Leslie Feannag's Lighthouse

I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, I guess. My bags are packed. Most of my furniture is already over at the new place. I’m not taking much, anyway; just some essentials, as well as some of the family silver. Mum says it’s good luck, and who am I to argue with her?

I’m taking a silver candlestick and a tiny hoop earring that makes me look something like an old grizzled sailor. It’s an interesting look for a short, glasses-wearing, mixed-race guy like me, but hey– it’s a little piece of the Feannags to take with me.

It’s amazing how much planning is required for the moving process, especially this one. So many repairs, so many packing days, so much paperwork. So many vague memories of Gramma Leslie, tinged with the kind of odd grief you get from feeling like you didn’t know someone half as well as you should’ve.

Honestly, I’m kind of amazed that I’m ready to move in at only two weeks. I wasn’t sure I was going to make it in time. I only got a two-week’s notice that my apartment was going to be demolished, and this was a lot to get done in that time.

My siblings helped, though. Jack and Isla ended up moving all my furniture and boxes over there as a personal favor. That’s why I haven’t actually seen the lighthouse in person yet. There wasn’t enough time to look through it, and it was kind of my only option, so now that I’m moving in for real, it will also be my first time seeing it (other than pictures).

The journey here wasn’t so nice. An Uber trip to the coast from Seattle, the windshield wipers going just slow enough to make me nervous. It was pouring rain, which is normal for fall days in Washington State, but usually people have the good sense to make sure they can at least see through the windshield.

I remember being relieved when the Subaru, (which smelled strongly of those little tree-shaped car fresheners), stopped, wheels crunching on the gravel parking space that ended just before the angry waves of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, separated from the dark sea by an igneous jetty. The driver looked at me in the mirror, a blank expression on their face. “This is your stop, correct?”

I didn’t want to get out of the car and into the rain. Sure, I didn’t want to get soaked, but I’ll admit that I was feeling suddenly tentative about the permanent implications of this final moving trip. Now that I could actually see the Strait in person, I wasn’t sure I really wanted to cross it.

What was I doing?

Stop wasting time, I reprimanded myself. This is a bad habit. Get out of the car and let the poor Uber driver leave.

I put my hood back on, tightened my scarf, and took a deep breath. Time to go.

The Uber driver helped me take my suitcase out of the trunk, then drove off without much more than a tip of the hat.

For a brief moment, I was alone in that small gravel lot. I looked around, wondering where I should go.

To my left was a tiny marina, a few fishing boats stowed in between old wooden docks, bobbing up and down in the waves. A few egrets and seagulls flew overhead. Everything looked slippery and waterlogged in the constant rain, and the edges of the farthest boats shone dully from a sliver of white sun on the horizon, peeking out from underneath a heavy grey sky. I looked up, wondering if it was really that safe for boating. What if a storm came?

To my right was the endless stretch of black rocks, forming a natural-looking barrier that slipped sharply into the dark green saltwater. The waves beat against them with a mesmerizing rhythm. Nothing to see here except the view.

For a second it sounded like someone was calling my name, but I assumed at first it was a seagull screaming in the distance.

“Angus!”

That wasn’t a seagull. I looked around nervously until I spotted the source of the noise.

I walked briskly down to the marina, hurrying down a little staircase made of uneven, haphazard slabs of concrete, until I found him on the dock. He was a small old fisherman, and was expecting me, just like I expected him to. A family friend, apparently, even though I’d never met him before. Mum had set this up for me, saying that he owed her a favor and would take me to Rookby Island for free in his fishing boat. I wonder what he owed her for. Mum is a strange person with a strange past, so, really, there’s no telling what past they could’ve had.

“Angus?” he repeated briefly, his voice rough from the salt air.

“That’s me,” I replied weakly, trying not to let my teeth chatter. It was bitterly cold, and the stinging wind didn’t help.

The fisherman led me silently down the dock, footsteps creaking on the rotting wooden boards. I peered over the edge of the dock into the icy-looking saltwater. A few small jellyfish were visible, and kelp crept up around the dock poles. Dainty-looking plumose anemones shared the sides of the floating planks with old barnacles, both waving tendrils in the water for food. A rare and interesting sight.

