Chapter Text
Chapter 2: The White Ship
Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable’s length.
“Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
And do not tremble so;
For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow.”
He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat
Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast
- excerpt from The Wreck of the Hesperus, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
~o0o~
She sat on the damp bench at the end of the rowboat, the cold seeping through her skirt and into the flesh of her thighs. She hunched, for warmth, for security, shoulders up to her ears with her face fixed in a rictus of misery. Auntie sat across from her. Further up was her cousin, rowing, oars dipping rhythmically in and out of the water in large sweeping arcs that were nonetheless careful not to disturb the water too greatly. The only light came from the lantern affixed to the front of the boat, casting the adults before her in shadowed silhouette.
The fog and dark encircled them, engulfed them, a roiling mist and murk that abruptly stopped at the edge of the lantern light like they were in a bubble at the bottom of the ocean. She stared at out the thick gloom as if she could peer inside its depths but she could see nothing. It was as if the void had become liquid, pressing down on all sides as they slowly moved through it upon a floor of black rippling glass.
She shivered. It was cold and damp and the air smelled like the lake, every breath so wet she felt like it could drown her. No open flame could spark out here, she was sure; it’d be snuffed out in an instant.
“It will be fine, dear,” Auntie said insincerely, suddenly, her face shifting beneath the obscuring shadow in what may have been an attempt at a smile. Auntie reached out as if to touch her cheek, then hesitated. Withdrew. Unable to bring herself to make contact. She turned her gaze upon Auntie, searched the shadows for even the faint whites of her eyes, but the woman looked away as if even that was too much to bear. Her stomach twisted into new terrible shapes of shame and rejection.
It was getting worse. They still didn’t believe her even though there were marks on the bedroom door and burns on her skin, her breathing now strained even well into the day. Could it get her out here, with no door to hide behind? Or was the lake too deep and damp for it to follow?
The muted silence laid heavy as stone, as water at a lung-crushing depth. She looked out, out onto the lake, out into the night. She knew they were not supposed to be here, so far away from the more docile shore, and never when the sun was gone and the only light came from flickering fragile man. Some part of her wanted to chance the water. The larger part knew the water was what kept her trapped, pinned in this fragile little vessel, surrounding her on all sides with what only could be her death.
Should she chance the water still?
She croaked out a question and it hurt to speak—but it hurt more not to ask. Dread twisted her stomach like a wrung rag.
“Where are we going?” she asked in a tiny, ravaged voice.
She sounded small. She sounded less like a girl than some kind of slimy monster slithering up from the forsaken lakebed miles below, raw and raspy and wet. Squeezing her eyes shut only forced out the tears rather than holding them back. It was a childish kind of bitterness, almost an anger, that wrapped tight around her throat.
The question lingered, then languished, lying upon their shoulders like a snake that had simply chosen not to constrict. The lake lapped and licked at the sides of the boat, sometimes feeling almost like fingers tap-tap-tapping and scratching up upon the the underside just beneath her feet. Auntie did not say anything for a long time.
Then Auntie forced another flicker of a maybe smile, or maybe a grimace. Was it meant to be reassuring? “To see someone who… who deals in people like you,” Auntie said with a strained sort of calm.
She didn’t like the sound of that. It sounded like a lie, or when grown-ups said something but meant something much worse. She hugged herself tightly, looking away from Auntie and Cousin and stared down at the dark void below her that she somehow knew went as far down as the sky went up. She could not escape the knowledge that whatever this was, whatever was happening—it was all her fault.
The silence stretched, then strained. She heard a loon wail, long and sobbing. Her chest constricted.
She stared out, into the fog, and into the liquid black. There were the faintest shapes moving just past the edge of the lantern light, and shifting shadows pressing up from below just beneath the surface of the water.
Cousin began to sing softly under each laboured breath.
Voices hum, crooning over Moonlight Bay
Banjos strum, tuning while the moonbeams play
All alone, unknown they find me
Memories like these remind me
She mouthed the next lines as he sang them. And she was, more than anything, so very scared.
Memories like these remind me
Of the girl I left behind me
Down on Moonlight Bay
In the dark night, a distant light flashed.
~o0o~
It had only been a few minutes but they were quite far out on the water, according to John. Arthur’s few attempts to speak with John and discuss their next move had been met with the realization that he was with another person on a very quiet lake who, due to how the benches were situated, was also facing him the whole time. Normally he wouldn’t care. Arthur was past the point of feeling self-conscious on that front and he was hardly planning on staying in the area. But for all his temporary lack of vision he was not blind to context.
He did not want to frighten Cassie by talking to John too openly. Ian had a point in the fact he was a stranger and she was a young woman, likely even young enough to be still living with her parents based on how Ian talked to her. He had already approached her in the abandoned hallway of an empty apartment building. Now they were alone in the middle of a lake; far too often the set-up for a missing person case. He had to be mindful of his conduct. Parker had hammered that amount of tact into him at least.
John had fallen silent, irate at Arthur’s refusal to reply verbally and perhaps not truly understanding the implications of a lone man speaking to himself as if to another person. Arthur’s thoughts were a terrible place to be alone, most days, so his quiet contemplation lasted only so long.
“If I may, what is this Devil’s Graveyard and why doesn’t anyone talk about it? Why did asking to visit make that man so unhelpful?” Arthur asked instead, deciding to break whatever apparent taboo there was on speaking of the island. He had been planning on waiting until they were closer to the island in case pushing the subject gave her second thoughts but he couldn’t stand the silence or the way he felt adrift in a void with no end.
She’s raised her head to look at us, sweat glistening on her face, John perfunctorily informed him.
“Hmm? I... a Devil’s graveyard is where everyone no one wants goes,” she finally said between puffs as she rowed. “Murderers, rapists, felons…” She inhaled. “People who are cursed. The unwanted of civilized society.”
