"No... I'm telling you, that sounded like a gunshot last night," Sid said, his brow furrowed as he rested his mouth pensively over his fist, a quiet tightness in his throat.

Their end of the table was silent for a moment. They'd all heard it.

Helga watched as Arnold shook his head and put his fork down, this time sitting directly across her. Another first in a while. "I still think it was just firecrackers, Sid."

"...Yeah, I mean," Harold agreed, slowly, "I guess it's technically getting closer to the 4th of July…?"

"An' I mean, not t'be makin' light of yer discomfort, here, Sid, but this just ain't the hood in Hillwood, if y'know what I mean."

"...Yeah, I guess," Sid sighed, wiping the stringy hair off his brow before fitting his cap back on, meeting no one in the eye. "I just. Look, I don't really…live in a—good area, alright? So. Maybe I just...yeah…" he trailed off, his face uncharacteristically distant, serious, and Helga wondered if that panicked, superstitious anxiety of his was easier for him to handle than the everyday horrors of the world.

He grimaced, shaking his head. "But what about that screaming we heard?"

Arnold held his palm out. "Maybe they were just excited."

"I dunno," Harold's face twisted, "they sure didn't sound excited to me."

"Mm. Kinda… blood curdling, if you ask me," Gerald added with a slow nod.

"Ain't that the truth," Stinky concurred, "though I reckon it coulda just been a coupla campers howlin' for fun. A pure coincidink."

"...Didn't it kinda sound like it came from the same direction, though?" Eugene asked.

No one spoke for a moment.

"Yeah. The lighthouse," Arnold said with a sigh, and a hint of resigned annoyance that didn't go unnoticed—and was, in fact, expected.

To this day, Arnold still didn't like pranks.

"Mm. A man, and a woman, screaming in the dead of night," Gerald recounted the notorious ghost story with a touch of his own flair, the volume down the rest of the table lowering some as he spoke. "First, her cry went out, followed by his, silenced at last by the sound of his blasting bullet."

Sid leaned his elbows on the table, fingers interlaced as he eyed Gerald from under the brim of his hat. Gerald gestured at him, offhandedly, when he kept quiet. "You want me to tell the tale, Sid?"

Tall Hair Boy took his hesitant, thinning gaze as a 'yes', and cleared his throat demonstratively, and began, his full 'story mode' engaged. Whatever side chatter persisting down the length of the table eventually ceased as he pressed on.

As he told the tale, it was like their sphere of awareness had closed in around them, the din of other campers eating and conversing in the mess hall dimming to a hum in their ears as he spoke.

… …. ….

It was June 17th, 1848. The waves crashed high. The air was chilled—far too chilled for late spring, and Penacook Lighthouse would never be the same.

Otherwise, the day began like any other, at least according to the farmer's wife, who lived to tell the tale.

She and her husband, both born and raised in Penacook, befriended the new lighthouse keepers when they'd arrived. And they hit it off, visiting in the warmer months as they used the surrounding grounds as pasture.

Of course, there were signs at first that something about the couple was amiss—they often fought, first behind closed doors, but eventually, out in the open, even in front of company! But the farmers paid no mind—not their monkey, not their circus, know what I mean?

But little did they know, that Mr. and Mrs. Tolmen were not what they seemed.

First of all, turns out, they weren't evenmarried!

In fact, the two were merely lovers! Who, according to accounts from those who knew them before their untimely demise, had a long, long history together. All the way back to their childhoods, if you can believe it! Even when they'd fight like cats and dogs, those two would always wind up sticking back together like white on rice. Oh, and did I mention this was back in the 1800s? Sure, you wouldn't bat an eye now, but back then, you couldn't find a faster way to turn heads—and not in a way you'd want.

While Heath Tolmen's 'wife', Ada—in name only, had originally agreed to the sham marriage, she quickly grew discontent. Apparently, she'd fallen in love with her fake husband for real, and was not only heartbroken that he wouldn't actually marry her, but furious that he was content keeping things as they were, and had no intent on making a 'proper' woman outta her. Man, talk about fear of commitment, amiright, fellas?

And as the years went on, the fighting only got worse.

Until one day, as the farmer and his wife dropped by to visit, they heard a terrible commotion, coming from inside the Keeper House.

The door was ajar, and, fearful for their friends, they opened it, to a terrible sight.

Now—this farmer and wife, they'd already seen their fair share of Tolmen Showdowns, know what I mean? But this time, that shit had gone south for real.

Half naked and fighting—and I mean brutally, Ada 'Tolmen' had clawed at herself and her 'husband', bloody and raw, her shrieking, tearful cries so loud, that when the door opened, the sound carried for miles across the water. The keeper, Heath, was shouting and beating her back as she howled and kicked, refusing to calm, or submit to his restraint.

