The drive up to Oregon was, predictably, long and tedious. They only stopped a handful of times, timing their bathroom breaks to coincide with gas refills and snack stops. Sam appreciated each opportunity to stretch his legs, but he was just as eager to get back on the road so they could reach Oregon that much sooner.
The two men talked back and forth, and Sam was starting to understand at least a few more pieces of the mysterious hunter from the bits he gathered from their conversations. It was far from a complete picture, but Sam's curiosity refused to wan.
He learned mostly only the trivial facts. His taste in music for one, obviously. His extensive knowledge of daytime TV, even though he professed to hate it passionately. His cell phone, which never rang the entire time they were in the car. The road miles he put on his beloved car because he refused to fly.
Sam knew his preoccupation with the man and his lifestylewas very strange, if not unhealthy. It wasn't an attraction – thank God, because wouldn't that be all kinds of awkward? – but it was a fascination. Maybe it came from the fact that John wasn't anything like anybody Sam knew from Stanford, wasn't like any of his friends or any of the people that surrounded him. And yet...maybe that was why Sam felt comfortable around him.
Of course, who wouldn't find a ghost hunter's life at least somewhat interesting?
They finally arrived to their destination around nine that evening. Sam felt his heart rate speed and his stomach clench in anticipation the instant they passed the town limits.
But instead of heading for the lighthouse, John pulled into the parking lot of a roadside motel.
"Wait, what are we doing?" Sam asked just as John was about to jump out of the car.
"We're getting a hotel room," the older man replied with a tone that said "duh."
"Aren't we going to the lighthouse?"
"Nah, we'll do that tomorrow."
"But...I thought people did things like this at night." Sam immediately felt stupid, but he was still so thrown off-guard he didn't regret his question.
"You watch too much TV," John scoffed. "Unless it's a nocturnal creature, it doesn't matter what time of day we go. They usually don't care." Sam assumed "they" encompassed the entire gamut of monsters and supernatural forces, and he had to wonder what that included. Just what all was out there? "And besides," John went on, "Police are a lot less suspicious of possible trespassers in broad daylight. They see a parked car during the day, they assume there's a good reason for it. At night, not so much."
"Oh."
"Yeah, so we'll settle in for the night, order some takeout, and get a full night of beauty sleep. That all right?" Sam nodded, and John left to rent a room.
The room was neat and clean but had a musty smell. Even with all the lamps turned on, the lighting remained dim and orange, which was probably for the better considering the tacky floral pattern covering the bedspreads on the double beds. The TV set was the oldest model Sam had seen in recent memory, perched on a set of drawers, and it got only six static-y channels, including the "free HBO" advertised on the motel sign.
While Sam set his laptop case on top of the cheap wooden desk, John claimed the bed closest to the television. He picked up the phone, announced that he was starving, and thirty minutes later, a pizza was delivered to their door.
Sam paid for it and brought it inside, setting it on top of the bedside table in between the two beds. He had to grin when he flipped the lid open. "Hey, you like pepperoni and green peppers too?" he asked, incredulous and pleased at the same time.
"Hm? Oh, yeah," John quickly replied. "I hope that's all right with you."
"Yeah, definitely," Sam said brightly, pulling out a slice. "It's actually my favorite."
"Oh, hey," John said just as Sam was about to sit down with his pizza. "I spent an extra ten dollars just so we had a hotel with internet access. You wanna see what you can find on this lighthouse?" Sam looked back at him, his curiosity sparked, as he explained. "Look up its history, see if there's any violence or tragedy connected to it."
Sam nodded and eagerly fired up his laptop. Detective work – he could really get into that.
Behind him, John got up from his bed and perched at the end of Sam's, which was closer to the desk. Sam quickly typed in a couple of searches and read a loud several of the results in a list. He and John volleyed ideas back and forth as they went through the few stories that came up, most of them unrelated or irrelevant.
But eventually they found the information they were looking for. The lighthouse, built in 1890, ran smoothly until 1922, when the then-current keeper committed suicide by leaping from the top of the lighthouse, his body lost forever in the ocean below. His wife took over for him, but she died of pneumonia five years later.
