Curse of the Stag’s Eye (Haunted Hearts)

2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

A bitter wind sliced across the little island, rippling the grass like waves and tossing Rhys’ side-parted hair. “At least you don’t have this problem.” He pointed at my shaved head.

I should have worn my cap. “I don’t even have a beard like yours to keep me warm.” I had stubble, my usual four or five days’ worth. That was as long as I could stand before it got too itchy and I shaved it all off.

“I arrived about an hour before all of you,” Rhys said. “I wanted to make sure I got here before dark. You didn’t drive all the way from Yorkshire today, did you?”

“No, yesterday,” I said. “I’m staying in a B&B about half an hour away. It was the closest place to here I could find.”

“You should have said. You could have stayed with us in our camper van.” Nikesh slapped my arm a little as he talked. “We could have had a big spooky sleepover! Stayed up all night, swapping ghost stories…”

Dawn put her arm around his waist as we walked. “No, love. Remember the last time? With your sisters? You got so scared you wet yourself? You left a puddle on the carpet and everything.”

He stopped dead in his tracks. “No, babes, no. It was the dog, remember? I told you. It was the dog.” He tucked his chin into his chest and walked on ahead.

The lighthouse and its associated buildings were outlined by a shabby white wall, no more than waist-high. The lighthouse tower itself — white with curving blue stripes — stood at the farthest point of the island, close to the edge. Off to one side, a free-standing cabin held the foghorn. First, though, we came to a row of cottages, three in all, surrounded by a wide, gravel-lined path, and facing two large, walled gardens.

“Look at the size of those seagulls.” Rhys pointed to several birds fighting on the edge of the cliff. “Proper monsters, they are.”

“There’s no such thing as seagulls,” Nikesh said. “They’re just gulls. Well, those aren’t, those are gannets.”

In the chilly air of a Welsh autumn evening, I stood at Rhys’ side, his face illuminated by the weak, citrus pink rays of the setting sun. The whitewashed cottages, huddled tightly in a row as if braced for cold weather, glowed a faint rose colour in the waning light. Rhys unlocked the door to one of the cottages and keyed in the code to the alarm.

We all set our bags in one corner. Rhys had sent an email to us all advising us on what we should bring — a sleeping bag, water bottle, food, and some warm clothes.

He flicked the master light switch. “Welcome to the visitor’s museum of the fifth most haunted lighthouse in Wales!”

Dawn pulled off her woolly hat and tucked it into the pocket of her jacket. “Why not go to the first most haunted?”

“Because every bugger’s already been there. Even Yvette bloody Fielding’s been there. This is the road less travelled, so to speak.”

I paced about. “I expected these to be holiday cottages.” There were no interior walls. A massive lighthouse lamp — hexagonal in shape and made of undulating lenses — stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by placards in Welsh and English explaining how it worked and where it had come from.

I passed by dusty shelves of backup batteries and a Victorian-looking generator painted olive green. I paused at a spare bulb displayed in a special crate complete with its own sprung suspension system to avoid breakages in transit.

“These three cottages were built years after the lighthouse itself. Two of them were knocked through to make the museum,” Rhys said. “The last one was kept as it would have been when it was still in use.”

“Does that mean we can stay the night?” Nikesh grinned like a maniac. “I’ve always wanted to stay at a lighthouse. Ooh! Can we sleep inside the actual tower?”

Rhys puffed out his cheeks. “No, mun! I told the Trust we’d only be here for a few hours.”

“Then why’d we bother to bring sleeping bags?” Dawn asked.

“You know, just in case we broke down on the way here, or get caught in bad weather, or whatever,” Rhys said. “Never hurts to prepare for the worst, does it? The cottage is just for show really. And the lighthouse would be a bit too cold to spend a whole night in. Plus it’s a long way to come if you need a pee.” The cottages had no bathrooms and instead shared a block of toilets a few yards away from the houses. A chilly walk in the dead of night, I’m sure.

“There’s a toilet in the lighthouse tower but it doesn’t work anymore,” Rhys said. “There are a couple of coal sheds we should take a look at as well, come to think of it. I have that pencilled in for half six so we’d better get a move on. We don’t want to run behind, do we?”

His perkiness and obsession with timekeeping were equal parts sweet and grating. I chose to focus on the grating. I couldn’t let myself be distracted.

Cabinets and display tables lined the walls of the museum. Bosun whistles, uniforms, compasses — all under glass and neatly labelled. A number of tall information display boards chartered the history of the lighthouse, from its construction to its automation.

“What it doesn’t tell you,” Rhys said, “is in order to build the lighthouse, they had to clear the land which included moving an ancient megalith. A standing stone. You would have seen it up at the car park. They moved it up there so it could keep watch over the lighthouse and the island it once called home.

