorm. Ha!”
As we head up the ladder to the
quarters for breakfast I begin to sense the loneliness of this place, where
hens are named for the head keeper’s much-missed family and even a crotchety
old rooster is granted a noble title.
The quarters are small but
sufficient for three men. The walls are
curved and set with broad windows to allow in light and air on two levels. The kitchen, storerooms, and office are
below; sleeping rooms are above. Spiraling
up through the house is the metal stair cylinder leading to the lantern.
Mr. Simonson is all smiles as we sit down at a simple
linen-covered table for a late morning breakfast in the kitchen. Plates of steaming
baked ham, fried potatoes with onions, boiled okra, fried eggs, freshly-baked
brea,d and jars of orange marmalade cause my stomach to roar in
expectation. An apple cobbler sits on
the cookstove, keeping warm. Captain
Hodges invites Uncle Caleb and me to choose seats. Duffy is given a plate of ham and eggs on the
floor. Captain Hodges says grace, being
mindful to thank God for his guests and the many provisions they are
bringing. Then Mr. Simonson serves,
pouring the men coffee and honey-sweetened tea for me. He slips an orange into my hand and winks.
“A treat for you, Miss Spenser. A gentleman near Miami brings these to us
from his orchard. Shall I squeeze the juice into a glass, or would you rather
eat the whole fruit?”
“Whole, please,” I say, relishing
the memory of oranges, lemons, tangerines, grapefruits and limes Papa kept
aboard the Angela to ward off scurvy
and other illnesses at sea. Mr. Simonson
cuts the orange into quarters, and I suck the pulpy goodness from one as the
men watch in amusement.
“And do you know how to make an
orange smile, Miss Spenser?” Captain Hodges asks. “My children always made us laugh doing this
at breakfast when they were little.”
The captain grabs an orange quarter
and pops it onto his teeth, then draws his lips over it in a big, orange smile.
I gasp, then burst into peels of
laughter. He looks so funny in his fancy
brass-buttoned uniform, with a cloth napkin tucked under his chin and that bright
orange smile!
After breakfast, we have a tour of
the lighthouse. Up the winding staircase
we go, Duffy tucked under my arm, up 112-feet above sea. Uncle Caleb notes the excellent condition of
the tower and its illuminating apparatus.
The prism lens is polished to perfection and ready for the coming
night. Captain Hodges says that the new
system for collecting rainwater also is working well. It has solved the problem of dangerous lead
particles from the lighthouse’s red paint getting into the drinking water. I listen with great interest as he explains
how during thunderstorms rainwater that falls on the lighthouse roof is
directed to pipes that run into a cistern, or collection tank. Since the rainwater passes over painted parts
of the lighthouse, it is allowed to run freely over the tower for about five
minutes to clean off any lead particles. Then, cocks are turned to divert the
rain into the cistern.
“We don’t have to scrub the roof as
much anymore either,” adds Captain Hodges.
“The flush of that first rain cleans it well before we pipe the water
into the cistern. But the seabirds…they’re still a nuisance. Like to perch up there and make a mess.”
I look up at the cupola some eighty
feet above the dwelling and dizzily wonder who would be brave enough to climb
that high and clean away the bird poop.
I suppose it isn’t much different from climbing the mainmast to the
crow’s nest on my father’s ship. I have
done that often with Papa.
“Mr. Tremont is nimble,” says the
captain, patting the youngest keeper on the back. Mr. Tremont is polishing the lens but pauses
to look my way. “We usually send him up to
scrub the roof when the first rain falls.”
I study Mr. Tremont when he isn’t
looking at me. He is, truly, a handsome
young man. His hair falls in jet black
curls about his forehead and on the back of his neck, and his eyes are a
strange green color flecked with brown, or it gold? I am entranced by the fine mold of his nose,
an aquiline shape than when in profile reminds me of a picture of a Roman
gladiator I once saw in a book. His hands
are strong, yet delicate, as if they might hold a baby bird as easily as grasp
a heavy drum of oil. I am disappointed
when Captain Hodges offers to help me down the service ladder into the
watchroom, leaving Mr. Tremont behind in the lantern. Studying him was a pleasant reverie,
something I’ve never cared to do with any of the crew of Papa’s ship or the men
of the Arbutus. There is, indeed, something different about Mr.