A few more lighthouse keepers followed, but they never stayed long, and before long, the lighthouse was closed. Over the years, the abandoned building fell into disrepair, suffering under the effects of time, weather, and vandalism, until just recently when Walter James, who made his living restoring historic buildings, bought the property. One day he went there alone to do a quick, cursory inspection. He never came back.
Sam sat back, letting himself enjoy a feeling of accomplishment, just so he wouldn't have to focus on the recent tragedy that left a woman a widow and her two children fatherless.
"Well, that just made our job harder," complained John behind him. When Sam shot him a questioning look, he explained. "It sounds like a haunting, but if there's no body, we can't salt and burn the bones. We'll have to find another way."
ooOOoo
Sam barely slept that night, his mind burning at full capacity with thoughts of the next day's hunt. Whenever he dozed off, he was assaulted with images of monsters and spirits, and even though it didn't frighten him as a regular nightmare would, it still left his heart pounding.
When morning finally arrived, signaled by the crack of light that pushed itself between the closed curtains, Sam jumped out of bed, eager to end the night and anxious to start the day. Even though it was rude to do so, he took a quick shower, almost hoping the sound of water would waken John. It turned out the shower took longer than it should have - the water pressure was equivalent to someone spitting at him - but when he came out, he was relieved to find John sitting up, staring groggily at the weather report on TV.
As the two got ready, John gave him tips, teaching him what to expect. He showed him his EMF detector, which would alert them when a supernatural force was near. Rock salt was good for repelling ghosts, and he would have a filled shot gun just for that purpose. He even gave Sam a knife, just in case he was wrong and it was something other than a ghost.
They left the motel before eight, and following the directions Sam copied from online, they found the lighthouse within minutes. They rolled to a stop at the end of the gravel path that led up to the property. The towering structure was perched at the edge of a rocky cliff, and the ocean was so far below it was obscured from view, although they could hear its dull roar.
And at the base of the lighthouse was a parked blue car.
John cursed under his breath, slapping the base of his hand against the steering wheel. It wasn't a violently angry reaction but an annoyed one, and Sam had to admit he was just as frustrated that his first, er, hunting adventure might be stalled.
"Should we come back later?" he asked.
John stared at the lighthouse for a moment. "No," he replied. "Whoever's in there might need our help."
"Or, he could call the cops on us." So maybe that was a little bit of an exaggeration, but Sam had always been a rule follower, and he broke into a sweat at the very thought of getting into trouble.
"If they kick us out, they kick us out," John replied glibly. He then reached over and popped the glove compartment open, pulling out the box of cards he stored in there. Opening it up, he grabbed a handful and flipped through them until he found what he was looking for.
"Ah, here we go," he said, flourishing a business card around so that Sam could read it. Hank Lohman, Property Inspector, Staten Appraisals Co.
"Not bad, huh?" John remarked proudly. "All right, let's go."
Together they climbed out of the car, quietly pushing their doors shut. John walked back to his trunk, motioning Sam over. "Okay, here's what we're going to do," he said as he popped open the trunk.
Sam sucked in a startled breath when he saw what lay inside. Weapons piled on top of weapons, every kind he could think of and many he never knew existed. What had he gotten himself into? He realized sardonically why they had kept their bags in the back seat on the way up.
John bent down and picked up a shotgun which he then tossed to Sam. Startled, Sam caught it, staring at it as if he had just thrown him a python. "I'm going to go on up there, have a quick chat with whoever's in there, see if I can get them to leave. You stay down by the base, keep a look out. If I need you, I'll call out, otherwise stay hidden."
"A-a gun? But-" Sam protested. When John had said he'd have a gun, he didn't know John would give it to him. "I don't even know how to use it!"
"Well, we can't go in unarmed, and we certainly can't go in carrying a frickin' shotgun around," John pointed out. "So one of us has to keep guard. And since I'm the better liar, that leaves you." He patted Sam's arm. "You'll figure it out."
Sam's mouth flopped around like a fish's. "What if my aim's horrible?"
"Trust me, it won't be."