He didn’t think a single rowboat should take so much effort out of a healthy adult but John had called her short. Perhaps she simply was the frail sort.
“Okay. And whatever else is there?” Arthur asked. “Is it just the graveyard?”
She’s squinting at us and frowning. She’s suspicious.
The oars slowed. “You should know all this. André is the lighthouse keeper,” she reminded, a tinge of poorly-disguised caution colouring her words.
Arthur chuckled awkwardly. “Yes. Well, I just had a name and a map, not an occupation. No one will say anything about this place,” he deflected.
She relaxed again. Too trusting, John tsked.
“Yeah, well,” she took a breath as she pulled up the oars again. “There’s not much. Lighthouse came first. Then the graveyard, probably because it’s so out of the way. And then the widow’s house, I guess.”
“Widow’s house?” Arthur perked up.
Breathy laughter mixed with a sigh of exertion. “Yeah. Not many people know about it but someone lived there for a while.”
“Other than the ligthhouse keeper and his family, you mean,” Arthur clarified.
“The lighthouse keeper lives in the lighthouse,” she said like it was obvious. “I don’t think they can have families.”
“Okay, that aside, about this widow’s house,” Arthur continued. “Have you seen it? Does anyone else go there?”
She shrugged her shoulders the best she could while rowing.
“I’m the only person who goes,” she said. “No one else will– they think it’s cursed.” She scoffed. “Stupid. They’re just dead people.”
“Okay. Well, tell me about this widow’s house then,” Arthur requested. “I’m curious.”
“Well,” then she paused, letting the oars slow then stop once again. Her voice was raspy and tight as she forced her breathing to stay steady. “How about I tell you later,” she offered somewhat breathlessly. “It’s a little hard to speak while rowing.”
Arthur frowned. He’d rather hear it now and the poor woman sounded strained.
“How about I row,” he suggested. “Just direct me.”
“Really? It’s not too much trouble?” she checked. “I can manage it.”
“No, no, I’d like to listen to the story while we cross this lake,” Arthur assured.
“Alright,” she agreed, not entirely hiding her relief. “I was planning to take a break anyway. Just be warned it gets foggy pretty quick. You okay with that?”
Already her voice sounded considerably better.
“Oh, fog is no bother,” Arthur dismissed, a little amused by the irony. It was hardly like he could see it, already navigating the world on the directions of another.
After a bit of awkward shuffling, Arthur was sitting on the back bench and Cassie on the front. They grabbed the oars.
“Ready?” he breathed.
I can manage something like rowing, Arthur, John scoffed.
They began to row.
She’s taking a drink out of a glass bottle that was stored under the bench, John said. The liquid is clear.
“Alright,” Cassie sighed, clearing her throat. “So you wanted to know about the widow, right? It’s a very sad story.” Her voice went noticeably soft, almost admiring. “I think it’s beautiful, though, even though it’s sad. It’s a love story.”
Arthur felt John’s attention sharpen, abstract and non-physical but undeniably there. While still thoroughly unnerving to… feel something—someone—in his skull that was both purely mental yet somehow very much present, something distinctly not-him but also not entirely separate, he also felt an odd jolt of warmth. Intrusive and discomforting as it was, like pulling a thread through a long stretch of his muscles and feeling the drag beneath his skin, John’s curiosity, his newness to the world and honest fascination with it, was endearing.
He kept rowing.
“See, the Devil’s Graveyard is filled with people no one would want to visit. Or at least people who no one will admit to wanting to visit,” Cassie began. “That’s probably why Ian was so leery of you, asking to go out there. Especially since you’re not from around here. Most think if you’re visiting a Devil’s Graveyard it’s for nasty purposes like witchcraft, or because you got a reason to visit one of the deceased who most people think no good person would have any reason to care for.”
“But not you,” Arthur interjected.
She’s grinning, John described absently. It’s a small and lopsided smile that suits her crooked teeth.
“I’m the only person who’s not too chickenshit to deliver packages out there,” she said, pride lacing her voice and… something else. A stubborn kind of defiance. “I’ve been there lots and it’s always been fine. It’s rather nice, actually. Peaceful.”
“The graveyard?” Arthur asked skeptically.
“Those dead have never bothered me and it has a great view. Now lemme finish, Mr. Holder.”
“So no one goes to the Devil’s Graveyard because no one cares about the folks buried there, or if they do care they don’t admit it,” she continued. “Except one man who was buried there had a wife and, good or bad, it didn’t matter to her. She loved him. Even if it meant destroying her own reputation or morals or to spit at the Christian God. So when he died, she stayed with him. From court to prison to noose to morgue, she followed.”
“All the way to his grave.”
“Sounds like quite the romance,” Arthur mused. “Do you mean she killed herself?”
“Oh no,” she said with relish. “That’s the easy way out. Easy to die for love, harder to live your life for it when it’s gone; even harder to dedicate the rest of your life to a dead man.”
“I see. So what about the house?” Arthur prompted.
“Well, she went to the Devil’s Graveyard to live out the rest of her days with her husband, like one of those dogs who won’t leave his dead master’s grave. But the only actual shelter on the island is the lighthouse and she couldn’t stay with the lighthouse keeper,” Cassie explained. “Maybe because it was improper but I think it was to stay loyal to her dead husband. I mean, no one would know if she was with him, right? So it had to be for some other reason she went down to the shore every day to gather stones and bring them back up to build herself a house to live in.”
“Really now? Alone?”
“Yep,” Cassie confirmed. “Every day for years she built herself a shelter and kept adding on. It went from a crummy lean-to to a proper house. Not a big one but… I’ve seen it. It’s pretty impressive for one woman. It’s still standing.”