“It was a controversial decision at the time but as with most things, the anger around it faded eventually. Still, the Lighthouse Trust are not keen on drawing attention to the fact. They don’t want to be pressured into moving it back to the island, I suppose.”

“It has a hole,” I said. “The stone. It looks like an eye.”

Rhys nodded. “It does indeed, which is why it’s known as the Stag's Eye. I did some research about it, and I printed something out about it. Hang on, I have it here somewhere.”

He searched through his pockets and pulled out a sheet of paper. It crinkled as he unfolded it and read aloud: “The megalith known locally as the Stag’s Eye dates back to at least the early Bronze Age. While its exact purpose is unknown, many such stones are thought to have been erected to align with the sun or moon as part of a prehistoric calendar.

“Others are said to have served as a guardian or protective force for the people of the area. Given the Stag’s Eye position on the island, one study suggests it served to watch over local fishermen and protect them from the ravages of the sea. Not unlike the lighthouse which has since replaced it.” He folded the sheet up. “There’s also a bit of local folklore that tells of an ancient curse which said dread tidings would befall upon he who moved the Eye.”

“But they moved it anyway,” Dawn said.

“They did. And lo and behold, the lighthouse has had more than its fair share of misfortune. There have been lots of accidents over the years, like Mr Squirrel’s death. One chap fell down the stairs and broke his leg so badly he had to have it amputated. At least two keepers have died from tuberculosis, another died after a strong wind whipped him off from the gallery around the light. There have been a higher-than-average number of other accidents, or so they say. It’s hard to separate fact from fiction, especially with maritime folk. They love a tall tale, they do.

“Still, one thing that can’t be denied is this place had an unusually high turnover of keepers. Apparently, nobody wanted to serve here for too long. And then there’s the tragedy of Howard Baines' murder.”

I spotted a small section of a freestanding information board, a scan of an old newspaper article titled “Horror at Stag’s Head”.

“It’s terrible, what happened here.” Rhys pointed to the article. “An ex-convict named William Jessop wrangled his way into a job on the lighthouse. All seemed fine at first but he soon started to lock horns with the principal keeper, a man named Howard Baines. They fought like cats and dogs, according to the other keeper, Mr Squirrel.

“Howard Baines made Jessop’s life very difficult, giving him all sorts of tricky and dangerous jobs to do around the place. Until one day an argument got out of hand, they got into a fist fight, and Baines fired him. Jessop took his revenge by strangling Howard Baines to death in his own bed.”

“Did they catch him?” Dawn asked. “Jessop, I mean?”

Rhys shook his head. “He fled to America. They think he must have changed his name because he was never heard from again.” Rhys paced the floorboards. “Imagine it. Being stuck out here with only two other men for company. And one of them” — he held his hands up like claws — “is a murderer!”

“Oh, my Christ!” Nikesh squealed and grabbed Dawn. “There’s something there! Oh, my Christ! Oh, my Christ, babes!” He pointed behind a tall case housing flags used for semaphore where a shadowy figure in a hat lurked in a corner.

Rhys marched over. “Bloody hell, mun! What is that? Oh, my God! No!” After some pretend gasps he wheeled out a cheap mannequin wearing an old sailor’s uniform. “We’re in for a long night if you jump at every shadow, butt.”

Dawn giggled and pinched Nikesh’s side.

“Easy mistake to make,” he said.

This lot were going to drive me up the wall. I thought about leaving there and then. I didn’t know if I could face spending the whole evening with them. But I had to. I needed to.

Most of the museum was given over to items recovered from a shipwreck off the coast of the island. “I thought lighthouses were supposed to prevent this sort of thing from happening.” I traced my hand over the glass. A pair of ladies’ gloves, some shoes, and a snuff box, all arranged and spaced evenly on a red velvet setting and marked with little cards.

“It was a particularly bad squall, from what I read online.” Rhys stood by my side, peering over to read the information cards. He radiated warmth. “It appeared suddenly and overwhelmed the crew.”

He wore his checked shirt open to the second button and I had to stop myself from staring at the knot of black chest hair peeking out. “Have you been here before?”

He shook his head. “I did a bit of research but I wanted to come in with fresh eyes.”

And what beautiful eyes they were. Light hazel in colour with a ring of grey at the edges. Not that I really noticed, of course. Or cared.

The wind rattled the old windows of the museum, causing Nikesh to flinch. “Do you think we’ll see any ghosts tonight?” he asked.

Rhys took from his backpack an oil lantern and a box of matches. “I certainly hope so!”