Curse of the Stag’s Eye (Haunted Hearts)

5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

R hys decided to keep the door of the lighthouse on the latch. In all honesty, I would have preferred to lock it tightly. I didn’t want anyone else sneaking in when we weren’t looking. Since we left the coal shed, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched and wondered if perhaps Rhys had an accomplice on the island.

Rhys led the group back through the museum to the lighthouse tower and the foot of the winding main staircase, where he grinned back at us. “Here we go.” His voice echoed up through the tower.

The stairs had a little green emergency light at every other step. Just enough to make sure we didn’t trip in the dark but not enough to read by, or to spoil the mood Rhys was trying to create. He went to open the cellar door.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, mate.” Nikesh stepped back. “What you doing?”

“We’re starting at the bottom and working up.” Rhys held the door open for us.

“Nah, mate, nah,” Nikesh said. “You don’t start in the darkest, scariest part of the place! You’ve gotta ease us in first. Make us feel comfortable.” He peered into the darkness of the cellar and shuddered. “Besides, there’s no way I’m going down there.”

“Oh. Right you are!” Rhys took his notepad out and scribbled something down. “Tell you what, let’s start in one of the bedrooms instead.” He started climbing the winding staircase. I realised then he hadn’t stopped smiling from the moment I met him. An ex of mine had a dog, a golden retriever called Saint Olaf, who existed in a state of constant happiness, wagging her tail and panting maniacally at the slightest little thing. Rhys reminded me a bit of her.

I suppressed the urge to smile back at him. He wasn’t going to make this easy for me. “What about people who supposedly see ghosts during the day?” I followed him, keeping my phone’s torch pointed at the worn steps. “Or just hear them when they're, I don’t know, at home, just doing normal things? They’re hardly in an open, receptive frame of mind.”

“Haven’t you ever done something at home on automatic pilot? Like you were in a trance? Loading the dishwasher, ironing clothes, or whatever?” He stopped every now and then to listen. He reminded me more of Saint Olaf by the moment. “Besides, there’s lots we don't understand about hauntings. Maybe moon phases affect them, or sunspots.”

“Sunspots? That's a new one on me.”

“My auntie Chloe says they’re drawn to complicated souls.” Dawn’s shoes clicked and clacked on the stairs.

“You’ll be alright, then.” Nikesh pinched her bum. “Nothing complicated about you, is there?”

Rhys and I exchanged eye rolls before we reached a small landing and he opened the door to the only room on the first floor.

A metal bed — barely big enough for Dawn, let alone me or Rhys — sat tight as it could against one curved wall. An old-fashioned suitcase rested on top, lid open, and filled with a plain brown suit and cream shirt. The weight tube stood erect in the dead centre of the room. I wondered how many keepers stubbed their toes on it in the night.

The only window hung between the bed and a cold, stark fireplace. Some aged photos rested on the bone-white mantelpiece. Pictures of women and children. Families of keepers past, I assumed. Next to the fireplace, a wardrobe, and beside that — tucked away in the darkest part of the room — stood a simple writing desk. Whoever worked there must have strained their eyesight to its limit. Or used a lot of candles, I suppose. None of the furniture had been adapted to fit the bowed walls, it all just sat there, awkwardly, straight-edged, and defiant.

“This was one of the keepers’ rooms, back when this was a manned lighthouse.” Rhys gave us a guided tour. “They’ve recreated it, just as it would have been when the last keeper worked here.” Rhys held his lantern up to a wall of framed photos. Keepers from days gone by. He tapped one with his finger. “This is who we’re here to see.”

“Is that Mr Squirrel?” Nikesh asked.

“No, no, Mr Squirrel was just one of the unlucky people who lost their lives in service to this place. No, this is the ghost that keepers have reported seeing over the years. And a very distinctive and distinguished man he was too.” A man in his late sixties, with fluffy white sideburns, wearing a flat, peaked cap, and a sour expression stared out from the frame. Except not sour, not really. Determined, maybe. Weary, almost. Thin-lipped and clear-eyed, he cut a dashing and imposing figure. A nameplate read Principal Keeper Howard Baines.

“He must have had some life.” Nikesh flicked his own ear and looked over his shoulder. “I’ve always wanted to live in a lighthouse. I think it looks dead cozy and romantic.”