“And so she stayed there for the rest of her life, or until she disappeared at least,” Cassie finished. “Her body was never found. Some say she got eaten by ghosts. Some say her husband guided her to the underworld as a reward for her loyalty. Some say a horrible sea creature stole her away to be its bride. Some say she buried herself alive in a grave next to her husband. No one knows for sure.”
“Some say?” Arthur questioned, almost entertained by the near juvenile vagueness of it all. As nice as the story was it was hard to take too seriously from Cassie. Very My cousin’s niece’s sister’s friend says– more rumour than substance.
“Me, mostly,” Cassie admitted. “Not many people know about it and you’ve seen how folks don’t like chatting about this place. André told me and he learned from the old lighthouse keeper who knew her.”
“Couldn’t she have just left?” Arthur asked. “Why must she have killed herself or– or been taken?”
“No way. Not unless she built herself a raft,” Cassie said dismissively. “The only way to contact anyone was through the lighthouse keeper and he claimed she sent no letters or telegrams. The man who did the deliveries back then claimed she didn’t ride back with him either. There’s no boat off the island unless you bring one. And most people didn’t even know she was there. She was just… gone.”
“The island isn’t big,” she added matter-a-factly. “But there are some cliffs. I think she threw herself into the sea to join her husband. Ghosts are just more exciting a story.”
There was silence except for the water hitting the sides of the boat as they drifted aimlessly. With a start, Arthur began rowing again. He couldn’t recall when he stopped.
...It’s very foggy, Arthur. I can barely see, John realized, as if just noticing.
“Wait, there’s fog?” Arthur asked, startled.
“You didn’t notice? It’s been like that for a while,” Cassie remarked with some amusement. “I’m not that good a storyteller.”
It’s very thick. I can barely see two feet from the boat.
“Should I… how do we know we’re going the right way?” Arthur asked uncertainly, his rowing slowing and John’s just a tic after. “You said you know the fog and lake.”
“It’s fine,” she dismissed knowledgeably. “It sounds harder than it is, honestly. If you keep rowing you’ll get there eventually, some ways just take longer. The lighthouse is always lit and the currents on this side of the lake move towards the island. Things wash up there all the time. We’ll see it soon enough.”
“It is a lot worse than usual, though,” she noted. She didn’t sound particularly concerned but Arthur felt his hackles rise, just a little. “That’s fine. As long as the lighthouse is lit we’ll get there.”
She finished the bottle with one gulp and is now leaning over the side of the boat, arm hanging out and fingers trailing in the dark water.
Arthur kept rowing. The fog, with the widow’s story now over, seemed to muffle everything except for the choppy waters and oars.
“Any more stories to share?” he asked. “To pass the time.”
She shrugged once more, wiggling her fingertips in the water. Whatever energy she had seems to have abandoned her, John relayed.
“Bit tired out, really. I don’t… it’s been a long day, you know?” she admitted, a little subdued. "And I never sleep well."
“It has been a long day for me as well. Not an entirely bad one, but quite the day,” he confided, then added more for John. “This is still far better than the last time I was on a boat.”
John chuckled in his usual ominous way, a deep threatening baritone that was so unnerving as to be almost comical, like a mob boss right before he sent someone to the depths of the harbour.
Arthur was growing oddly fond of it.
Ah yes. No severed heads or horrible wounds this time.
“Very true,” he agreed.
“Hm?” Cassie inquired absently.
Arthur let out a little laugh himself, the absurdity of it all mixing with his current ease.
"Nothing. If you can believe it, I've actually had too much sleep recently," he told her. “I can keep us both entertained. How about a song instead?”
Cassie hummed thoughtfully. “My singing is horrible,” she said. “I got kicked out of the church choir. You might want to stick to solos.”
“That’s fine,” Arthur chuckled. “And I’m hardly an opera singer myself.”
I'd like to hear you sing, Arthur, John said.
He then took a breath and began to sing a song he couldn’t quite remember the name of, but had been stuck in his head nonetheless; radio static and all.
“I can’t forget the night I met you, that’s all I’m dreaming of.”
“Now you call it madness, but I call it love.”
~o0o~
What felt like an hour later, the lighthouse came into view.
“There it is,” Cassie said. “The lighthouse.”
She’s pointing, Arthur. Turn and look behind you, John instructed and Arthur did as asked.
She’s right. Within the thick blanket of fog there is a brilliant pulsating light illuminating the gray in waves. A lighthouse.
“Finally,” Arthur exhaled. While he and Cassie had been taking turns, he would not deny that his arms were beginning to ache. “How long has it been, over an hour?”
“You’re lucky you had me,” Cassie said smugly. “If you got turned around you could’ve ended up going around the whole lake before reaching it. Ugh, it takes houuuurs.” She dragged out the last sound dramatically.
The way she said it tugged at something in Arthur’s brain. Or perhaps it was her way of speech in general. It nagged at him like he was missing something.
Sounds like she knows from experience, John observed, amused.
“Seems so,” Arthur mumbled, then spoke more loudly. “Well, I’m glad we had you as our guide, Cassie.”
Her eyes widened momentarily, like she was startled. She looks… upset. I think we said something wrong, John said.
“Cassandra,” she said flatly.
“What?”
“It’s Cassandra. Sorry,” she repeated, tone softening from stiff to uncomfortably awkward. “Ian calls me Cassie because it sounds like lassie and he’s an ass. Cassie the lassie. I don’t like it.”
“Ah, well, pardon my rudeness,” Arthur apologized with light-hearted formality. “Miss Cassandra, thank you for guiding us. You have a very nice name.”
She just blushed and tugged down her hat over her eyes.
“It’s no trouble, Mr. Holder. Thanks for being such good company, I guess. I don’t get that much,” she admitted, words oddly weighted.