I’ve always liked zoology. Maybe sometime I should try to read up on the sea life around here. Might as well; after all, I’ll be living here for God knows how long.

The fishing boat was an old, dented metal thing, faded words on the side reading “S. S. Rhyme and Reason”. The fisherman climbed into the boat deftly, not stopping to help me in before sitting down in the beat-up driver’s seat. “Get in,” he said gruffly.

I clumsily climbed into the boat, hoping I wouldn’t slip on the wet metal and fall into the sea. For a second, I lost my balance, but I righted myself. My heart pounded as I shakily sat down on the soaking wet seats in the back of the boat.

It started to rain harder as the boat’s engine sputtered to life. The fisherman was safe and dry from a tarp covering the driver’s area. I envied him.

I looked around at the view from the boat, surveying the scenery.

The islands were foggy and dark in the distance. I couldn’t see any lights coming from them, either because of a lack of waterfront towns, or the heavy veil of rainy fog. The long, sleepy stretches of land were almost indistinct from each other, just a dark mass on the horizon, separating the Strait from the ocean.

I wished I had brought a book. Rookby Island was supposedly an hour away via motor boat. Not that it would do much good in this rain.

Rain started to form little rivulets in the bottom of the boat. I briefly imagined what would happen if the boat somehow filled up with rainwater. Would it sink? I almost laughed from the mental image. That tarp wouldn’t keep you safe for long if that happened.

“Feen-ag, eh?” the fisherman said shortly after five minutes of silence. I nearly jumped in my seat. Maybe he was actually starting to feel conversational.

“Yeah,” I said. “But… it’s pronounced ‘fyann-ag’, actually.” He was referring to my (mispronounced) surname. Everybody pronounces it wrong in some way, and that’s one of the more common ways to get it wrong. It’s Scottish, anyway; mispronunciation comes with the territory.

I didn’t want to talk about my family. That usually didn’t end well. If he knew my mum, maybe he knew the family secret, and if he knew the family secret, I didn’t want to talk to him.

“Are you the oldest one…?”

No escaping. I sighed inaudibly. “No, that would be Isla. I’m the youngest.”

For a minute, he was silent, and I falsely assumed the conversation was over. And then–

“What’s your curse? Are you like Leslie, with those crow feathers down her back?” he asked, chuckling. In the front mirror, I could see that he was missing a few teeth. His eyes glinted hungrily, flickering in a way that showed he was looking back at me through the mirror.

My heart sank. He did know, and now there was no good way out of this awful type of conversation. Just ignore and change the subject, and hope for the best. I racked my brain for a new subject to talk about.

“Have you been fishing long?” I asked after a second, almost cringing. That’s probably a line I’ll stay up late feeling stupid about. But I absolutely was not going to tell him anything about the Feannag curse.

“Never mind, then,” he said, grinning hollowly. “Wouldn’t want to be… rude.”

Thank God for the silence that followed. I let out a small breath.

Why was he so creepy, anyway? He was like a cartoon. Maybe that’s just what happens to you when you’re an old fisherman.

By now, my heavy ankle-length coat was completely soaked, and I was chilled to the bone. My fingers felt numb. I wrapped my arms around myself tightly to try to conserve what little heat I had. This was maybe the most uncomfortable trip I’d ever taken in my life.

Looking ahead at the island that the boat seemed to be going vaguely towards, I wiped my dripping hair out of my face. My glasses were covered in raindrops at that point, making it almost impossible to see clearly. Squinting at the horizon, I tried to get more comfortable.

He had mentioned Gramma Leslie, and in a very specific way. That was honestly unexpected. Most people who knew the Feannag family (and that wasn’t many) didn’t know Leslie. Only people in the family themselves seemed to really know who she was.

Maybe it was because she lived in such a remote place. The population of Rookby Island is about 70 people, and it’s not like lightkeepers get much company.