That did little to reassure Sam, but John seemed satisfied. He led Sam up the gravel driveway, although they stayed to the side where the grass softened the sound of their footsteps, and around to the back of the lighthouse, the side opposite the door, away from the road. "If you hear me shout, come running. All right? And aim for the ghost, not anyone with a heartbeat," he said with a smirk. "Believe me, you can tell," he added when Sam opened his mouth to ask that very question.
"Relax, Sammy," he went on. "Even if you hit one of us, it won't kill us." Sam stared at him, his eyes wide. Just the thought of hitting someone horrified him. "It'd hurt like a bitch though," John added as an aside, his lips twisted into a half-smile.
Sam let out a harsh laugh and gripped the gun tighter. Once again he wondered what he'd gotten himself into.
John gave him one last pat on the shoulder before he turned around and disappeared into the building.
Once he was gone, Sam sighed, his shoulders sagging. He didn't know what he was expecting, but waiting alone in the shadows holding a gun wasn't it.
But he only let himself "relax" for that brief moment before he straightened, holding the shotgun at the ready (or at least the closest approximation he could come up with). He strained to hear, but the only sounds his ears could pick up were the waves breaking against the rocks below and the wind rustling the leaves and branches in the trees. Would he be able to hear John's voice over these noises? He imagined the walls of the lighthouse were pretty thick, and he could only hope John knew what he was doing.
The minutes ticked by slowly, the time filled with Sam jumping at every cracking twig. He slowly made his way around the side of the lighthouse, being careful to remain hidden from the road, inching closer to the door. He thought maybe he could hear better through the door than he would through the walls, and he'd be a few seconds closer just in case John needed his help.
The wind whipped around him, blowing his hair in all directions. Sam spared a few glances at the roiling ocean behind and below him. He was still several safe yards from the edge of the cliff and inching farther away, but with the lighthouse towering over him, he couldn't help but shudder at the thought of falling into the chasm below. He lifted his gaze upwards, his eyes following the curved wall all the way to the top until his neck was craned painfully backwards. It would be one hell of a drop.
And at least one person knew what it was like to plummet all the way down. How could anyone do that willingly, even a depressed lighthouse keeper? And if Walter James had been pushed by the ghost, like John suspected, how much more terrifying would that be? That poor man – what a horrible way to end. Sam felt sick to his stomach, unable to stop his mind from picturing a body flung from the top, flailing as he plunged through the air.
He almost hoped John would call out to him, just so he could stop his morbid thoughts. Get a hold of yourself, he told himself.
The longer the time stretched, the more tense Sam grew. The wind seemed to grow stronger and the sounds of the violent waves filled his ear canals with an almost physical force, leaving him with a vague yearning to drain his ears. He shifted his feet, shifted the shotgun in his hands, ran his hand through his hair and over the gun barrel. As he waited, he wondered whether he would hear John shout or see the owner of the blue car leave first. He desperately hoped it would be the latter.
And then he heard it. John's voice, loud and clearer than he expected. "Sam! Now!" he shouted, and Sam realized it was outside, not in, coming from somewhere above him. He jerked his head up, but the angle was too sharp for him to see. But the voice came from the small deck or catwalk that circled the top, and in the next instant Sam was sprinting for the door.
He yanked the door open and dashed inside, heading straight to the spiral staircase that led to the top. Taking two steps at a time, he ran up the stairs, almost stumbling a couple of times. He was winded by the time he reached the top, but he barely noticed that, or the way his heart pounded in his chest. Fortunately, he never lost his grip on the shotgun, and he cocked it as he rushed into the room at the top.
He ignored the huge light that took up the middle of the room, or the room itself which was encased in glass. Instead, he raced straight to the door that led to the balcony outside. His heart stopped instantly.
John was leaning over the rail, positioned right over the ocean. As Sam got closer, he realized he was clutching a body, a man who was dangling over the side of the lighthouse. The only thing keeping him from plummeting to the ground below was John's grip.
Over the roar of the wind, he heard John and the man he held shouting at each other, both their voices frantic, the man's close to panicked. John was commanding him to quit moving around, but the man was having trouble keeping his legs from kicking, desperately trying to find purchase on any surface. But there was nothing but air. The entire width of deck extended out from the structure of the lighthouse, leaving the wall far out of reach.
