The Ghost Chronicles (30 page)

“Maybe someone should call and tell Samantha to put the pennies back on the windowsills,” I said.

“What for? She doesn’t live there anymore,” Ron responded.

Oh yeah, that’s right
. I’d forgotten. Not wanting to sound crude, I kept my next thought to myself: if Samantha continued to carry Paul around like a second skin, pennies would be the least of her worries.

I
turned my back to the wind and stared behind us. Streaks of purples and pinks hung low in the sky. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have sworn the brilliant hues were clinging to a ball of fire. A ball of fire that was now chasing the horizon, peeking behind rows of pristine cottages that hugged the banks of the channel, bringing with it a cloak of darkness. Instead of allowing myself to fully enjoy the moment, I chastised myself. On the surface, this was a picture postcard moment, a moment more suited for lovers than paranormal investigators. To the unsuspecting eye, it would seem like a dream come true. But to me, it meant we were on our way to a haunted location with no escape. And the closer we got to our destination, the tighter the knot in my stomach was becoming.
Am I crazy?
My husband often asks me why I do what I do. I can’t quite put it into words. It’s who I am. I’m drawn to the spirits, and they to me.

I raised the collar of my winter jacket but knew it wouldn’t do any good. The deep, bone-penetrating cold I was feeling since we’d shoved off was inside me, a cold that no number of blankets, or ninety degree weather for that matter, could stifle.

Over the rustling wind and flapping of the nylon flag, I yelled to the captain, “How long until we get there?” I wasn’t quite sure he’d heard me, since I could barely hear myself.

“Not too long, about twenty minutes or so.” He pointed directly in front of us. “Right there, that’s Wood Island Light.
Can you see it? We’ll be landing on the south side of the island. You’ll have to walk three-quarters of a mile down a boardwalk to get to the keeper’s house.” As if reading my thoughts, he said, “Sorry, but the rest of the island is too rocky; there’s no way for me to land the boat.”

“Marvelous,” I said.

Just then, seemingly out of nowhere, I felt the first sign of a disturbance in the air. The atmosphere shifted as a sizzle of energy glided over my skin, sending a trembling wave from the base of my neck to the tips of my toes. I looked from my right to left, but the only thing I saw was a single small island off the starboard side. I couldn’t be certain, but I didn’t think the energy I was picking up on originated from Wood Island. Although fast approaching, we were still more than a mile away.

Ron seemed to sense it too. He turned and looked me in the eyes, as if waiting for a reaction. “Yeah, I feel it too.” I smiled inwardly at the thought of how much Ron’s intuition had grown since we’d been working together.

Ron closed the distance between him and the captain, and then pointed to the very same island. “Hey, Sean, what island is that?”

“Negro Island. Back in the old days, it used to be a trading post.” The captain’s voice came in bursts above the constant thrum of the motor and the breaking of waves against the
Light Runner
’s aluminum hull.

Instantaneously the motor stopped short, cutting out completely. “What the—?” Sean paused and looked over the port side into the water, to see if we’d hit anything. He scurried to the rear of the boat and raised the outboard motor. To his surprise, a rope, which looked like a relic from an old ship, was
tangled in the propeller. “This is strange. In all the times I’ve gone out to the island, I’ve never had this happen.”

After about five minutes, like Captain Nemo, he freed us from the leviathan that held us from our journey. Back at the controls, he pushed the button until we heard the familiar roar of the engine. We were on our way again. “That was strange,” he said.

Kathleen, one of Sheri’s helpers, grabbed a handful of railing, then took a seat next to me. She leaned over and said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I love your earrings. Where did you buy them?”

Forgetting I had them on, I fumbled with them. “Shoot, I forgot to take them off.” Then, realizing I hadn’t answered her question, “Sorry, I’m not sure where he bought them. They were an anniversary gift from my husband.” Not willing to risk breaking the fine filigree silver earrings by storing them in my overnight bag I left them on and did the only thing I could do—tighten the clasps.

The boat slowed. “We’re here,” Sean said, as he positioned the boat as close to the ramp as possible. “Would someone mind getting out to hold the ropes?”

“No problem,” Ron said, as he and his son Ron Jr. stood at the bow of the boat. They jumped off and onto the ramp and held the boat in place while Sean manually cranked the winch, lowering the front of the boat until it lay flat against the ramp.

Together we pitched in, and in no time all our gear—sleeping bags, blankets, pillows, base camp and investigation equipment, and coolers filled with lots of food and drink—was piled high on the dock.

Sheri waited for us to sort out the gear and then led us down the narrow boardwalk toward the lighthouse. I was thankful that
someone was forward-thinking enough to have brought a heavyduty hand truck and cart. With a sleeping bag under my left arm, I grabbed the cart, dragging it behind me. Even over the clanking of the wheels on the planks of the boardwalk, I felt a low-lying energy, like a pot simmering, waiting to boil. I knew there were spirits lurking, waiting to pounce. “Ron, do you feel anything?” I asked.