It had been good company, a refreshing change after the disasters Arthur’s every other interaction with people had kept becoming over the past few days and a month. They sung a few songs between them, though Arthur sang more as Cassandra’s voice grew rougher far more quickly. He had to wonder if she had breathing troubles, though she apparently had no difficulty biking around town all day.
Arthur told a captivated Cassandra a little about being a “detective,” at least the parts that didn’t hurt too much to dwell on at the moment. It had been… reaffirming, in a way, to have someone so intrigued by his work, even under a different name and for all she had quite the rosy view of it. Cassandra gladly answered a few questions in return about the town’s history and herself. She wanted to be an artist, it turned out. Saving up for some kind of art school, if she could manage it, any art school; a bold move in the current Panic. When he wished her luck he found he quite meant it.
Even John seemed to enjoy her presence well enough, or was at least benignly tolerant despite his initial suspicions. A few times he even asked Arthur to say things on his behalf, conversational questions mostly, which was a first for him. Arthur didn’t mind honouring his requests.
Yes, Arthur was quite sure John held some sort of fondness for her as well and, thinking back to the baby and wraith, it made him wonder how much of his frequent callousness was because so many of the people they had met so far were potential threats. If John’s remembered experience with people began with Arthur opening his book and, prior to that, whatever unnameable horrors existed in the Dark World, then his impression of humanity was no doubt less than flattering.
Arthur was warming to Cassandra well enough—chatting with someone who wasn’t a madman or the voice in his head was a relief—but he also considered if more exposure to such a nice young woman might benefit John as well. Socialize him a little. A guide on the island could be useful either way.
“Perhaps you can show us around the island,” Arthur suggested.
Arthur, I don’t think that’s a good idea, John warned.
“Really? If you don’t mind me dropping André’s stuff off first I’d love– I mean that sounds cool,” she agreed immediately, barely concealing her eagerness. “I always stick around after I’m done to draw. I know all the best spots.”
“Sounds perfect,” Arthur said with a small smile. “We were planning to head to the lighthouse first anyways.”
Arthur, in case you’ve forgotten we lied to her about why we needed to come here. We do not know the lighthouse keeper while she does. And if things go bad she’s more likely to be a liability than not, John reminded him. It would be best to explore the island alone and speak to the lighthouse keeper later.
Arthur waved off John’s anxieties. “You say this island is perfectly safe though, correct? No curses or wild animals?” he asked Cassandra.
“Uh, yeah. I told you,” Cassandra deadpanned, in a tone that suggested she thought he was somewhat stupid. He would've been offended but– “Three times now.”
It was warranted.
“See,” Arthur breathed. “And I’m sure if we explain ourselves–”
Cassandra just rolled her eyes, John cut him off.
“You worried about André? Don’t be. He’s a big softie. He tolerates me, after all.”
Cassandra, the few times she seemed to notice his occasional muttering (for all he was trying not to), either politely ignored it or tried to offer input if she thought she had any. At the very least Arthur seemed to come off as generally harmless to her.
Arthur cleared his throat. “Well, um. Yes. Thank you for the reassurance.”
Cassandra is pointing behind you, a little to your left.
“The boathouse is right there, Mr. Holder,” she told Arthur.
“Any great ship-dashing rocks to keep watch for?” he asked lightly, only half joking.
“None that I’ve ever seen,” Cassandra said. “There’s cliffs but on the other side of the island but it gets deep pretty quick.”
“Strange spot for a lighthouse then,” Arthur mused.
“Not really,” Cassandra said, then yawned loudly. Arthur had to smother a yawn himself. “You’ve seen how bad the fog can get and you can’t see anything at night. You could run ashore and not notice it easily.”
“Suppose so,” Arthur admitted.
“Turn and look,” Cassandra advised. “You don’t want to miss the boathouse entrance. That’s where we dock.”
Arthur turned so John could look on his behalf.
She’s right, we are floating up to the boathouse now, just a little more to the left. It is decrepit and rotten beyond belief. We’ll need to duck to pass into it as the entryway has all but fallen apart but it's a place to tie up the boat.
“Don’t forget to duck,” Cassandra warned.
“Alright, tell me when to–.” Arthur began, still rowing. With another pull of the oars to propel the boat forward–
“Ow, fuck!”
Duck.
Cassandra then let out a surprised yelp after a hollow thud. It was only John’s low chuckle that kept Arthur from panicking.
She was bending over but when you yelled she sat up just as we went under, John explained. She's holding her head right now. She looks more startled than injured.
Arthur groaned. “Alright, I think we’ve made it.”
“Ow,” Cassandra whined.
The boat bumped into something, jolting to a sudden stop. Arthur heard Cassandra sigh.
Cassandra is standing up and– yes, she has the rope. She’s still rubbing her head but she seems steady. I think she’s going to climb onto the dock and tie the boat up.
“You need help?” Arthur offered.
“Nah, I got it,” she said.
The floor here looks shaky at best. Tell her to be careful.
“Always the pessimist,” Arthur said quietly but nonetheless obliged. “Be careful Cassandra, this wood looks unstable.”
“I’ll be fine, Mr. Holder,” Cassandra said, good humour and exasperation mixing together. The boat wobbled dramatically as she climbed out.
I prefer ‘realist’.
“As all pessimists do,” Arthur muttered smugly, a wry smile on his face. A moment passed as he listened to the sound of her boots thunking on the creaking wood.
She’s tied it off.
“Alright, Mr. Holder. Could you pass up my bag?” Cassandra asked. “Then I can help you out.”
“I can get out on my own, Cassandra,” Arthur assured, perhaps a little too quickly. He wasn’t infirm, blind or not, and she didn’t even know he was down two eyes and an arm. “I’ll get your bag.”
Stand up. The bench in front of you, it’s on the floor just past it. Yes, forward, careful.
Arthur bent down and, with a hand on the bench in front of him, felt the canvas bag. Beneath the fabric he could feel what seemed like a lot of cans.