Sam shot forward. "John!" he shouted, alerting him of his presence.
"Sam!" John cried back, not moving his focus from the man hanging from his arms. "Is it still here?"
Sam glanced around the deck. "I don't see anything!"
"Help me, then!" he barked, and in the next moment, Sam was standing next to him, reaching over the rail to grab a hold of the man's arm. He dropped the shotgun next to his legs, making sure it pointed away just in case it discharged, so he could use both hands to grasp the man, getting a better grip.
His heart pounded as he struggled for leverage, trying to snake his arms through John's, trying to help support the man's weight. He could see sweat breaking out on John's forehead, his arms pulled taut, his knuckles already white. Sam bent far over the rail, trying not to the think of the drop below, ignoring the drop of sweat that fell through the air. The metal pole dug into his stomach, making it hard to breathe, but that sensation was better than the dizzying vertigo he was forced to push through.
Yet foremost in his mind, the only thing he though of, was the man struggling below them. One slip, and he would crash into the surf below. Sam tightened his grip, refusing to give him that death sentence.
"Count of three!" John shouted to him. "One...Two...Three!"
At three, the two of them heaved, struggling to pull the man up. Sam felt his arms strain with his weight as he and John tugged him upwards, using the railing for leverage. As they lifted him, the man helped by grabbing onto the rail once it was within reach, and as soon as that happened, the process went a lot quicker as John and Sam pulled him up and over the top until they stumbled backwards as he spilled onto the floor at their feet.
John hunched over, breathing heavily with an arm wrapped around his middle. The man, a guy around forty years, was gathering himself together, his breath also coming out in loud gasps as he struggled into a sitting position. Sam watched with wide eyes, his adrenaline still pumping through his system, unable to believe what had just happened.
"You all right?" he asked, unsure which man he was talking to. They both nodded though, to Sam's relief.
"It's...It's not the keeper," John panted. "It's his wife."
"What?" Sam asked, confused. Did he mean the ghost? "But she just died from-"
The words were yanked from his throat when he saw her.
A woman, wearing a simple, old-fashioned grey dress, appeared suddenly on the opposite side of John, materializing right before his eyes. Her sharp eyes, wild and angry, focused immediately on John's bent back and her mouth twisted into a snarl. Then she lifted her arms and rushed at him.
She reached out and upwards, planting her hands on John's shoulder blades, on the verge of shoving him. Sam shouted out a warning while in the same breath he reached down to sweep the shotgun into his hands, swinging it up and training it on the apparition.
At his shout, John jerked up and jumped aside just as Sam aimed and squeezed the trigger. The salt pellets exploded from the gun straight through the ghostly woman.
She shrieked, a piercing sound that he heard inside his head as much as in his ears. But she also flickered, and when Sam shot again, she disappeared instantly, even as the echoes of her scream reverberated in Sam's rib cage. Sam jerked his gaze around, unable to breathe, desperately looking to see if she had darted to a different spot.
But they were alone again.
Sam's hands shook as he lowered the gun.
It had happened so quickly, too quickly for his mind to think. He had just shot a gun. He had just shot a gun mere inches from John's head.
"Nice, Sammy!" John praised him, but Sam barely heard him.
Then everything came back into sharp focus as Sam sucked in a long, sharp breath. "Holy..." he started before taking in another gulp of air. He almost dropped the gun, but John saw it just in time and took it from him.
The woman had been so angry, he'd felt it deep to his core. And she was right there, so close to pushing John right over that sharp drop. And the third man—if they hadn't been there, he'd be gone. Dead. Because of the woman, the ghost, the transparent apparition of a dead person. The ghost Sam shot--narrowly missing John's head. He hadn't even thought about it, just let his instinct aim for him.
Would a skull stop pellets of salt blasted at close range?
While Sam was trying to calm his racing heart, John was holding the shotgun out, waving it around the area the ghost had been standing.
"Let's go, let's go," he shouted, urging them on with his free arm. "Get out of here! Before she comes back!"
For a moment, Sam could only stare at him, atthe way he was poised and readied.His back wasto Sam and the other man. Guarding them. He was tense, but also steady, in control. He knew what he was doing.