Gramma Leslie had died three months ago. She was my mum’s mum.

It was a major loss in the family, obviously, but I didn’t know her very well. We rarely talked when she was alive, so I had very few memories of her compared to the rest of the Feannag family.

At least my father barely knew her, either. Her husband, Grandpa Harvey, always mildly disapproved of Mum marrying my Dad, who is a Pakistani immigrant. Leslie actually liked my dad, but I think she didn’t want to “upset” Grandpa at family gatherings. So that made the two of us; Leslie didn’t talk to Dad much, either.

It’s really too bad. I don’t know why she stuck with Grandpa Harvey all these years– and not just because he was racist. He was just downright unpleasant. Leslie always seemed so nice. Why did she put up with him?

It was pretty surprising to me that she left me her lighthouse in her will. What was I to her, other than the grandson she saw every other Christmas, Ismail’s kid that tended to avoid talking to strange relatives?

The rain suddenly started to let up. It changed rapidly from a storm, to a downpour, to a shower, to a sprinkle, and then a light mist. The gentle mist stayed there, and I felt like I could breathe easier.

I looked out and around the sides of the boat and into the mist, which hung around the boat like a veil. There was something weirdly compelling about it, like all the space it encompassed was the only place on earth. I could feel something on my skin like the sharp prickle of rainfall, even though I was wrapped in my waterlogged coat.

“Yeh, I feel it too,” the fisherman said suddenly, his voice sounding unnaturally distant. “The Juan de Fuca mist is something they all want to avoid. That’s why we got ferries, eh?”

“Funny,” I mumbled sarcastically under my breath, “I thought it was the convenience, the speed, and the shelter from the rain.”

He didn’t hear me, which was probably good. He paused, fiddling with some stuffing that was coming out of a tear in his seat. “Funny that your parents arranged for me to drive you. Maybe she likes the mist. She always liked weird stuff, your mum…”

I’ll admit– he’s not wrong about that. Mum was always kind of weird. She used to put animal skulls up for decoration, and she forbid my siblings and I from owning smartphones until we were seventeen on the basis that “they pollute the bones”.

Without further comment, I had continued to look into the blank, foggy distance. I wondered if she did want me to feel this otherworldly fog. She believes in magic.

As for me? I’m not sure what I believe, as far as magic is concerned. I believe there are things in this world that science can’t explain, but I don’t know if I believe in all the weird stuff my mom does.

She’s kind of a hippie, anyway. The “essential oils can cure cancer” type.

The mist brought a strange sort of homesickness to me, tangible as a headache. What was it for, though? I didn’t miss home… did I?

Did I?

After about five minutes of the mist, we moved under a patch of clear blue sky. It was finally sunny!

I smiled out at the sparkling light on the waves, feeling like a weight had dissolved from around me. The strange emotion that the mist evoked faded away like a dream within seconds, and I didn’t think about it any further.

It was a wonderful feeling, the sun shining down on me. The rays were warm, wonderfully warm. I had hoped they would start to dry off my coat a bit, although I knew it was unlikely that I would be dry by the time we arrived.

There was still about a half hour left to the trip. It was not supposed to be a short trip from the mainland to Rookby Island, especially by fishing boat. I was soon lost in thought again.

The only times I ever saw Gramma Leslie were when she had visited for the holidays. Mum’s side of the family, the Feannags, saw us every other Christmas. The other Christmases were with my dad’s side, the Bukharis. I always liked the Bukhari side better. They’re nicer, and they cook better food.

I didn’t talk to Leslie when I was very young, but when I was about fourteen or fifteen, we talked just a little bit. For some reason, this one memory stands out in my mind, vivid as if it were yesterday.

I was a shy kid, and didn’t like family gatherings. I didn’t have any cousins, so I was the only one my age. Gramma Leslie seemed boring at the time. She dressed in hideous floral blouses and always smelled rather musty. Mostly though, I just never really knew her or talked to her. To me, she was just an old lady.