Tremont.
The men spend all day transporting
supplies to the lighthouse, while the assistant keepers busy themselves putting
away provisions and kerosene. After the
tour, I wander about the house with Duffy, then we go down to the landing and
hand-feed the chickens from the barrel of cracked corn and grain that has been
unloaded. Duffy would rather chase the
chickens, but old Ulysses proves a formidable foe and guards his feathered
harem. Duffy, nicked by one of Ulysses’
spurs, is sent whining to my side.
Mr. Simonson brings me a fishing pole and some bait and shows
me how to fish from the landing. After a
few hours of dangling the hook in the opaline reef water, I’ve caught
nothing. Duffy snores at my side, having
decided some time ago he’d rather nap than fish. Mr. Simonson returns, this
time with oatmeal cookies and cold tea.
He takes the fishing pole and soon catches a fine red snapper which he says
was meant for me to catch and will make an excellent chowder for supper. Later at supper, a light meal like suppers on
the Arbutus, he rants on and on about
my fishing talents and praises the fine fish he says I caught. Mr. Tremont offers his praise as well, and I
find myself embarrassed.
After dinner, Mr. Conroy returns to
the Arbutus, but Uncle Caleb, Duffy,
and I remain on the lighthouse. As Doc
said, we will stay the night, since Uncle Caleb wants to observe the lighting
up of the beacon and check the operation of the lens. I suspect he also anticipates an enjoyable evening
with the lightkeepers. Except for Mr.
Tremont, who is new on the lighthouse, they are all old friends. They will swap stories, smoke pipes, and play
cards.
For the first time, I am given the opportunity to see a
lighthouse beacon kindled, and it is truly an amazing thing to behold. Shortly before dusk, Uncle Caleb, Duffy, and
I accompany Captain Hodges and Mr. Tremont up the tight spiral stairs to the
watchroom. The metal stairway is still
quite warm from the heat it absorbed from the mid-April day. In the watchroom, Uncle Caleb checks the
logbook and weather journal. Mr. Tremont
points out an entry from March when a flock of migrating birds stormed the tower. He drew a picture of one that landed on the
catwalk above, a very fine sketch. I
tell him he has great talent, and he blushes, abashed to receive a compliment
from a lady, even one as young as me.
In the lantern we watch as Captain Hodges checks the lamps
and winds the weights for the clockworks that will turn the lens. Mr. Tremont has each lamp filled and trimmed,
ready for the first watch of the night.
Under Captain Hodges direction, he lights up the huge first-order lens,
carefully adjusting each wick so that it burns clean and clear. One by one, the lamps flicker to life and
send their light through the prisms of the great crystal lens. The beams are twisted together, concentrated,
and transformed into a piercing ray. As
the lens begins to revolve, from the pull of the clockworks, the rays are shot
through the bulleyes into the twilight air in magnificent flashes where they
will provide succor to ships miles away from the reef.
The amazing process by which the light is concentrated and
magnified was developed in 1823 by a French physicist named Jean-Augustin
Fresnel. Mr. Tremont tells me Fresnel’s
amazing lenses revolutionized lighthouse illumination by making brilliant beams
visible far at sea and creating a flash characteristic for each lighthouse. Before their invention, there were only a few
flashing lights, and beams reached only a few miles at sea.
“It’s an amazing system,” says Mr. Tremont, “but it requires
much work for us, the keepers. We must polish the crystal prisms and the brass
framework each day until they are spotless.
The gears must be oiled and the clockworks mechanism kept clean of dirt.
I spend much of my time doing this brightwork, as we call it. I clean the lantern windows each day as well.”
I glance outside at the narrow catwalk surrounding the
lantern. Mr. Tremont seems to read my
mind:
“Would you like to stand on the lantern catwalk, Miss Spenser? It’s a wonderful view.”
I give Duffy to Uncle Caleb, who is still inspecting the
lens with Captain Hodges. Mr. Tremont and I slide through the small access door
to the catwalk, the narrow walkway outside the lantern. I suspect even an agile
cat might find this high place unnerving.