But, in the chaos, the farmer's wife had seen something else, that had chilled her right to her bones.

A noose hung from the rafters, a chair broken underneath it, and rope-torn marks wrapped around the fake wife's neck.

Fearing for their friends, and only wanting to help, the farmer tried to intervene—but when the keeper flung him back, mindless in his rage, he fell, hit his temple on the corner of the kitchen table, and died. Right there on the floor.

The farmer's wife screamed.

Heath Tolmen, distracted, shocked by what he had done, had loosened his grip on Ada, and bam, she bolted right out the door, and straight to the lighthouse. And Heath, who'd been beset upon by the devastated, enraged farmer's wife, now widowed, was forced to fight her back as well. But in his rush to get to Ada, he'd been, well—too rough, and his other friend, too, fell to the floor. Cradling her wounded side, she crawled, then hobbled her way outside, and watched as the keeper ran into the lighthouse after Ada, and chased her all the way up to the very top of the tower.

The farmer's wife claimed, on record, that she didn't think Heath had meant to do it—that what happened next, it seemed like an accident.

When Ada had cried out, in a voice loud enough that the farmer's widow could make out her words from the ground, that if he wouldn't be an honest man, and make an honest woman out of her, that she would plunge her very body to the rocks below, her soul be damned along with his, and put an end to their farce. Once and for all.

The widow couldn't hear what Heath said in response, but it must not've been what Ada'd wanted to hear.

As she ran out the lantern room and onto the outer walk, he rushed out, grabbing her flailing body to stop her from going over the rails.

But when Ada fought him back—something fierce, heart-torn and vicious, he'd pushed her back—without meaning to—to his horror—over the very railing he'd try to save her from.

And her body dropped. All the way down, to the rocks below.

The farmer's widow said that Heath Tolmen always carried a piece on him—he'd had a hard life before becoming a lighthouse keeper, and he had meant to keep it.

Until then.

Shortly after Ada fell, she heard a loud, deafening BANG, as he put the revolver to his head, and pulled the trigger.

And such was the terrible, tragic fate of The Tolmens.

Some say, around this time of year, strange things happen around the Penacook Lighthouse, and across the peninsula it sits on. Bizarre, frightening phenomenon. That Ada can be seen, scratched up and wearing nothing but her slip and a noose around her neck, walking along the seaside rose bushes she had planted at the crest above the rocks, so long ago. Some say, they've even seen a body fall from the tower and disappear, without a trace.

And some still say, that after they'd seen that, that their ears had popped with a bang.

The end.

… … …

Applause broke out as Gerald finished the tale, customary as always, but this time the claps were scattered, distracted—a thoughtful disquiet settling in and taking its place.

"...Why didn't he just marry her?"

The question came out of Helga's mouth before she'd even thought better of it. She didn't even think to guard her tone, swallowing thick when she realized that when her question had come out, that her voice had been so… soft, and forlorn. Against her better judgment, but seemingly compelled, she braved a furtive glance at Arnold.

He was looking at her, frowning. The area around his eyes…tight, with something.

She didn't dare show more of herself than she already had, just to try and read him further, so she looked away, her brow furrowing.

She'd heard the story, well, the cliffnotes, anyway, from Mr. Simmons during one of their crappy group campfire get-togethers—so she wasn't expecting anything new, save a colorful retelling through Gerald's 'cool' filter and knack for spinning yarns.

But this take?

It hit differently, and not in a way she liked.

"Right? I don't get it. It was like they were already married, anyway."

"Well, I guess maybe he figured, since they knew each other for so long, that she knew what she was getting into? I mean, she signed up for a sham marriage."

"And then tried to trap his ass in a real one once she'd gotten a place to crash."

"God, Sid, shut up. That's terrible."

"I agree—what an ever-so dreadful, dreadful thing to say."

"Well, he didn't do anything wrong! I mean, until the end, anyway. He'd been clear from the get-go, and… yeah. No means no."

"Right. And I guess she just wouldn't take no for an answer."

"Shame she wasn't cut out for that kinda arrangement. Actually falling in love with the creep? Ugh."

"Yeah, I mean, he may have been up front, but it sounds like the guy also had some serious anger issues."

"What, and she didn't?"

"Well, chock it up to the guy in a tragic lovers story to be the one to commit a double-murder suicide."

"Hey! That's not cool."

"Yeah, c'mon."

"Well, actually, the case was technically not a double, but a triple murder-suicide," Phoebe corrected. "The popular version of the tale fails to mention that the farmer's widow, who later gave the account, shortly died after from her injuries."