One evening, after dinner and presents, the adults started to talk politics and drink in the living room. Great-Uncle Kenny started making cocktails for everyone, and the room volume got louder. I went upstairs to my little attic bedroom, bored and tired.

I had been sorting polaroid pictures into a photo book, pictures I’d taken in the 90’s of the Puget Sound. I really just wanted to get out of the living room before my relatives got riled up.

Gramma Leslie came up to my bedroom and saw me working. I had looked up at her briefly, acknowledged her with a nod, then turned back to my project.

“You like the sea?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I had said.

“I live right next to the ocean,” Gramma Leslie said, standing next to me and watching over my shoulder. “Have you seen a lighthouse before?”

“Not in person.”

“I’m what they call a lightkeeper,” she said with a small laugh. “It’s an odd job, but I like it. It’s nice, you know, being surrounded by the silence and the sea.”

The silence and the sea. I loved that phrase as soon as it left her mouth. It was such a poetic, poignant way to phrase things, and it immediately brought to mind a pleasant, evocative mental image of the peaceful solitude that must have been Gramma Leslie’s lighthouse.

That’s all I remember of that day. But what a memory to have!

I think it takes a certain kind of person to enjoy being a lightkeeper. You’d have to like being alone, and doing weird lighthouse jobs, like… I don’t know, cleaning the lantern, or something obscure like that. Not exactly transferable job skills.

“See that cliff up there?”

The fisherman’s voice broke through my thoughts, and I looked up. “What?”

“That cliff. Right ahead of us. That’s Leslie Feannag’s lighthouse.”

We’d gone back out of the sunny spot and back under the grey clouds, but it wasn’t raining anymore. The chill winds seemed to warn of a coming storm. Out of the rolls of mist, I could see a tall, rocky cliff.

It was surrounded by sharp boulders and coastal rocks. It looked rather angry, with the waves tossing high up against it and flinging bits of foam in the air. It seemed like the right sort of place for a lighthouse. I could only imagine the kinds of shipwrecks that would happen here otherwise.

On top of the cliff is what could only have been Gramma Leslie’s lighthouse.

It stood stark against the wreath of grey clouds, tall and white. It was old and weathered and strong, an ultimately majestic landmark on the island. I must have been gaping like a little kid at it.

The rest of the trip isn’t worth describing. All I did was get off the boat. And that’s where it leaves us in the present. Right now.

That was the journey that wasn’t so nice. Now I’m here. On this goddamn island, doing who knows what.

To be more precise, I’m standing on the Rookby Island marina, on the edge of where the boat dropped me off. My coat is still wet, and my glasses are still covered in raindrops.

So much for drying in the sun.

I wipe my glasses off on my coat, which does little more than smear the water around. Sighing, I put them back on and look around.

There’s a tiny fishing town right next to the marina, built on a steep incline. I climb up a small brick path that follows from the docks up into the cobblestone town road. It’s basically a part of the marina, the town is so small.

Now I’m standing just above the marina, on the edges of the town. The docks are still easily visible. The town slopes up the hillside from where I'm standing, then peters out into what looks like a network of tiny cottages, obscured by a few sparse trees. This hillside isn’t the highest point on the island. The cliff the lighthouse sits on is even higher, only a little ways away.

I gotta say, this is a strikingly quaint little town. I wonder what the people who live here are like. Maybe there are some nice cafes. I’m a sucker for cute little cafes.

I can see the faint silhouette of the lighthouse through the fog. The best route seems to be this dusty gravel road, since there don’t seem to be any better ways.

Dragging my suitcase, I climb up the rocky hill towards the lighthouse. The road turns into a dirt path, surrounded by wheatgrass and heather, waving in the wind. The sky seems larger here, more open, like it could swallow me whole if it wanted to. I like how big the sky is here. I could marvel at it for hours, if I had the time.

The lighthouse is pretty big, once I’m up close to it. It has a small house connected to the bottom of the tower, like a church under a steeple. It’s white and looks old, with peeling paint and old-fashioned window shutters framing the dusty window panes.