Wind buffets my face the moment I enter the outside world of the
lighthouse top. My hair begins a wild
dance, unloosing the ribbon I tied in the back this morning to add some decoration. Mr. Tremont catches it just in time, a moment
before the mischievous night wind steals it.
He laughs as he hands it back to me, and for a second his fingers touch
mine.
“Look there,” he says, pointing northeast. Fowey Rocks Lighthouse. And there, to the
southwest is Alligator Reef Light.”
He proceeds to tell me how a ship, to remain safe in the
sealane along the eastern coast of Florida, ought to see a new lighthouse off
its bow as an old one disappears off its stern.
Being the child of a sea captain, I know this fact, but I let him
proceed with his instruction all the same. He seems to be enjoying my company,
and I must admit he’s a pleasant companion.
“These lighthouses of the reef are nicknamed the Iron
Giants. All of them are made of iron and
are screwed into the reef. I served at the
big one on Sombrero Key off Marathon before coming here in January. It’s the tallest of the reef lights –
156-feet high. If I’m lucky, I’ll go to
a land light next and be promoted to first assistant. Someday I might even be head keeper at a
lighthouse. Then I can get married and
have a family.”
He pauses, somewhat embarrassed that he has gushed his
personal feelings so easily. For a
moment, I imagine him standing next to a lovely young girl in a bridal gown,
reciting vows. Quickly, I push the
thought away and point to a ship traveling north far out from the lighthouse.
“That’s the Gulf Stream
out there isn’t it?” I ask, although I already know the answer. “That ship wants to be in the current to get
a push northward.”
“You’re right! And ships headed south try to stay outside
the current and the reef so they don’t get pushed backwards. It’s tricky navigation. Must have been difficult before these
lighthouses were built.”
Yes, I know too well the ordeal of navigating the Florida Strait.
Papa always demanded Duffy and I remain quiet and not interfere with the
work on the Angela when we passed
along this dangerous part of the coast.
Sometimes he would give me an old sextant and clock to practice star
sights with and a journal to record my positions, or I might sit quietly on
deck and read a book about the shipwrecks that occurred here or the pirates
that once roamed these waters. Once we were
beyond Key West,
Papa would relax a bit. He always said
sailing the Gulf side of Florida
was far easier than its Atlantic side.
We descend the tower around 9:00 p.m., leaving Mr. Tremont on watch. Mr. Simonson will take over at midnight, then Captain Hodges near
dawn. After a short mug-up in the
kitchen, Mr. Simonson shows Duffy and me to our sleeping quarters, a small room
in the upper level of the house with a single bed more comfortable than the
straw mattress in my cabin aboard the Arbutus. Uncle Caleb will sleep in the bunkroom with
the lightkeepers. He comes up to say
prayers with me and kiss me good-night.
He tells me not to read too long, for he knows my ways. Given a book, I am lost for hours. From the laughter I hear from kitchen after
he leaves, I know it will be hours before he sleeps.
I open the book I’ve chosen from the
lighthouse’s oak library cabinet, kept in the office below. It’s a book of poems, my favorite reading. They make me lonely for Papa, of course, but
soon the warm glow of the oil lamp on the table next to my bed and Duffy’s
quiet snoring lull me. I put out the lamp
and roll on my side. Sleep comes quickly
after a busy day in the sea air. Papa
says ocean air is the very best sleep tonic.
How many hours I have been asleep
when the uproar begins, I do not know. It
is indescribable. I can only say I am
suddenly awakened by a horrendous groan and the feeling that my bed is being
shaken. Duffy jerks awake, sits up, and
growls.
“What was that, Duffy? You heard it, didn’t you? That awful sound?”
His ears perk up; still, he huddles
close to me. Minutes later another groan
courses the tower, worse than the first.
Vibration wracks the bed and rattles the lamp on the table. The pitcher in the basin on the nightstand
suffers ceramic tremors. Duffy dives
beneath the blanket in fright, only his nose peeking out. I fumble for the extra blanket beside my bed
to wrap myself. I must find Uncle Caleb
and find out what calamity has beset the lighthouse.