The table was quiet for a beat.

"...Wow. That's… gotta make it the worst one in the history of the whole lighthouse though, doesn't it? Granted, maybe not by method, but. Four people killed by the same person in one day?"

"It's gotta be, right? I mean. Triple murder-suicide? That's wild."

"And, it turns out there's more," Phoebe added. "Actually, the popular version of the story does miss a key, historical detail that shed further light on the couple after they'd died. No offense intended, Gerald—in fact, your rendition of it was quite stirring and beautiful."

"None taken," Gerald waggled his eyebrows at her. "Wanna add the rest?"

"Certainly." She cast him a smile that was tiny, but lit her whole face. "So, provided the type of commentary going around the table, as for why Heath Tolmen refused to marry Ada Gardner, which was her real last name, by the way, is a mystery I'm afraid they took to their graves."

There were some grunts of disappointment around the table. But, undeterred, she continued.

"But, while investigating the tragedy, the authorities wound up uncovering some information about Heath Tolmen that cast a new light on his relationship with Ada Gardner."

Phoebe pushed up her glasses, biting her lip when everyone at the table turned their attention toward her again, their sidebar on pause.

"Well, allegedly, before his occupation as the lighthouse keeper, Mr. Tolmen was a carpenter. And, apparently, something of an artist. When their belongings in the Keeper House were overturned, they discovered quite a few, well… wood-carved pieces, with notably flourishing, uh, romantic touches." She blushed lightly. "From small sculptures, carved, ornamental combs, even jewelry…"

Phoebe motioned for a quick pause as she took a swig of water with a tiny 'excuse me,' before she elaborated.

"Now, these were originally presumed to merely be in her possession, as a reflection of her taste. But in light of Heath Tolmen's past experience with wood working, his creative talent, and some of the markings on the pieces, well. Presumably, he had made them all, by hand…"

She wrapped a stray hair around her ear as she said the rest.

"Exclusively, for her."

A pause stole across the table.

"...So he loved her," Helga declared, her voice still more thoughtful and subdued than usual, but clear. She kept her expression controlled.

And didn't look at Arnold.

"Ah," Phoebe adjusted her glasses. "It would appear so, yes. Very much."

"...But now that makes even less sense."

"Yeah! If he loved her, and they were already living like a married couple, then why…"

"Why wouldn't he just pull the trigger? Uh, er—sorry, heh," Eugene blushed, wincing self-consciously. "That was in bad taste, uh. Just came out..."

"Well… beats the shit outta me. Guess we'll never know. That said, I mean. End of the day… no still means no."

"And that be the truth. I guess that she jus' wouldn' take no for an answer, and in my book, she shoulda."

"Well—how could you blame her? If he actually loved her, and showed it in all these other ways—then that means he was leading her along!"

"Hey, maybe the idea of marriage just didn't work for him. Can't judge a guy for that."

"Um," Rhonda snapped back, "yes I can."

"Well, either way, it's clear that despite whatever feelings he had, he just wasn't interested in sealing the deal."

"That seems to've been the case. An' as for the rest, well. I s'pose you ladies make some fine points, there. That said, I reckon it'd be mighty hard for a fella to keep shakin' off a dame full-heartedly, even if he ain't interested in bein' a gentleman, on account'a his nature, and such."

A rising tension built from the cluster of girls at the end of the table in response, but Helga could hardly care to join them in sisterhood.

Her gaze had slipped back to Arnold; again, unable to control herself.

Casting an inward, thousand yard stare at his plate, he didn't seem to notice. Her eyes tracked his movements—his breath had quickened, his chest subtly rising and falling.

Troubled.

The girls erupted with their comments at last, their hackles raised.

"His NATURE?"

"Like, what, that because he was a guy, that he couldn't help but take advantage?"

"That's pretty sexist, Stinky."

"Try and keep his 'lay' gaslit and deluded long enough to see if he could get a couple more years between her legs with some tacky gifts?"

"N-now hold yer horses—"

Helga tuned out the rest, her watchful eyes toward him hardening as the ongoing spat buzzed in her ears, her breath deepened, churning up all the darker feelings that dwelled in her gut.

His eyes narrowed at his lap, something tense twisting his face, he didn't meet her gaze again for the rest of lunch.

When she finally left before him, the edge of her controlled movements sharp as she turned away from the table, Sid's voice carried across the emptying mess hall.

"...Then, hey!" he burst out with optimistic relief. "That means I probably didn't hear gunshots last night! …Or," his voice lowered, slowing down, "firecrackers…"

He paused.

