Social media wasn’t a thing back then, so I don’t have much of a sense of who the lighthouse keeper was or what he looked like. Just that he was originally from that same village, Killick Bay. He had a younger sister, who died when she was eight, so not only did his parents lose one child, but they lost both. His dad was a lighthouse keeper previously, and Dylan took over for him when he was twenty-nine. His parents stayed in the village until 2001, when they passed away.
The article ends by saying that because of the high winds and heavy rain, there was very little chance he could have survived the fall. The rocks surrounding the lighthouse would have been too wet and slippery to climb back up. Harsh waves would have taken him out fast. I think of how cold the water would have been and shudder. It’s believed his death was either from drowning or landing on the sharp rocks after his fall.
I close my laptop, having found all the info I can on the lighthouse and its keeper. Because of how he died, the family and the town didn’t want it turned into any sort of museum or tourist attraction. It has sat empty and abandoned since.
If that’s the case, who’s living there now?
Chapter Four
By the time the weekend rolls around, I catch myself in my old beat-up car again, driving the same winding road that, I swear, led me to Killick Point last Sunday. This time, I keep my GPS on and note that my surroundings feel the same as they did last week. The tall trees that surround the car shift to grey, jagged rocks, the ocean expanding beside me as I make my way up the now familiar point.
When I get to the spot where the gravel path meets the road, I pull over. I’m here. It’s the same lighthouse. I do a happy wiggle in my seat before unbuckling. “I was right,” I sing as I get out of the car and make my way toward the white-and-red structure.
As the gravel crunches under my feet, it dawns on me.
If I was right, then who is living in this lighthouse?
Has someone just decided to shack up there? And why was he so concerned about an apparent storm? And hewastalking to someone on the phone. I think? I don’t know why I care so much, but when I get up there and see the paint-chipped red door with the rusted hinges—not boarded uplike it was in the photos—curiosity takes over. A pull that I can’t quite explain. I place my ear to the faded door and listen.
Same as last weekend. Footsteps. I take my phone out, ready to dial 911 if I need to, and very slowly, very quietly, open the door. The tingling sensation from last weekend appears as my fingers make contact with the gold handle. The old metal gives me a mild shock when I touch it.
I move from the entrance into the empty main level. Unlike last time, the footsteps are coming from above. He must be on the next level. I walk over to the black cast-iron staircase that winds up to where the sounds are coming from. I start to walk up, hands gripping the cold metal as I take each hesitant step, cautious of how loud my feet are when they land.
What am I even doing?
Why do I care so much?
Because no one’s supposed to live here, remember.
I turn around once more, spotting a clipboard hanging on the wall beside the staircase with the title “Emergency Procedures,” and grip my phone a little tighter in my hand.
When I make it up to the second level, I step into the living quarters of the lighthouse—or at least part of it. On my right is the living room with a two-seater couch and a matching chair. Instead of a television in front of the couch, a wood stove sits in its place, backed against the opposite curved wall. The staircase is in the centre of the lighthouse, allowing some separation between the two spaces.
Before I can continue looking around, my eyes dart over to the kitchen on the left, where the guy from last weekend stands, pouring himself a cup of coffee and stirring some sugar into it with a spoon. He’s wearing a pair of light-wash straight Levi’s jeans and a crisp white T-shirt. A hint ofblack ink pokes out from where his sleeve ends, and I bite my lip.
I wonder if he has more of those.
It’s on the same arm as the cut from last weekend, now a red scab that looks like it might scar. A black toque sits on his head, his long, dark brown hair almost touching his very sculpted shoulders. I gasp without meaning to, and he turns around, surprised, slamming his coffee cup onto the wooden countertop with a thud. Black coffee pours over the side and spills onto the counter, blending into the dark wood.
“You,” he says, looking confused and thrown off. “What are you doing here? Again.”
I scoff at his anger, feeling my own build. Maybe because he was so rude to me last weekend when my only intention was to help. “I think the better question is, what areyoudoing here? In this abandoned lighthouse. Duringperfectly good weather, might I add!” That last jab feels extra good since there was no storm last Sunday, even though he was convinced one was coming.
“Now you’re really losing it,” he snaps back, his voice deep and gruff. “Does it look abandoned to you?” He motions around the space with his hand holding the mug of coffee. “Not only is this where I work, but it’s my home. And you’re trespassing.Again.”
My anger subsides a bit, replaced by mild confusion. He’s right. This space doesn’t look abandoned on the inside at all. And the door wasn’t boarded up like it was in the picture I saw online that I showed Priya. Maybe they’ve decided to finally restore it and bring back lighthouse keepers. According to my research, that was something that became automated in the ’90s, and since then, there haven’t been any in the province of Nova Scotia.
Until now, I guess.
“Okay, fine, you’re right,” I finally say. “It doesn’t look abandoned in here.”
My eyes bounce around the space, noticing how nice it looks, even if a bit dated. I wonder if they kept most of the things from before and just reused them. Better than having them end up in the landfill. The faded mustard-yellow-and-brown plaid couch has to be at least thirty years old. Right in front of the couch is a dark-stained wooden rectangular coffee table with a lower shelf for storage. An old book,The Standby Stephen King, sits on the shelf with a page near the middle dog-eared. There’s a bookshelf to the right of the wood stove filled with more books, rolled-up maps, a pack of cards, and a few notebooks. In front of one of the windows is a well-used wooden desk that matches the coffee table. On top of the desk is a plastic cup filled with pencils and another one of those notebooks, flipped open, with a circular object that resembles a compass sitting beside it. There’s an adjustable desk lamp with a shiny green top. The light from the lamp pours over the open notebook. A fresh-looking coffee ring stains the wood. He must have been sitting there before I came in.
I scan the kitchen once more, lost in my thoughts. The kitchen is very small and simple. Which is fair, considering we’re literally in a lighthouse right now. I didn’t realize people not only worked but lived in these buildings too. Similar to a fire tower. Compact works in a space like this. One line of dark wooden cabinets curves with the wall, with white-painted cupboards up top. There’s a small rectangular window above the sink, showing off a view of the ocean. I hear a beep from the old, white Mr. Coffee drip-style coffee maker beside the sink. Beside it is an old radio. Funny, not many people have radios anymore. I wonder what he listens to. Over to the left is a small whitefridge, and a white stove sits on the opposite side of the sink, past the radio. No dishwasher.
Someone is clearly living here.
Very minimally, I should add.