“It was a hard life.” Rhys ran his hand along the writing desk, narrowly avoiding a magnifying glass. “There was nothing romantic about working in these places. It was hard work, demanding, and monotonous. Plus the added pressure of knowing that if you make a mistake, people might die.

“Our Mr Baines spent months here at a time, tending the light. He would have had to work the fog horn by hand, every few minutes, in bad weather. This was before they built that separate horn in the hut outside. And back then, the bridge to the mainland wasn’t all fancy aluminium, remember. It was rope and a few bits of damp wood, then there were all those steps to climb. If the keepers got in trouble, and they managed to navigate all that, there still wasn’t a soul around for miles who could help them.”

“How many people worked here at one time?” Honestly, it surprised me to hear Nikesh taking an interest.

“Always three — That was the rule.” Rhys gestured a lot with his hands, his eyes gleeful. I couldn’t help but smile this time.

“It started off with only two per shift but there was a famous case back in… I want to say 1800? Or 1801, maybe? There were these two keepers in Smalls Lighthouse, off the west coast of Wales. It’s one of those really remote ones, built way out to sea. They never got on, always fighting, they were, and then one of them died in an accident. The other feared being blamed for the death so what could he do? He didn’t fancy living with a corpse for months, until the next relief arrived, and he didn’t want to get rid of the body in case it washed ashore. It would have looked even more suspicious, wouldn’t it?

“So he built a makeshift coffin for the body and lashed it to the outside of the lighthouse but a storm tore the coffin apart. The winds caught the rotting body and moved the limbs, making it appear as if it were waving to the living keeper, beckoning him out into the storm. When the next shift came, they found the keeper’s hair had turned white and he’d gone quite mad.”

My throat ran dry at the thought of a rain-lashed cadaver calling to me in the night.

“This bloke, Baines, took over as Principal Keeper in about 1810 but he’d worked here for a few years before he earned his promotion.”

“And you’re sure it’s him that haunting this place?” Dawn asked.

“So the keepers who were stationed here over the years have always said.” He faced the photograph on the wall. “Baines didn’t get along with the other keepers, and when he was put in charge, his temper got worse. He argued with all the men under him.

“In his official report, Mr Squirrel said on the day he was killed, Baines had spent all morning up on the gallery — the balcony outside, around the lamp. A squall had kicked up and the rain was lashing the lighthouse, but Baines didn’t seem to notice. A packet ship had been caught in the storm and was struggling. Baines wanted to sail out in a little fishing boat to help but the weather made it far too treacherous. Besides, another passing ship had already changed course to intercept and offer assistance. They were too late, though. The packet ship sank with no survivors.

“That same afternoon, William Jessop returned after a year’s absence, looking for his old job back. He and Baines argued and apparently came to blows. Mr Squirrel later found Baines’ body.” Rhys’ voice had become a whisper. “In that very bed. In full uniform, boots and all.” He crept over to the bed, holding the lantern high. Shadows danced on the curved wall. “He’d been strangled. Some of the local fishermen told Mr Squirrel that they’d seen Jessop on a boat headed to America. But, like I said, he was never heard from again.”

The wind howled outside. A fog started to roll in from the sea. Something clinked on the floor and rolled towards me.

Nikesh pointed and yelled: “Look!”

A fountain pen had fallen from the desk. “Calm down. Rhys probably knocked it loose.” I picked it up and put it back on the writing desk.

Rhys crouched and carefully watched the pen to see if it would move again. “Ever since Howard Baines was murdered, there’s been reports of his ghost walking the stairs, tending to the light, watching the sea... Some keepers wouldn’t go up to the lamp room alone.”

“Do you think we’ll see him in here? His ghost, I mean?” Nikesh took his phone out and flicked its torch around the room.

Rhys closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I don’t feel anything here. Do any of you?”

I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel but I shook my head, regardless.

“Have any of you done anything like this before?” Rhys asked.

I hadn’t wasted my time in a cold, remote building looking for something that doesn’t exist. “I haven’t, no.”

“She has.” Nikesh held his hand up like an eager schoolchild and pointed to Dawn. “She’s done them all: Shrewsbury Prison, Blickling Hall, Chillingham Castle. She’s even done Pendle Hill. This is my first one, though. I’m nervous. Can you tell? I talk a lot when I’m nervous. Sorry.”