"Oh shit."

… … …

As the gymnasium slowly filled with bodies, his approached, and joined hers on the padded wall as she leaned back against it, arms crossed. Like it was totally normal.

Like nothing had happened.

Just Arnold and Helga, as usual, wallflowering together while the world moved indifferently around them.

She kept her face set and eyes locked straight ahead, watching through the other campers as they congregated. Her fists clenched and stung, hidden under her arms.

Are you fucking. Serious.

Oh, her plan was working, sure, but. Oh.

Ooh…

In that instant she hated that he'd fallen for it, so easily.

Hated his bold, self-serving, selfish audacity. How good and nonchalant he looked, leaning casually against the wall next to her. Hated every telling, damning sign he'd ever given her, only to take it back like he never had. That he thought things could somehow go back to how they were, even if she was the one playing him by taking back the gauntlet.

She bit her lip with spite, the details of that altercation of theirs in the school library just before summer cycling fresh in her mind.

Her gaze thinned at nothing.

Was it easy for you, Arnold, to push the elephant in the room onto me, as long as you didn't have to deal with it? Did you really think I 'gave in', just because I was willing to debase myself to keep your company? Are you really that in denial?

Hated his self-delusion. Hated his cowardice.

And hated loving him.

Her jaw tightened.

You have no idea what you're in for, Football Head.

Neither looked at or spoke to the other as the camp counselors began their updated announcement for the upcoming Penacook Fest with a warning.

"Yes," the speaker admitted tiredly, "we know The Tolmens anniversary is coming up, and we understand the temptation to prank, and try to haunt the other campers…but this is not April Fools, and it's NOT Halloween. Anyone caught pulling any more of these pranks will not only be banned from Penacook Lighthouse Park Campground and immediately escorted off the premises, but the consequences of your behavior will also be faced academically when you return to your respective schools in the Fall. Do you understand? Good. Moving on…"

Sid, huddled with the Hillwood gang, who'd mostly gathered in near proximity by Helga and Arnold, whisper-hissed behind his hand to the rest of the Idiot Trio as the speaker continued, tuning them out.

"Hah, yeah right. Even if you forget everything else that's already happened—how do you explain the red fog the kids from Newcastle saw hovering over the pond this morning? Red, man!"

"Ever hear of a red dawn, dumbass?" Helga muttered, and caught Arnold's disapproving, and—not that he'd ever admit it, subtly amused side-eye.

Sid shot a petty, sarcastic sneer back at her, mimicking, 'Ever hear of a red dawn?'

"Actually, Sid," Phoebe whispered back as she and Gerald held hands in the crowd, "seeing ''red fog', or more accurately, 'steam fog' that appears red over a pond early in the morning is actually quite common with the right weather conditions. When the early red rays of the sun pass through the particles of condensed water evaporating off the pond, the rays scatter across the surface of the droplets, reflecting the pinkish, orangish, or reddish colors of dawn."

Initially dumbfounded, Sid soured and looked tempted to cast her shade, too, but shrank under the weight of Gerald's gaze, his brow arched.

He just looked ahead, shaking his head instead. "Not that kinda red, man…"

Helga kept the speaker and the other counselors tuned out when they stepped to the podium, slipping an appraising look at Arnold. Who, feeling her gaze as he often did, met hers. Something in her chest squirmed when his eyes were soft as he appraised her back.

Ugh. Arnold. Looking at her back, with soft eyes?

Damn everything else. Just kill her now.

How she kept a straight face and didn't look away, she didn't know, but she couldn't stand it, or how she could subtly feel the way they incrementally, almost imperceptibly, drifted closer to each other as they held each other's gaze, even if only by millimeters at a time.

He was good, for the most part, at keeping himself still or apart when they talked, and she couldn't help but notice over the years how much he seemed drawn to her when they were silent.

She thought of the last time, fresh on her mind, when she'd opened up a bit more, and spoiled that soft mood.

When he remarked that he'd heard she'd been taking her writing more seriously, doing better in school, it just came out of her. She didn't want to show it. Unless in a competition, she was the type where proving things to herself was its own victory. A shred of what appeared to be humility, but it hadn't come from a humble place.

But this time, she wanted to share, because the reasons she wasn't selling herself so short anymore, she'd realized, were worth celebrating. Worth sharing. Not something she could've, or should've shared—but that she wanted to share.

Not with most, of course. Hardly anyone. But absolutely with him.

After nearly a year of her home life hovering on the chaotic brink of collapse, her parents finally reached a breaking point that neither were really willing to risk, giving way to some last-ditch, desperate efforts that, surprisingly, actually seemed to stick.