“Urrrrrr…eeeecchh!” it sounds again.
Duffy is now deep inside the
bedcovers. Carefully, I feel my way
toward the door. The room is utterly
dark until a faint glow from the beam of the lighthouse flashes.
“Stay here, Duffy. I’m going to find Uncle Caleb.”
Outside the room I make my way to
the stair cylinder. A thin light seeps
up from below, and I hear the men’s voices.
I am about to step into the stairway and call to them when another horrible
groan shakes the lighthouse and a dark figure appears in front of me. A tiny cry escapes from my throat. I begin to
fall backwards. The figure approaches and I recognize the silhouette of a
man. A ghost of a man? Captain Johnson?
The men on the Arbutus had warned me about him this morning.
I feel an arm circle about my waist.
“Everything is fine, Miss Spenser. Nothing
to fear.”
It’s Mr. Tremont. His
coffee-warm breath touches my cheek. I feel his whiskers, grown out since
morning. He smells different than my father and different than Uncle Caleb. Netter,
I think. His arm is strong. My hand passes lightly over the soft hair on his
hand.
“Guess we forgot to mention that old Captain Johnson still
resides in this tower,” Mr. Tremont says. “Some folks believe his ghost haunts
the lighthouse. That’s him you hear
groaning. He does it from time to time
at night. Harmless sort of wraith. Come.
I’ll take you back to your bed. Where’s your little dog?”
I find my voice at last: “He’s
hiding in my bedcovers, poor thing. I
was just going down to find my uncle. Are you sure Captain Johnson is
harmless? He sounds so…so horrible.”
Mr. Tremont chuckles and hugs me a
bit closer.
“Your uncle should have told you
about the clamor. I’m surprised he
didn’t. Oh well…you’re fine now, aren’t
you? At least you aren’t shivering. By
the way, your uncle was called back to the Arbutus,
and he didn’t want to wake you to go with him.
Said he’d come for you in the morning.”
Mr. Tremont walks me to my room,
fluffs my bed pillow a bit, and helps me get under the covers. Duffy hasn’t budged from his hiding place and
digs in deeper when another groan sounds.
Mr. Tremont kneels by the bed and takes my hand reassuringly.
“It’s a little hard to sleep the
first night you hear it, but we’ve grown accustomed to it. Only lasts an hour
or so. I guess none of us really
believes it’s a ghost, but we can’t think what else it could be. They say it’s happened here ever since the
tower was built. Might have something to do with the tower’s iron construction.
Metal makes funny sounds sometimes as its temperature changes.”
“Who is this Captain Johnson?” I ask
timidly. When I realize how hard I am clutching his hand, I release my grip.
“Oh…Captain Johnson. Yes. He
was the first keeper here. A great
sinner he was, too. Drank and swore and
refused to read his Bible. He died on
the lighthouse, and people say his spirit couldn’t get into heaven, so it roams
the tower night after night. That
groaning you hear is supposed to be the old captain crying out his regret.”
I am silent. Papa always taught me not to believe in
superstitions such as ghosts. There’s a
sensible explanation for every peculiar occurrence. This one seems real enough though.
“I’ll sit by your bed until you fall
asleep if you like, Miss Spenser,” offers Mr. Tremont. He touches my hand again, ever so lightly. I am glad he, too, doesn’t believe in ghosts.
“Thank you. I’d like that.
And…and…you can call me Libby if you like….when it’s just the two of us
together, I mean. Libby is short for
Olivia.”
Though the room is almost completely
dark, I sense Mr. Tremont is smiling.
“I’d like that, calling you
Libby. It’s a lovely name…for a lovely
lady. And will you call me Vincent
then? We’ll only use our first names in
private. Captain Hodges wouldn’t approve
of me acting so familiar.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.
Vincent. That’s a nice name. We’ll keep it a secret, just between us. And thank you…Vincent…for sitting with
me. I feel so much better now.”
“Urrrrr….eecchh!”
Perhaps you're wondering about Libby's trip to Sanibel Island Lighthouse and what happens with Libby and Vincent. Hang on! The finished novel will be published next year.