“Thank you Mr. Holder,” Cassandra said gratefully, taking the bag when it was offered. Arthur grabbed the dock and began to haul himself up.
This place is a mess. The door outside is nearly caved in completely. It’s straight to the back, to your left. Cassandra’s already leaving.
“Watch your step,” Cassandra warned as Arthur heard her scramble over debris. Arthur carefully followed.
“So… what are we looking at?” Arthur asked. Even outside of the boathouse he felt wood under his feet. A kind of boardwalk, probably, and– yes, when he stepped to the side the wood became soft, damp earth.
The fog obscures everything after some distance, though I can see vague shapes, John described. The passing light of the lighthouse seems to come from up above us, somewhere on the land. In that direction I can see dark damp green littered with mossy rocks, a wooden path heading further up and inland. To your right is the shoreline.
“How’s the shoreline look,” Arthur asked, listening as Cassandra’s footsteps grew further away.
Cold. Unpleasant. Arthur could feel John’s disdain. Nets are mixed equally with the seaweed that seems to cling to the shore. The sand fades quickly into the dark water.
“Hey, you coming?” Cassandra called, coming from some distance ahead. “My arms are gonna start hurting.”
Cassandra is further ahead on the wooden path, looking back at us and nearly obscured by the fog. Her canvas bag held tight in both arms. I don’t think she wants to leave us behind.
“Alright, alright,” Arthur said, waving a hand. “I’m on my way but there’s no need to wait for me. Let me take my time.”
She shrugged and turned away, walking along the wooden path and further into the fog.
Arthur started after her but slower, the distance giving him a chance to talk to John more freely.
“There is… something here,” Arthur said thoughtfully as he meandered unhurriedly after Cassandra. “Something meaningful.”
Gut feeling? You’ve become awfully certain of a lot of things in the last few hours.
“This is the culmination of our work,” Arthur reminded. “We’ve finally arrived where Amanda has wanted us to.”
You talk as if she intended to die, John observed, tone neutral but his words nonetheless hitting like an accusation.
“No, I just mean… this feels like the right direction. Forward,” Arthur awkwardly corrected.
Down feels more apt, but I follow your instinct, John agreed.
“Can you still see Cassandra?” Arthur asked. He thought he could hear her but with the waves he wanted to be sure.
Yes. She trots ahead a few steps then looks back, waiting, then when we get closer she does so again, keeping us at a distance but still in sight. She’s currently on a cobblestone path that leads up the side of the hill, stones worn down and slick with damp and moss. The climb is sharp but she has little problem even with both arms full.
“Ah, I feel it,” Arthur noted as the wood turned to uneven stone and the ground began to tilt up. Very quickly John’s words were proven correct about how steep it was and he was forced to lean his weight forward as he climbed.
Then he slipped on the slick rock and slid back down a small ways with a surprised shout, hands thrown forward to catch himself on the ground. Arthur heard a sharp bark of laughter coming from outside his head and a deep chuckle from within it. “There are moments here that feel like I’m climbing up a ladder,” he bemoaned.
He might have noticed the moss on the rocks was warm when he touched it, or that it almost seemed to shift slightly beneath his hands, not unlike scales on a breathing body. Maybe he’d even hear an odd snuffling sound, if he bothered to listen. But in the light of day with John so calm and Cassandra so unafraid, so utterly at ease and assured of her own safety, it was easy to dismiss out of hand.
Cassandra seems to be managing just fine, John told him, amused. I would blame the physical limitations of the human body but I think it’s just you.
“She’s wearing boots,” Arthur defended as he continued on his way. “And she’s still rather young, I think. A few years and she’ll be feeling the same aches and pains as I do.”
Finally they reached the top of the hill.
Cassandra is leaning against the crumbling wall that rises and falls along the left-hand side of the cobble path. Her canvas bag is on the ground beside her, John said. She was looking out over the island but when she noticed us, her head turned in our direction. She’s grinning and seems to be waiting for us to join her. Behind her is what must be the Devil's Graveyard. Tomb after tomb poking up through a wispy layer of fog like jagged rocks in an ocean uneven and aged, surrounded by a half-sunken, wrought-iron gate.
“The view is great up here,” Cassandra said reverently, voice oddly hushed as if reluctant to disturb the quiet.
She is correct, John agreed with reluctant admiration. I can see the whole island from here from end to end. The fog clings to the ground only, with it rising up and ringing the island like a wall a small distance from the shore.
“When’s the last time someone was buried here?” Arthur asked, curious.
“…before I was born, I think,” Cassandra said vaguely. “It’s old.”
Very old, John confirmed. It looks like it hasn’t been used for centuries with no shielding from the elements. Beyond it there is a copse of trees, dozens. Enough to obscure my view, but… I think there might be a building beyond them in the distance.
“The widow’s house,” Arthur muttered, then spoke up as he realized something.
“What about the widow?” Arthur remarked casually. “Cassandra, didn’t you say she came here when the last lighthouse keeper was still around? When her husband was buried? It can’t be that long ago.”
Or maybe it was. How long could someone even work as the lighthouse keeper? If they started in their twenties and stayed lighthouse keeper until they died, the careers of two keepers could easily add up to over a century.
“Yeah, but André’s been here since before I was born,” Cassandra said flippantly. “Decades, probably, he’s pretty old. And the guy before him was probably even older.”
Maybe there are newer graves too and I just haven’t noticed them, John speculated. Or the weather here is particularly bad for the stone. It is very damp. Stories like that aren’t usually entirely accurate anyways.
The only noise was the distant crash of waves in all directions. The fog swallowed everything else like snow.
“All right,” Cassandra said, taking a deep breath and he heard the sound of canvas rubbing against itself, gravel underfoot. “Let’s get going.”
She's picked up her bag again and is walking towards the lighthouse, following the path through the graveyard.
