Chapter Text
Chapter 3: Isle of the Dead, Op 29
I.
Do you hear the witches wailing?
Witches wailing, wailing, wailing,
Do you see the ghost robes trailing?
Ghost robes trailing, trailing, trailing
It is but a nighttime whisper,
But a whisper of the zephyr?
Or my soul in secret meeting
The dim soul whose fate is loving?
Tell me, tell me, tell me,
Voices of the dusk.
II.
Do you see those spirits lonely?
Spirits lonely, lonely, lonely.
Can they be for lost souls only?
Lost souls only, only, only.
Are they but the fearful phantoms,
Fearful phantoms from my fancy?
Or the sprites of conscience stricken
From a region long forgotten?
Tell me, tell me, tell me,
Voices of the Dusk.
- Voices of the Dusk, Fenton Johnson
~o0o~
She stood in the hall, breathless and stiff. It was dark, a harsh pitch that grew deeper and bleaker the further one looked down the stretched length of the hall, like the distant depths of a dark pit, or the cloudy black glass of a lake. Heels dug into the floor, she pushed herself backwards, back pressing into the wall as if she could shove herself right through and disappear.
It was dark. Except. Her bare toes stood inches from a single solid strip of light that streamed out from sliver in the ajar door next to her that led into the kitchen, a straight-edged thick line of warm yellow bracketed by thick shadow. The hall clock ticked, each click click click metering out the seconds like a metronome, building a steady winding tension that pulled nauseatingly on her insides. She pushed harder against the wall and deeper into the obscuring miasmic gloom, hoping for it all to go away.
She could feel it, staring and still except for the subtle shift of floorboards when it moved closer. When she looked down the hall she could just barely make out a shape in the fuzzy black, less an outline or shade than a change in the darkness’s texture. More than that, she could smell the smoke and feel the creeping heat, warming the side of her like an open fire burning too close to be comfortable. A bead of sweat dripped down her forehead, her nightgown clinging to her damp skin.
It had been outside her window. Her unlocked window. And now it followed her into the hall, and watched, and waited. She could barely breath from the terror.
And yet (and yet) rather than flee, or burst in to the momentary safety of the brightly lit room, she was paralyzed as she listened to Auntie and Cousin talk. Even as it crept slowly closer (so very slowly), she remained still.
“But she’s getting worse. The screaming alone–” Cousin continued in his usual brisk, blunt tenor before being interrupted.
“I know, but what do you want me to do?” Auntie bit out in a shouted kind of whisper, desperate and ragged and tired. The shame of it wormed in the girl’s stomach and birthed a burning kind of guilty resentment, small fists twisting the fabric of her skirt.
“Deal with it!” Cousin exclaimed and there was a clattering thunk like a fist slammed on the table, rattling whatever rested upon it. The girl jolted even as Auntie hissed a frantic “Quiet!” but Cousin continued on unabated, frustration jumping off every word like spitting oil. “Call the Fathers, do an exorcism, send her to a damn asylum–”
“I can’t do that,” Auntie hissed louder, horrified. “I can’t. I can’t. She’s just a girl, she’s just– The– The Fathers would have her– she–” and she choked herself into silence.
Something unspoken lingered between each tick of the marching seconds, and it scared her.
“It’s not her fault,” Auntie finally said thickly, voice heavy and resigned.
“That doesn’t matter,” Cousin stated, firm but… almost kind. Gentle, even, in his own way. “What someone is can’t be helped.”
The thing in the hall shuffled closer. The heat grew stronger. The girl stood frozen with her heart pounding, caught between light and shadow and knowing neither would save her.
“No one else would take her,” Auntie sighed and the girl’s stomach writhed painfully. Tears, hot and burning as the thing in the dark, welled up in her eyes. She had to grit her teeth to swallow the noise, feeling a kind of noose pulled taut around her neck. “I had to. Not even you would.”
“The Fathers will take her,” Cousin said, not without his own exhaustion. “They should have from the start.”
“But she’s just a girl,” Auntie repeated, weak and wretched. “She’s just a girl.”
“I know,” Cousin agreed, tinged with both melancholy and unshakable certainty. “But something must be done. They will eventually.”
The girl inhaled, lungs pressing up against the small cage of her ribs. A drop of sweat fell off the tip of her nose. Another crawled down the side of her face like the skittering of an insect.
“An exorcism might work,” Auntie finally said. “What about the First Lighthouse?”
The thing edged closer. She held her breath and still, limbs trembling from the strain as she listened.