The door is something odd. It’s heavy and looks like oak wood. It was an intricate carving of what looks like a tree-of-life on it. High arching lines of carved runes frame the small, circular window in the upper middle part of the door. It looks like something one of those witchy craftsmen at Pike Place would make. Maybe that’s where she got it.

Why did Gramma Leslie give me this place? Why not Isla or Jack? Both of them are definitely smarter than me. What made her think that I would be a good lightkeeper?

It was kind of an emergency situation (my apartment being demolished), combined with my family’s Professional Guilt-Tripping, that made me move here, anyway. This is all going to be completely new to me.

Well, I’m here now. Whatever she was thinking, she was at least fundamentally right.

I fish my new keys out of the top pocket of my suitcase and insert one into the door handle. The keys themselves are just as intricate and odd-looking as the door. There are three of them, even though there’s only one door lock. Each of the keys are engraved with some sort of Pictish design or Celtic braiding, and have a small script written in runes.

Gramma Leslie must have had a flair for the dramatic. Why are there three keys, anyway? Are there secret rooms, or something?

Pushing the heavy door open slowly, I look around the small lighthouse-house. Stacks of familiar moving boxes greet me, obscuring some of the walls. Since my siblings did all the heavy lifting, I’d only ever seen this place once before.

That was when I was first deciding to move in or not. I had to move out on a very short notice (see again: my apartment getting demolished), so all I got were some pictures people had taken. They weren’t even very good photos, but hey, it was the best option for my situation, especially given my lack of time and money.

All I had to do was pack my sparse furniture and belongings, sign some paperwork, and my siblings did the rest.

My previous knowledge is that the lighthouse is about the size of a small apartment. It has one good-sized living room/dining room/kitchenette, a bathroom, and a bedroom. Three rooms total.

The photos don’t seem to be too inaccurate. I poke around the house, taking a good look at the three different rooms. I have to duck my head under each small doorway, which all have carved wooden doorway frames decorated with Celtic braiding, reminiscent of the design on the keys. The walls are bare white and the floor is made of weathered wooden floorboards, faded from years of sunlight. How old is this place?

There are no electric lights, just the pale sunlight streaming in through the windows. I guess I’ll have to buy some candles in the near future, assuming this place doesn’t have any built-in electrical systems. Most lighthouses in Washington are pretty old, so I would guess this place was built sometime in the mid-1800s.

The main room has a wood stove fireplace, which is good, because I don’t think this place has any heating system. It’s rather drafty, in fact. I wonder how long it’s been since someone lit a fire in the stove… there’s still a pile of firewood stashed behind it, although it’s visibly dusty.

The tiny bathroom is more modern than the rest of the house. I know because I remember when I was a teenager, some adults were talking about Gramma Leslie adding plumbing and running water to the place. Apparently when the lighthouse was built, there was no plumbing, so everything had to be installed about a decade ago.

I look into the bedroom next. Something catches my eye as I walk in. It’s the doorframe. On the weathered natural wood frame is an intricate Celtic carving. Is it the third one I’ve seen? The fourth? I’ve lost count.

Wow, Gramma Leslie must have been really into our Scottish heritage.

This carving shows what looks like a crow, beak open, perched on the bough of an apple tree. How fitting for a Feannag.

We’re supposed to be the crow family, after all.

My bed is stashed crookedly in the corner of the room. I’ll have to adjust that later. I bet it’s Jack’s fault. There’s no other furniture, but there is a box, which I assume has my clock and lamp in it. I guess the lamp won’t be very useful, since there’s no electricity here.

It looks like I’ll be sort of “roughing it” here, as far as living arrangements go. Too bad there wasn’t a better option. I’ll have to figure out how to live without electricity.

There’s only one place I haven’t seen yet in the lighthouse– the tower. I’m exhausted and cold, so I decide to leave all those stairs for later. I’ll have plenty of time to look up there after I dry off.

I’m suddenly aware of how quiet it is here. The muffled sound of the ocean fills the air with a slight sort of white noise, but that’s it.