“The lighthouse?” Arthur mumbled as he began to move. The slick cobble shifted to the crunch of gravel, echoing the footsteps of Cassandra ahead of of him.
Yes. It’s the closest to us on this end of the island, John said. It’s old, very old, and stands tall. There’s a small building made of wood at the front of it.
“Strange, how the fog stays close to the ground here,” Arthur mused as he followed the path, half feeling his way and half listening for Cassandra’s steps.
This graveyard really is ancient, Arthur.
“How so?” Arthur allowed. He thought they had already established it was old.
The stones are all fallen apart. What was once a mausoleum far in the corner seems to have been destroyed by time. John seemed to pause, less an end to his speech than a break as he chose his words. Were all these people really unwanted?
Arthur had to take a breath at that, thrown off by how honest John sounded. A genuine curiosity combined with something almost like confused vulnerability. Almost a kind of innocence, really. A reminder of how new John was and yet another contradiction against the simple monster he seemed to be right out of the book.
“Maybe,” he replied, hushed. “But you heard what Cassandra said. Some may have had no one who missed them, but others may have had people who grieved them but couldn’t take the stigma of visiting, or those to whom their crimes were a betrayal too great to overcome.”
I would think death would even the score.
“Some betrayals are so deep that not death, or love, can make things okay,” he stated calmly, firmly, ignoring the yawning pit in his own core. “Some evils cannot be forgiven.”
John was silent. And beyond the crunch of Cassandra’s boots, his own shoes on the gravel path, and the distant rush of water, everything was utterly, eerily still.
We’re at the building beneath the lighthouse.
Arthur heard the familiar canvas and metal thud and clatter as Cassandra dumped her bundle on the ground. He stopped.
Cassandra has put down her package and is raising her hand to knock. There’s something written on the door. A piece of wood nailed to the centre of the door. Painted, with black letters.
“What’s it say?” Arthur muttered.
Get a little closer… Arthur shuffled forward a bit. It reads “Ring not, lest ye wake the dead.”
“Ring?”
It looks like there is a small bell hanging from the stone wall of the lighthouse. At one point, it must have had a pull string.
“Best not to touch that,” Arthur mumbled.
They waited a bit longer.
Cassandra is fidgeting where she stands. She’s raising her arm as if to knock again.
Arthur listened and indeed, she knocked again.
“André?! You there?” she yelled.
“Anything to worry about?” Arthur inquired. He recalled another locked door and an elderly woman—Mrs. Williams—and considered if there was a connection.
She’s turned to face us, leaning back against the door frame. Her lips are pressed tight in annoyance.
“No. He just sleeps during the day because he’s old.”
There was a bright tiing.
Cassandra flicked the bell with a finger, almost without thought, as if she’s done it a thousand times before, John reported, tense for a moment before relaxing once more. Nothing seems to be happening.
Arthur nodded slightly. Yet another ominous sign of something potentially supernatural proven harmless by their guide. While he was still optimistic—perhaps for once he would find answers without some terrible horror assaulting him—the irony of a place called a Devil’s Graveyard proving less supernaturally dangerous than almost every other lead they had followed so far was not lost on him.
“You’d think this dumb bell would wake him up,” Cassandra mused, then huffed. “If he doesn’t show up in five minutes I’ll get inside and wake him. I know where the spare key is.”
“Partir!” a strong voice hollered, muffled through the door. Arthur jumped, startled.
Was that French?
BANG BANG BANG
Cassandra has turned back to the door. She’s hitting it very hard now.
Yes, Arthur could hear that quite well.
“André! Stop being weird!”
Arthur heard the door fly open and Cassandra’s banging abruptly stopped.
“Que faites-vous– What are you doing here?” the man, presumably André, exclaimed in a thick French accent.
Arthur, there’s a man standing in the doorway looking down at Cassandra in abject bafflement. He has a long, navy blue coat and a grey, thinning beard. He has a well-kept moustache of the same colour.
“Your groceries,” Cassandra said bluntly.
“It is Saturday?” he asked, as if it were some kind of great shock.
“Uh, yeah. That’s why I’m here.”
André’s gaze has fallen upon you and the surprise has turned into something more intense. He is studying us.
“And who is this?”
“Mr. Laurence Holder,” Cassandra informed him impatiently before Arthur could get out a word. “He has some kind of delivery for you. From whoever owns the island or something. He’s also a detective. Can we come inside now? I want to show him around when you’re done.”
Ah, yes. The lie. Arthur felt a vague sort of anxiety filled his body but–
Well. Cassandra seemed interested in him being a detective. Perhaps he could spin that into another more believable story than monsters and magic books. At the very least so she was not so offended as to strand him on the island.
He’s stepped back to permit us entry. Cassandra grabbed her bag and walked in without fear.
“Oh, ah… thank you,” Arthur said, following behind. He heard the door shut behind them.
This is a small living quarter with a fireplace and stove in the corner, small flames barely flickering within the embers. An unlit pipe rests on a small table. There’s a high-backed chair, and a cot near the fire. There are stairs leading up. This place is well lived, and old.
“Apologies for the accusation,” André offered gruffly as Arthur listened to him shuffle through the room. “When I opened the door, I thought you were someone else.”
“Someone else came here?” Cassandra exclaimed, shocked. He heard her bag hit the ground from what he presumed was the far end of the room.
She set the canvas down on the wall near the fireplace and has sat down on the floor next to the table, her arms crossed and resting on its wooden surface.
“Uh, yes,” André said. “Café?
“Sorry?”
“Coffee,” André corrected.
“Please,” Arthur said, offering a quick smile.
“Girl?”
“No,” she said with audible disdain. “And it’s Cassandra.”
André mumbled something too quiet and accented to understand and Arthur heard the sound of him moving again. Cloth against cloth, shoes against the wood floor.