An aerial view of Wood Island, the boardwalk, and the lighthouse.

“Yeah. Old.”

“I feel anxious. Agitated.” I paused, then for a moment I stood perfectly still, listening to the crash of the waves against the rocks and feeling the roaring ocean wind as it whipped through my hair. “I sense someone running, trying to get away. It’s as if they’re trying to hide.”

Ron stopped walking, turned, and then said, “There’ll be plenty of time for that later. We have—all—night.” He grinned. “Now,
can we get a move on? I’m freezing out here.” Dismissing my words, he picked up his pace and briskly walked ahead. When he reached midway, he stopped short, peering over the side of the narrow walkway, and yelled, “Holy crap! Would you look at that drop.”

I caught up to him and looked over the edge. Feeling a bit woozy, I looked away. From where we stood there was at least a fifteen-foot drop down to a, well, not-so-soft area. I suddenly felt sick. The knot in my stomach tightened some more. God, I hated heights. “I thought you wanted to ‘get a move on,’” I said, wanting nothing more than to get away from this spot, even if it meant spending the night at the keeper’s house with no heat.
It’s all perspective
, I thought.

Regaining our stride, we continued to our destination. The nearer we got to the lighthouse, the louder the screeching of the seagulls, until it felt as if we had just stepped into a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s
The Birds
. Exiting the woods, we got our first glimpse of our home for the night: a weather-beaten cape with an enclosed walkway to the formidable tower of the lighthouse.

Our first glimpse of Wood Island Lighthouse, our home for the evening.

Pretty soon we had base camp up and running, and, to keep the frost out of our bones, nearly everyone was already on their
second cups of hot coffee. Not me, I wasn’t a coffee drinker. The last thing I needed was more buzzing in my brain.

“So where to first?” I asked Ron, as he stood chatting with Kathleen and Judy, the two volunteer members of the Friends of Wood Island Lighthouse preservation group who tagged along to help Sheri with whatever we needed. God bless them. Sheri had contacted the Ghost Project after we had conducted an investigation for the Friends of the Portsmouth Lighthouse in New Castle, New Hampshire. She wanted us to investigate the spirits of Wood Island and ultimately present our findings for an organization fundraiser.

He looked at Sheri. “Do you think you could take us up to the top of the lighthouse?”

“Yeah, but if we’re going to go, we should do it now. I wouldn’t want someone who’s tired trying to climb those winding cement stairs. Even inside the tower, without a railing, they’re treacherous. And I only recommend a small group of you go up. There’s minimal room at best.”

Doug, the reporter for the
Boston Globe
, stood at the ready, pen and paper in hand, as if smelling a story in the making, with his photographer, Fred, right behind him.

“Great, let’s go. Maureen, you coming?” Ron asked.

With that, Sheri led us out of the kitchen, through the narrow hallway, and into the base of the lighthouse. Midway up the winding stairs, my heart began to thud in my chest, like a frantic bird batting its wings in a cage. I paused to catch my breath, breathed in slowly, out slowly. The feeling of anxiety and panic I had felt earlier was returning.

“Maureen, what’s going on? Tell me what you’re feeling,” Doug said.

“It’s a woman, I feel her panic, her pain,” I said, as a tear slipped down my cheek.

“Maureen, are you going to be all right to make it up here?” Ron’s voice echoed from above.

“Yeah,” I choked back a sob and finished climbing the stairs. Once at the top we made our way up a metal ladder and through a hole in the ceiling. We stood shoulder to shoulder around the massive bulb at the top of the lighthouse, staring through the thick glass at the setting sun and listening to the waves crashing on the rocks.

Due to lack of space, Fred the photographer remained perched halfway up the ladder that led into the opening in the floor.

“You picking up anything here?” Ron asked, as he waved his EMF meter in front of me.

To answer Ron’s question, I opened up my mind and mentally asked if there was a spirit present. Using my thoughts like a beacon, I felt a spirit approach us. Its energy roiled over my skin, and his thoughts seeped into my mind. “It was an accident. I—I didn’t mean to do it,” I said, through raspy breaths.

“Do what? Who are we speaking with? What did—you—do?” Ron asked.

* * *

I looked at Maureen, who was clenching her teeth. “It wasn’t my fault,” she cried.

Her stare was far off, distant. One look into her eyes and I knew that although she turned to look at me, she wasn’t seeing me at all. I looked at the distance between her and the opening in the floor. Crap. This could be bad. “Maureen, not here. It’s too dangerous,” I called to her, but the only response I received was a loud rhythmic sighing, a sound to me that whomever was here was trying to take
her over. I grabbed her elbow in case she stepped too far to the right. She’d be a goner for sure, and she’d take poor Fred with her. “Maureen, come back. Come back!”