Her mother finally got sober and stayed sober. Started attending meetings and actually doing the work instead of just going there to sulk and complain. Actually started putting her sobriety first, despite her new job and growing cognizance of how needed and wanted she really was. Started learning how to balance her priorities so she wouldn't consume herself in one grand pursuit or habit at the exclusion of her family, and everything else.

Realizing at last that if she didn't, she wouldn't be able to hold onto any of the good she still had in life, or change the bad in it that was hers.

Her mom wasn't perfect at it. Some days it was one step forward and two steps back. But she wanted the change for herself, even before her family, and kept on trying. Finding and slowly rebuilding herself and her relationships along the way.

To this day, she still hadn't stopped trying.

And her father, the most threatened by change of all, save a near-death experience, finally got out of his wife's way, and let her. And what difficulty he had handling the unfamiliar, well.

Helga couldn't hear every word of their conversation that night, when her parents made a choice. It sounded like a fight, but out of all the words she could have made out, the ones she heard the clearest were probably the most important.

'Oh, you wanna make it a challenge? Fine! If you can stay sober, I'll keep going to counseling, as long as you keep going to meetings!"

Who knew stubbornness and pride could form such a change.

And Big Bob still hadn't backed down. Although, at this point, Helga was starting to wonder if he kept going for different reasons. Either way, he kept trying, too, and was able to adapt without losing his head too much. So, it must have helped.

That said, the anger management courses he'd been court-ordered to take hadn't hurt, either.

And as for Helga, who'd already been going to therapy and taking plunges, was growing up, and trying to learn to accept change, too, and appreciate what she had—when, while she had it.

Wasn't that what Arnold had told her to do, all those Thanksgivings ago?

Sure, Miriam was still a bit inconsistent, and scattered. And Bob could be, and often was, still an asshole.

But one who, over the past few months, had always called her 'Helga.'

Always tried to check in once a day, even if he could be so bad at it. Took more time off of work to take her to Wrestlemania matches, and the occasional stage show he knew they'd love to hate together.

He'd even taught her how to trellis the cherry tomatoes he replanted every year since they got the house back, a habit he'd resumed from his midlife crisis.

He'd even let her pick and eat the first one—red, juicy, and so warm, that when it burst over her tongue, she could taste the sun.

They were still hard to be around. Still exasperating, still disappointing. And sometimes she still felt overlooked and invisible.

But not every day. Not even half the time, really.

Not anymore.

When she'd told Arnold, in so many words, how things had changed, she wasn't expecting his reaction.

Wasn't expecting how distant he'd become while listening to her.

The way his eyes had shifted when she kept going, how quickly they'd turned away and didn't return. She'd thought, stumbling as her heart tripped mid-sentence over that look of his, that perhaps he was just focusing on the words, absorbing it all. Thinking, 'he doesn't need to look me in the eyes every time I talk. I don't when he does. Maybe he's just keeping it casual, maybe to help me feel more comfortable while I share this stuff?'

But when she'd finished, her words slowing before trailing off, he still hadn't looked at her. She'd waited a moment that stretched too long, sick-stomached and her body awash with prickling chills. .

"That's great, Helga," he'd said at last, jaw clenched and not sounding present. "You deserve it."

And, muttering something about having to leave, he did. And she'd done nothing but watch, wondering how the very boy, who used to be the golden pillar in her life, could also be the one who'd just ripped the rug out from under her feet—along with the floorboards, the foundation, and the rest. She could have spiraled into the ground and stayed there, never to resurface again, if she could have moved at all.

When she looked at him now, in the present, under those soft eyes he had for her, all she could do was ache.

She bit her lip, looking away as her eyes watered, blinking and willing them dry before they could dampen enough to spill.

…What happened to you?

What happened, Arnold?

She knew he never hated her. Knew it wasn't like he didn't care what was going on with her.

She'd seen the looks he'd given her during her other rare, vulnerable moments—fleeting, unguarded and accidental.

Those looks like he knew she had him, and could never leave, even if he'd wanted to.

Yet in those even rarer moments, when she braved to let him in—really let him in, as much as her self-preservation could allow, consciously…

He shut her out.

Thinking of her plan again, and everything she knew she'd have to say, and risk, she wondered just how little of the ground she'd have left before she could even make her stand.

And if he could only, just barely handle those conscious, carefully selected moments of transparency from her, then, really.

Really...

God, she thought.

Even if I do the right thing, I'll practically be the death of him, won't I?

She swallowed, her throat thick with resolve.

Well, at least he won't be alone.

He'll be the death of me, too.

… … …

Author's Note: Transparency