It’s a cold, soft quiet. For a second I’m absolutely still, just feeling the rhythmic beating of my heart and steady rising and falling of my lungs. It dawns on me that for the first time in my life, I’m alone in a place where nobody knows me.

My family and friends are approximately 80 miles away from me right now. Everyone I grew up with is across the great divide that is the Puget Sound. I’m alone. Nobody here would ever recognize an Angus Feannag.

What an odd situation. I’ll have to keep in touch with people via social media, for sure. And I know I’ll have to call my family a lot. They’ll expect that as a minimum; at least, the Bukharis will.

I rapidly become aware of the less-than-ideal immediate situation I’m in as a breeze flows through some open window somewhere, making me shiver. I’m still soaking wet from the boat ride, and it’s not very warm at all in this lighthouse. I should dry to warm up a bit before I catch a cold, or something.

I think fast, remembering the wood by the fireplace. I should start a fire there. I’ve heard that wood stoves are very efficient, and maybe if I burn something now, the house will heat up soon.

For a start, I open my suitcase. A fresh outfit would be a big improvement. I toss my rain-soaked coat aside on the floor; I can take care of it later when I start officially cleaning and unpacking.

I pull off the homemade binder that’s around my wings and back, and spread my wings out as far as I can, stretching.

It’s really been awhile since I could last unfold them, and it feels good to finally be alone and be able to stretch.

I don’t always get the chance.

I drop my wings and the ends hit the floor with a muted thud. They’re human-sized crow wings, pretty hefty, and it’s nice to be able to let them hang loose sometimes.

It’s healthier, too, in my opinion, even though they’re malformed down to the bones from being constantly pressed under a binder and coat for almost thirty years.

Everyone in the Feannag family, for the last half-millenia or so, has been born with some sort of crow attribute. I just got it bad with full-on wings. It’s an unfortunate family trait. There’s a lot of speculation in the family as to how it came to be: some say that some distant ancestor of ours wronged a witch back when we were living in Scotland, and some say we’re the descendant of a demigod.

I don’t believe any of it. It all sounds like tall tales to me, and I don’t believe in whatever Celtic gods they say there are, anyway. I just have to deal with it, along with my siblings. At least their “curses” are more… able to be concealed. Isla’s got feathers covering her back, supposedly just like Leslie, and Jack has some odd sort of crow-talons.

One of the reasons I came to Rookby Island, albeit a minor one, is actually that the only so-called “paranormal doctor” works here. I’ve been scouring the internet for years for a surgeon that could, theoretically, remove my wings. It would relieve me of a huge burden.

I’ve been in touch with this doctor for about a week after finding her on Google, and by doing some extensive research, I’ve also found out that she’s performed successful operations in the past, according to some of her clients’ reviews. Apparently, she specializes in “serving the magical, paranormal, or otherwise abnormal in nature”.

Personally, I hate thinking of myself that way. I’m Angus, not a Harry Potter character! But if she gets the job done, it’s worth it to me. My mum said it was Fate: the surgeon, the will, the apartment. I never believed in Fate, to be honest, even though I grew up hearing so much about it from Mum that it was almost a religion of hers. She always said it was “a bit of Celtic wisdom”.

I don’t follow whatever weird line of thought she believes — I consider myself a “practical thinker” — but she certainly got into that idea. She began to pressure me about it, saying it was “destiny” or something weird like that, and, like I said before, who am I to argue with Mum?

She hates being argued with, anyway. She always ends up making it personal, like, “Well, I clothed you and fed you all these years!”, practically crying about it. I don’t know why she thinks that deserves a medal of honor. Congratulations, you’ve done Required-by-Law Parenting, good job!

Anyway. I’m getting off track again.

I rummage through my suitcase, looking for a dry shirt, wings dragging on the floor behind me. I find a knit sweater, one of the many that I own, and a pair of wool trousers. They’re one of the warm ones, good for cozy days in. I change as fast as I can, shivering from the freezing air on my damp skin.

Finally feeling less waterlogged, I go back out to the main room and find the firewood again. There’s a thick layer of dust and cobwebs over them.

