Author's Note: This fic was a Shortaki Week 2022 challenge where I tried to write a story that incorporated all the prompts. It did, but then went off the rails :)

… … …

He packed his parents in a box and stuffed them in the attic.

Photographs, letters, toy airplanes, maps and false leads; and at last, his hat—all sealed away like hidden talismans, left there to be unthought of and untouched.

And so they remained, the proclamation of his new truth dawning over his grandfather's stricken face, its mark never quite leaving, even years later.

"It's time to move on."

… … …

"Hey, there it is!"

The throng of Helga's graduating 8th grade class crested the long, grassy slope leading away from the campground, some pointing at it stupidly, like the park's main attraction needed any help being spotted.

Erected from a flat outcropping clipping the view of the ocean, the white tower stood in stubborn protest to the slate blue expanse that stretched across the wide peninsula. It cut a stark contrast on the horizon's edge, as if to say to the void beyond, you won't swallow me whole.

Or maybe she was just reading her own life into things again. She did that a lot.

But yeah, there it was, connected to a long, old house-converted-tourist-trap and museum. Black capped and its stone-stacked body layered thick with what she presumed were centuries of re-coated paint. It still looked desolate, despite its recent coat.

And old as fuck.

But touristy attractions aside, what around here wasn't? She swore, she literally saw an old schoolhouse through the bus window right before they turned in—and forget wood or brick, that shit was made out of rocks.

Their former middle school teacher and, surprise surprise, volunteer chaperone, Mr. Simmons announced its name with a dramatic, sweeping presentation of his arms:

"The Penacook Point Lighthouse! Which you all know is a very special, very famous, and yes, even infamous historic landmark! I uh," he chuckled with edgy, nervous elation, "I'm sure you're now all very aware of the independent, award-winning film that came out a few years ago."

Helga joined the chorus of classmates who rolled their eyes in unison and sighed. Uh, yeah they were. He'd only lectured about it obsessively over a million times on the bus after confiscating everyone's headphones. Criminy!

"But, here it is! In all it's preserved, historic glory! And it's amazing!"

"And haunted!" Sid whispered over his backhand, earning some amused eyerolls and smirks of anticipation.

She zoned out along with her peers when Mr. Simmons turned around and kept going, repeating much of what they'd already heard. Words went in one ear and out the other, yet she mouthed along with a feigned, brain-dead mockery, staying in 'character' even as Gerald and Phoebe muffled their snickers.

Originally named after British Nobility before the Revolutionary War, yak yak yak, then the location and lighthouse were renamed afterward in 1784, blah blah blah. Though the film was technically a romance, the lighthouse has a dark reputation, as more than half a dozen people were murdered here, yadda yadda yadda. Long, bitter Atlantic winters, lighthouse keepers going mad, as well as reports of odd natural occurrences—even rare, rogue waves hitting the coastline. Yeah yeah yeah.

Okay, sure, it'd been kinda interesting at first, but way to beat it into the ground! When they finally approached she didn't even care if she went into the damn thing or not—though she figured, when Mr. Simmons spoke to the attendant by the old gate, that his anguished disappointment (expressed with a height of theatrics even she wouldn't touch) meant her going in was probably a 'not.'

Turns out the museum and lighthouse tours were closed temporarily for unforeseen repairs, and their class-won camping trip was only two weeks long, anyway. Her classmates whined and groaned, hands open in a collective gesture of 'what the fuck'. Really, she figured a minute ago most were as disinterested in seeing it as she was, working 'original Fresnel lens' or not. Sure, the park campground had other amenities, their class was one of a handful across the East Coast who 'won' on pure happenstance, and Mr. Simmons had practically beaten them to death with mind-numbing historical trivia, but they just rode in a bus for six hours to get there and were at least expecting to see the damn reason this destination existed in the first place. And of course, the bus had just been swapped out from a varsity team and she swore she could still smell the B.O. and jockstraps over Eugene's motion sickness.

Helga crossed her arms. Go freakin' figure.

"Great start to a summer vacation."

Mr. Simmons made attempts to console the crowd, saying not to lose hope—maybe there's a chance they could still squeeze in a tour right before the trip ended. In the meantime, he was sure they could enjoy themselves 'very much' with some 'engaging summer camp activities', a notion that made Helga feel like she'd never left elementary school. Yeesh.

That said, their pre-dinner break might not be a total wash. She saw a bunch of little vultures getting their grubby hands on the monkeybars at the park playground on their way over, and figured if there was one thing she could do, it was to find the most sheltered of them and fill them in on some good ol' lighthouse murder history. You know, offer some educational value to their stay and such. Last year she roped herself in as a mentor for a local peer support program on an outta-left-field suggestion from Dr. Bliss, to help troubled young kids, like she used to be. Why let her new and upcoming highschool career stop her now? She'd become so well-adjusted, and could still give so much to children.

Like nightmares, for instance.

Most of her class turned to trudge back to their cabins. Others, like Gerald and Phoebe, went out to explore the jutted rock formations that made the 'point' of the peninsula even more famous. Nature wasn't her strongest suit, but there was a wild starkness to the view that struck her as unusual once she really looked at it, inviting a call for her attention that she couldn't shake.

Taking some steps closer, where the grass broke apart into scattered patches between crushed shells and lichen-crusted stones, she looked down. On a steep, but not unclimbable descent, the dropped ground gave way to a mix of cascading, jagged shelves and cracked shale sheets that dove all the way to the brackish, crashing waves at least a hundred feet down.

Not a sight she saw every day.

Walking around the outer gate surrounding the lighthouse and its museum, she passed under bizarre, salt-strapped pines and fragrant, unruly flat-petaled rose bushes, until her view of the east face revealed a wide expanse of distinct, rough stridations spanning many meters in length, offering more selective foot paths and harrowing drops for those who dared to trek. Her mind was already skipping across surfaces strategically as she took in the challenge posed by the winding, tendril formations, like the molten fingers of a titan had plunged into the surf and cooled there eons ago.

Okay, yeah. This was pretty cool.

She turned in a slow circle on the spot to take in a proper 360 from where she stood, and stopped. As powerful waves crashed against the rocks behind and around her, the sound scouring her ears as the waters drew back to gather their force anew, she saw him up above, still on the grassy footpath Mr. Simmons had taken them.

Helga watched her longest source of torment stand alone, hands in his pockets as he looked up to the top of the lighthouse tower.

Her eyes flickered from his face to the forbidden, black capped glass encasement and back, and felt her features tighten with hardened focus. Even when a brief cloudbreak in the overcast sky passed the unmerciful rays of the afternoon sun directly on his face, his gaze only narrowed, his stare stoic and unbroken.

Her feet braced, body tightening like a barely-checked spring ready to unload.

A twitch tugged at her shoulder as she saw the shift go through him, the power of her own stare breaking his trance at last. They may have been a long stretch apart, yet when their eyes met her heart leapt longfully—angrily at him, as though it could bridge that divide.

Arnold held her gaze on a tense recoil before turning away to coldly march out of sight.

She shook her head, her eyes narrowing up on the last spot she could see his stupid hair before it disappeared over the eclipse of the lawn above.

He could pretend and avoid her all he liked, but she wouldn't be shaken off. Not this time.

She knew.

She might have resigned to just being friends at best before that day in the stacks, but it couldn't be taken back. It was done. What they were was done.

As far as she was concerned, it didn't matter how much distance he could put between them. They were at summer camp, there was only so far he could go, and he couldn't get away.

Helga had two weeks, and she was out for blood.

… … …

Author's notes: Trance, Playgrounds, Nightmares, Nobility, Camping, Vacation, Lighthouse.