He’s searching for a second cup, John informed him.
“Guide me to the table,” Arthur breathed as quietly as possible.
Alright. Step forward. Once, twice, okay. Turn left, one step forward again.
He felt his shins lightly bump the table. He sank down to the floor and sat cross-legged, the position uncomfortable on his legs and back with the floor cold beneath him. The top of the table just reached his chest.
You and Cassandra both sit at one of the far corners of the table, facing the lighthouse keeper’s chair. She is watching André intently as he moves about the small room.
“Who else visited, André?” she asked. “No one else comes here.”
She sounds very confident in that, John noted.
Arthur nodded slightly in subtle agreed.
“None of your business, nosy girl,” André told her sharply. “Do not ask about it again.”
Cassandra looked surprised and is now frowning. I don’t think she expected him to respond like that.
“But André–”
“Non!” André bit out, then took a breath. “It is no business for little girls.”
Oh, she has a mean look now, John declared with a childish delight. She’s scowling and her nose has wrinkled, her eyebrows furrowed as she glares at André who is not looking at her at all. She has crossed her arms tightly over her chest. I think she’s sulking.
Arthur felt for Cassandra; to be shut down so harshly was no fun thing. Though it did raise the question as to why André felt the need to do so.
In fact that was now two people who have tried to… protect? Cassandra from something involving this island. Were they connected? Or just concerned for a young woman out on her own?
He wished he had the privacy to discuss it with John. It helped to have someone else to bounce ideas off of, even if it was just a voice in his head.
“I have no had visitors in uh…” André said from just behind him. Arthur heard a mug being set down in front of him. “Well, as long as I can remember. You must apologize for my manners.”
“Excuse me for bringing you food,” Cassandra muttered to his left.
“You are a mailman. Not a visitor,” André told her. “And you do not like coffee. No need for a mug.”
She is sulking! John chuckled, far too delighted by such a childish display.
“You did say you thought we were someone else,” Arthur added.
There was a pause. “Yes.”
“Who?”
“I don’t have milk, but I have sugar?” André offered instead.
“There’s powdered milk in your groceries,” Cassandra cut in.
“No, it’s alright. I’ll take it black,” Arthur refused, fiddling with the cool ceramic of the empty mug. With the pad of his index he traced a chip along the rim.
“Bon,” André said and Arthur listened to a clatter and the sound of a faucet filling something up.
He dodged the question. He’s put the kettle on, John said.
Arthur listened as André passed. Paper rustled and then wood scraped on the floor, stopping just beside him.
He’s cleared and brought over a small stool for you, John informed. Reach to the right and you can touch it.
Arthur did and felt its surface, so old there were parts where the varnish had worn away into raw rough wood. He stood up, already feeling stiff, and sat down on the stool. “Thank you,” he said gratefully.
“Oh, so he gets the chair,” Cassandra muttered. André let out a little tsk and Arthur heard a small thump, soft and muffled, and Cassandra letting out a small noise of surprise.
He threw a cushion at her and it hit her in the face.
“Thanks,” she muttered.
“What letter or package have you brought me?” André asked with the creaking of wood and a small groan.
He has sat down on the high-backed chair, pipe in hand. He's pulled a lighter out of his pocket and has begun to try and light it.
Arthur listened to the click-click-click of the lighter and thought.
He ran through his options. He didn’t want to lose his guide of the island since she clearly knew it well. He also needed her for the ride back and he didn’t want her to call the police for suspicious behaviour. She seemed to find him being a “detective” interesting… but he couldn’t exactly tell her what he was truly looking into, or ask the questions he wanted without seeming insane. André also seemed reluctant to say anything of substance where she could hear.
What he needed was a way to have this conversation with André in private.
What are you thinking, Arthur? John asked in a tone that sounded more like a warning. The smell of tobacco filled the room.
Despite himself, the corner of his mouth quirked up.
André didn’t want Cassandra involved in whatever was going on.
(Arthur didn’t either)
Arthur made his decision. “Were you wondering if I was Amanda Cummings?” Arthur asked. “I know she’s been here.”
Arthur! John began, sharp and upset. Then he seemed to realize something. Oh. I see…
Arthur heard the sound of something small and wood—perhaps André’s pipe—fall to the ground. Silence of a new kind, delicate as glass and suffocating as smoke, filled the small space. His mouth twitched. A hit.
André is staring right at us, John hissed.
“Girl, leave,” André ordered flatly.
“What?” she squawked. “What the hell, André?!”
“Leave,” André repeated more firmly. “Go home.”
“I actually do need her for a ride back,” Arthur admitted a little sheepishly.
André’s stare momentarily became more frustrated, lines appearing at the corner of his mouth. Then it’s gone.
“Fine,” he said shortly. “Girl, wait outside.”
“I’m not a dog, André,” Cassandra insisted. “Is this about the woman who was killed? Everyone’s talking about it. We have a curfew now.”
“Out,” André repeated, refusing to budge. “This is a matter for adults.”
There was a moment of silence and what Arthur could only presume was a stare-down.
“This is my home, not yours,” André finally said, cold. “Out, girl.”
“Ugh, fine,” she relented, annoyed and perhaps a little hurt. Arthur heard her stand up, her boots hitting the floor louder than they needed to.
The door opened, a brief moment of damp, cool air rushing into the fire-warmed room. “You still need to pay me,” Cassandra added curtly, then the door slammed shut with more force than necessary.
“That girl. Such trouble,” André grumbled. “Never leaves me alone. Always with the questions.”
Clearly there was history there he was unaware of.
“Sounds like you’ve known her a while,” Arthur offered.
“Not at all,” André denied cryptically, but did not elaborate. “What brings you to the island at this time of year?”
He’s picked his pipe up. He’s studying your face and eyes.