"Sam! C'mon!" he barked over his shoulder.
Then Sam snapped into action. He turned to the other man still on the floor, ready to help him up and push him along.
The man was watching them, his face pale and his chest still heaving. "You're not really a property inspector, are you?" he finally asked.
ooOOoo
"Oh my God, that was awesome!" Sam was almost giddy, the adrenalin still coursing through his blood as he and John sped away from the lighthouse. "I didn't think I could shoot, but I did...and it worked! And that guy—we saved his life!"
John listened with that cocky grin of his. Sam grinned with him, trying to force his body to calm down as they drove back to their hotel.
"Wow..." he said again. "That was a freakin' ghost up there!"
"I told you," John replied.
After Sam had helped the other man to his feet, John had quickly ushered them inside and down the stairs, warning them it wouldn't take long before the spirit drew in enough energy to manifest again. Soon they were outside again, gasping in new air, safely on the ground this time.
As they were leaving, John told the man, a contractor Walter had hired weeks ago, to stay away for a few days while they took care of the "problem."
Taking care of the problem turned to be much easier than they had originally thought it would be, and it was almost anti-climatic. John referred to it as simple cleanup.
From the appearance of the woman, they assumed that the lighthouse keeper's wife in a rage had thrown her husband over the side. John claimed that the first time she manifested, she had screamed about betrayals just before she tried to push the contractor over the edge. After the death of her husband, John speculated, she spent the remaining five years of her life in torment until her mind was so twisted with anger and an indignant denial of guilt that, even though she died peacefully, her spirit wasn't at rest. And so she haunted the lighthouse, the scene of her crime, with the same rage that had pushed her into killing her husband.
And since the woman had died of natural causes, her body wasn't lost as her husband's had been. They needed only to track it down. So they drove back to their hotel room, and with the help of Sam's laptop, they found her name in the records of an old cemetery located a few blocks from the lighthouse.
They waited until several hours after nightfall. This time, the cover of dark would help them - it'd be hard to explain why they were digging up a grave nearly a century old. Once the darkness of night was total, they traipsed through the old tombstones, each of them holding onto a shovel as John shone his flashlight at possible graves. Unfortunately, the records neglected to list the location of each plot, which meant they had to comb the entire cemetery, an area over an acre in size.
John had a knack for knowing which tombstones came from what era, and those he shined his light on all had death dates within a decade or two of 1927, the year Gladys Burton died of pneumonia. Since Sam didn't have a flashlight, he spent most of the time glancing at the road, fearful of any passing lights. Luckily, the road was more like a country lane with very little traffic, and the cemetery sat far enough back that the chances of being spotted were low. He hoped.
They had walked through two-thirds of the graveyard when John finally found the right stone. Together they dug through the dirt, a long, tiring process that left them both sweaty by the time they hit wood. John used the blade of his shovel to break through the top of the coffin. Sam almost made a comment about respect for the dead, but then he realized the woman had killed two men and had tried to kill at least two more.
From his bag John pulled out a canister and tipped it over the grave, pouring a stream of salt into the hole he created. Next came a container of lighter fluid which he emptied, the liquid splashing over the bones and salt below. Then he took out a box of matches and struck one, the tip bursting into flame.
John stared into the small blaze for a moment, a mesmerized, determined look to his eyes. Then he flicked it into the ground, the light creating an orange trail in the darkness as it fell. When it hit the ground below, flames erupted with a small burst of light and then shrank back down as they slowly consumed the remains left in the coffin.
Once the fire burned itself out, Sam and John shoveled the dirt back into the hole. With the coffin now broken open, there wasn't enough dirt to fill the hole completely and it left a shallow dip. Not that they worried too much about it – even if they had left the ground even, there would still be an area of soft, broken dirt suspiciously devoid of grass.
"Well, that's that," John said, leaning against his shovel. "Mission accomplished."
So that was it. It was over.
Sam stared at the sunken ground.
Thank you all for reviewing! It makes this whole process so much easier!
Let me know of any mistakes I've made (I keep catching continuity errors, and who knows how many I've missed), and especially if this stops being believable. You can also tell me if the anvil I'm hitting over your head is too heavy - but I already know that. ;)