“That’s okay; don’t worry.” Rhys smile grew wider. “This sort of thing can be a bit scary but nothing here can hurt you. Have you ever seen anything, Dawn? On the other hunts?”

“Ah, no, not really.” Dawn shrugged.

“I once saw a dark shape with glowing eyes dart across the floor of a church,” Nikesh said. “But it turned out to be the Vicar’s cat. Do you run a lot of tours?”

“This is my first one, can you tell?” Rhys laughed then. Chuckled, really. “I normally do all my investigations alone. It’s nice to have a bit of company. None of my friends find the paranormal very interesting. Not that I have many.” His smile faltered a little.

“What’s your plan?” I asked. “How do these investigations of yours work?” It took a lot of effort to keep my voice airy.

Rhys lit up again. I could almost see his tail wagging. “I spend the night in a place and I document any spooky goings-on. If there is something, I try to talk to it and encourage it to move on. You know. To the other side. To their eternal rest.”

“And what do you tell the owners?”

“The truth.”

I bit my tongue. “What about infrasound? Couldn't hauntings just be the result of infrasound? It’s been proven to interfere with people’s peripheral vision, hasn’t it? That's what I've read anyway.”

Nikesh frowned. “What’s that when it’s at home?”

“Low frequency sounds,” Rhys said. “Below the range of human hearing.”

I nodded. “It can be caused by waves. Maybe it’s the constant infrasound of the sea lashing outside making people think they’re seeing ghosts?”

“It's one theory,” Rhys said with a shrug.

“You don't think there might be something to it?”

Rhys walked to the doorway. “I believe the evidence of my own eyes, Gaz. I believe the breath on my neck. The goose pimples on my arm. When scientists can use infrasound to make me see a young girl in a white dress walk through a solid bookcase as clearly as I see you now, then I'll believe it.”

I thought Nikesh’s eyes were going to pop out of his head. “You've really seen that?”

“That and more.”

That didn't bring me much comfort. I was going to spend the evening traipsing around in the dark with someone who at best could see the dead and at worst… What? Has weird hallucinations?

“Listen.” Rhys held his finger to his lips.

At first, all I noticed was the faint howl of the wind outside but underneath it came something else, something rhythmic, falling. “Footsteps.”

Far below us, a door slammed. Nikesh all but jumped out of his skin. He clamped his hands over his mouth.

Dawn’s mouth dropped open. “Don’t go out there.”

Rhys ignored her and slowly crept out to the staircase. He called out a greeting. The footsteps stopped. After a moment’s hesitation, we all rushed down to the ground floor but found no one. We were alone.

“That’s a promising start.” Rhys’ eyes had lit up.

“Isn’t it just.” I stared at him.

“What does that mean?”

“Come on, what do you take me for?” I flicked on the light switch. Florescent bulbs popped, hummed, and flickered to life overhead in the little foyer of the lighthouse. “Footsteps on the stairs? A bit obvious, isn’t it?”

He lowered his lantern.

“What is it, hidden speakers? Bluetooth connected to your phone?” I searched around the ground floor. I opened the door to the cellar, bracing myself against the bone-chilling blast of cold air, and fumbled in vain on the wall for a light switch.

“There are no speakers and my phone is in my bag. And it’s switched off.”

I slammed the cellar door closed, making a different sound to the one we’d heard.

Rhys’ eyebrows knitted. “Do you think I’m having you on?”

My face grew redder. “Then what was it?” I pointed to Nikesh. “Are you in on it? Friend of his, are you? Or is there someone else here with us?”

Rhys held his hands out. “What the bloody hell do you think it was, mun? It was a ghost, wasn’t it? That’s the whole reason we’re here, isn’t it? You said you were into this, didn’t you? In your email, like? You said you had an open mind about this sort of thing.”

I had emailed Rhys a few weeks back, claiming to be interested in the paranormal and hoping to learn more about it. After some chatting, he told me he’d managed to get access to Stag’s Head Lighthouse and had decided to run a little ghost hunt, which I said I would come along to.

I carefully checked the closed door to the cellar, making sure it wouldn’t rattle as soon as my back was turned. “I did. I am. It’s just…” I swallowed hard. “Seeing it on telly is one thing, but having it actually happen is—”

“Exciting!” Rhys flicked off the lights.