“It’s a long story,” Arthur admitted.
“Be quick,” André advised. “I have time but the girl has no patience.”
Arthur grimaced. “I’m looking for a friend of mine. She came here. Now she is dead.”
The kettle whistled.
“Let me get your coffee,” André said.
~o0o~
Throughout the conversation, Arthur quietly tucked several facts away in his head.
Amanda Cummings had indeed been to the island, or at least a woman who matched her description. André had not spoken to her but she had gone down to the widow’s house frequently, as recently as several weeks ago.
“The widow… the girl always tells the story wrong,” André had sighed when Arthur brought it up. “She was not alone.”
André also was far more superstitious than Cassandra, perhaps rightfully so. When Arthur pointed out Cassandra’s lack of fear, he had chuckled and Arthur could not tell if it was condescension or fondness.
“Yes,” he said. “But she does not go out after sunset. She has never seen the lighthouse unlit. She has forgotten her own ghosts. I do my job well, mousier.”
He puffed his pipe.
“But you and me… we cannot forget what is in the dark like a child can, eh?”
He just winked at you.
The fear, which so far had been kept well at bay with how confidently Cassandra treated the whole venture, returned with a vengeance.
At the very end, Arthur decided to inquire a bit more about Cassandra. Her connection to the island and Mrs. Williams struck him as potentially more than chance.
“The girl is just a girl,” André said dismissively. “Do not get her involved. She has been through much.”
“Much?” Arthur pressed.
“Bad business,” André said simply. “She does not speak of it. She has forgotten what she can. Let her ghost rest in the graveyard like the others.” He would speak no more on the matter even with additional prodding.
“I must thank you, André,” Arthur finally said. “You have been very helpful.”
He had what he needed, he was sure, and what he failed to uncover regarding Cassandra’s connection to the island was more a blow to his curiosity than anything else. The widow’s house was where he’d find more answers.
“My name is not André,” the lighthouse keeper said calmly. His mug was placed on the table with a slight clink.
“Cassandra calls you André, though,” Arthur protested a little weakly.
“The girl calls me André. That is not my name,” the lighthouse keeper said simply. “I allow it. Even if I remembered my name…” he hummed thoughtfully, as if thinking of the right words. “You do not give your name to the damned dead.”
“Ah.” Arthur sat there, feeling rather overwhelmed.
“You call me André if you want,” he offered. “But it is not my name.”
Arthur nodded even though he did not understand at all.
The lighthouse keeper made a pleased noise. “Good. Now, this has helped you, yes? Given you answers?”
“Very much so,” Arthur agreed, rising to his feet and eager to leave.
“Then you help me, too,” the lighthouse keeper said.
“What?”
“The wick, it cannot falter, eh?” the lighthouse keeper said as if it were obvious. And yes, Arthur had gotten the sense that the lighthouse was potentially more important than just a way to keep ships from crashing into the island. With all the supernatural threats he had run into recently he wasn’t about to discount the potential danger of a place explicitly involved in his current investigation.
He’s pointing up to the light at the top of the stairs, John added.
“No, of course,” Arthur stammered. “But Cassandra… she must be very bored. I should probably–”
“The girl is outside. Her ear is up against the door,” the lighthouse keeper cut in. “Nosy. The door is too thick but still she tries.”
Arthur heard him stand in a rustle of thick cloth and a grunt of exertion.
“I will be back in a moment but I must do something. Watch the wick. If it goes out, light it quickly, bon?”
He is moving to the door, John warned. If you want to stop him, do it now.
“I…” Arthur froze.
The door opened. Arthur heard Cassandra let out a yelp, quickly followed by an impassioned denial of any eavesdropping.
“Girl,” the lighthouse keeper cut her off. “Watch the man. Watch the wick.”
“What?” Cassandra exclaimed, then let out a juvenile whine. “Why?”
“No arguments,” he said simply. “Stay with him until I return. I will pay you when I return.”
Arthur heard what must be Cassandra step inside, mumbling angrily.
“Merci,” the lighthouse keeper called back.
Then the door closed.
~o0o~
1930s ERA INVESTIGATOR
Name: John Doe Birthplace: Ã̷͕̔Ă̷̛̻̠A̶̪͊͋Ã̴̻̽Ả̵͎Ǟ̴̦̺Ą̶̦̓Ḥ̷͒̈H̸̺͑̾Ḫ̶͑H̴̢̓H̸̤͉͘͝Ḩ̸̨̄̈ Pronouns: He/Him(?). Age: @̵̯͔̈́*̷͙̓̔#̷̍͜ͅ&̶̛̭̦͐$̴̡͙͘
Occupation: t̸̢͈̝̼́͗̈́H̵̦̼͗e̷̗͖͌ ̷͙̰͂͋K̷̨̺̹̟̂į̸̗̆̅̏i̴̳̖̥̲̎͛I̸̯͋̕i̶͈̙͛̉n̵̻̣̄ͅG̴̻͕̔͌ / Sighted Guide Residence: Arthur Lester
Stats
STR 40 CON 50 DEX 70 INT 65 SIZ 2 POW 140 APP 60 EDU 25
MAX HP N/A HP N/A Luck 79 MAX SAN 74 SAN 54
Skills
Charm 45
Credit Rating 0
Cthulhu Mythos 25
Fast Talk 90
Firearms (Handgun) 30
Intimidate 80
English 78
Occult 35
Persuade 50
Psychology 35
Spot Hidden 75
Effects:
Possession (ongoing): Can only utilize a single hand. When not working in collaboration with Arthur Lester all STR rolls are Extremely Hard.
(Note: Can utilize Arthur Lester’s skills and stats for applicable rolls)
Keepers Note: Jesus that's sure some gimmick, sharing a body?! I'll still give the guy who had me roll up a dog investigator the no. 1 spot but kudos for the creativity.