I brush them off and put two logs in the stove. There’s a nearby pack of matches, and some old newspapers, too, probably for kindling. I glance briefly at the date. These ones are from… the 1960’s. Odd. Gramma Leslie must not have used much newspaper on a regular basis. I tear up some of the paper and put it on the wood as kindling, then light a match and start burning the paper. I shut the small, soot-stained glass door, and stand up, dusting off my hands.

I try to google “how long does it take for a wood stove to heat up”, but I soon realize the signal here is too weak to do anything. I’ll have to go into town to use wi-fi, and maybe check out some cafes while I’m at it.

Wow, I could really go for a cup of coffee right now.

Sighing, I turn around and look at the main room. So many boxes. So much work to be done. It’s nearly overwhelming.

And I still haven’t seen the lighthouse tower.

The stairwell is just white, white, white, plastered walls and echoing footsteps and feathers brushing against cold edges. It makes me feel trapped and slightly claustrophobic. Dusty light comes in through a small window and illuminates patches of the curving inside wall of the stairwell. I glance out the window and suck in a breath. I’m probably about thirty feet up in the air now.

And I’m only about halfway up.

I keep walking, folding my wings close against my body. I hate the feeling of accidentally brushing up against the cold walls. I walk faster, strain my eyes to look up, trying to spy an end to the stairs.

I’m suddenly aware of a presence in the stairwell. There’s something here, I don’t know what or where, but I can feel eyes on me. There’s a wave of cold air, and I suddenly get a stinging headache that makes me stop and kneel haphazardly on a stair. I reach up at my temples, inhaling sharply from the pain.

“What’s going on?” I say aloud uselessly. “Who’s there?”

And just as suddenly as it came, the presence passes. It’s gone. The headache disappears.

“What the hell?” I shout, my voice echoing in the stairwell. Is this some kind of ghost or something?

Now, I’m not a superstitious person, but that was weird.

I slowly get up, catching my breath. I can’t see the end of the stairs yet, but I have to get out of here. At least, that’s what my instincts are telling me, and honestly, I don’t have the time to think through all that right now.

Maybe I’m just sleep-deprived and running on remnants of this morning’s caffeine. Yeah, that’s likely.

The stairs finally end, sloping up to the top of the tower.

There it is. The lantern room.

Legs burning, heart pounding, feeling out of shape, I stumble into the lantern room. And what a sight it is!

The lantern itself is enormous, almost twice as tall as me, with dusty crystal plates and cut-glass circular lenses, with what looks like a gas lamp inside it all. It’s not on, which is good, because I feel I would be blinded if it was on right now. There are no walls to this room, just massive glass paneling, like a gigantic curved window broken up by thin window-panes.

It’s like I’ve entered a different realm here. Even the air feels different– colder, or maybe lighter. Sunlight reaches every inch of the room. I laugh out loud suddenly. I made it up here. I’m all the way at the top of the tower, at what seems like a hundred million miles above sea level. I walk over to the huge windows and look out along the ocean and the rocky cliff below me, strangely exhilarated. Seagulls pass by below me, and I can faintly hear their screeching, along with the muffled, faraway crash of the waves against the cliff.

The sky is so, so big. Up in this lighthouse, I almost feel like I could fly.

I linger for a moment, then start back down the long stairwell. My wings brush up against the walls again, and I fold them in tighter.

I wish I could fly, honestly. I know it’s stupid, but it sounds very freeing. Just you and the sky and the wind. I wish I could see what everything looks like from that point of view.

But alas, c’est la vie, nothing’s perfect.

There’s no telling what could happen on this island, really. I’ll need to learn how to take care of the lighthouse, somehow, and meet the neighbors, and unpack… My mind reels with all the things I need to do.

It will certainly be interesting, whatever comes up. I’m on this island in the middle of nowhere, in this old dusty lighthouse that I don’t even know how to run. Just me, and whatever’s left of Gramma Leslie, whether that be her ghost or her remaining influence within these old white walls.

I hope to God I’m ready.