“You know we’re not allowed there,” Cousin warned. “The Fathers say–”
“We might have to,” Auntie said grimly. “Her father went–”
“It’s cursed,” Cousin insisted. “If we go without permission we just damn ourselves as well.”
“As if she’s not?” Auntie demanded sharply in a sudden heated burst. “As if she was not damned the moment that fool took her to the island? As if every moment she’s not dragging us all down with her?!”
Her chest ached. Her throat closed. Her arm–
“So send her to–”
But the girl had stopped listening. The girl had noticed the heat was suddenly no longer just heat. It had crossed the line she could endure to something she couldn't. It burned. All along her arm, it burned.
She shrieked in surprise and in pain, her whole body recoiling from the unseen flames. Blindly, she scrambled through the kitchen door and into the light. The outer part of her arm throbbed white and searing.
She wailed wretchedly, running to Auntie with arms wrapped tight around herself. But she knew not to reach for Auntie. She stopped in front of the seated woman and with great discipline kept her hands to herself, shuddering pathetically with ragged gasps as she glanced fearfully back at the door, tears streaming down her heat-flushed cheeks.“Es hot mikh gebrent!" she sobbed. "Es tut vey! Helf mir, Auntie. Bite! Bite! Es iz in koridor!”
“God damn it,” Cousin sighed, exhausted. “Again?”
“Can you–”
“‘Course,” Cousin said.
“C’mon Cassie-lassie, it’s still beddy-bye for little girls,” Cousin condescended with a false warmth. He stood, chair scraping across the floor as he gestured for the door. She flinched.
The girl looked at Auntie with desperation and offered her burned arm, thrusting the limb out like an offering. The skin was red and angry, already beginning to blister in bubbling splots. She swallowed the panic, and the frantic, instinctual language of home. “It burned my arm,” she forced out in English between juddering exhales. “It’s going to hurt me. It’s going to hurt me! Please, please I don't wanna–”
Auntie’s jaw clenched, and she looked away.
“No, no no Auntie please ikh vil nisht please pleasepleaseplease–” the girl wept, reaching for her family.
Cousin lunged forward and grabbed her, large hand closing tight around her wrist like a manacle, He wrenched her back and away from Auntie. Terror wiped any rational method of persuasion clean from her head. She dug her heels in and grabbed on to the table leg, screeching, “No! No! Loz mikh geyn! Loz mikh geyn! Auntie!”
But Cousin was a large man and her burned arm hurt at the slightest pull of skin. Her grip slipped. She stumbled, kept upright only by his iron hold, then as new desperation took hold began to thrash and claw and howl like they were killing her.
Killing her. They were killing her.
“And remember your English,” Auntie reminded in a distant, deadened voice as the girl was dragged, struggling and screaming, out of the room.
~o0o~
Well, John said.
“Wait outside Cassandra,” Cassandra muttered in a sarcastic, high-pitched falsetto. “That’s it Cassandra. Wait until the adults are done.” She kicked something, probably the wall based on the solid scuffing sound. “Watch the stupid farkakte lighthouse, Cassandra.”
“Stop acting like such a child,” Arthur said irritably, as if he had not begun pacing. “I don’t like it either but it seems like we’re stuck here for now.”
She’s glaring at you. She rolled her eyes and looked away, turning to the stove, John narrated.
“He always does this,” she complained. “It’s not even dark.”
There was a lighter on the corner of the stove. She picked it up and is turning it over in her hand. She is looking at it with… reluctance.
“This is a frequent occurrence then?” Arthur inquired, head tilted in her direction.
“Well, no,” she admitted. “He’s done this a few times. He never tells me what he needs to do either. But by the time he’s back I’ll have to go home so I can’t show you anything!” She kicked the wall again. “What a waste of time.”
“Really?” Arthur asked worriedly. “He can’t take that long. Surely we can stay a little longer if needed? Where did he even go?"
“Yeah, well, Ian’s gonna call the cops if I’m not back before the sun sets,” Cassandra said bitterly and with no small amount of resentment. “There’s a stupid curfew right now and he’s worried you’re gonna murder me or I’m gonna summon the Devil or some fool shite like that. Like it’s any of his business.”
She let out an annoyed huff of air. "And who knows where André goes. He never tells me. He just says it's 'No business of little girls," she scoffed, quoting with a sarcastic if somewhat accurate to the man French accent.
Now Arthur shared in her annoyance. “I’ll have to come back tomorrow, then,” he decided, and continued pacing, getting a sense of the room. He considered leaving Cassandra to watch the lighthouse while he explored the island but he felt a growing reluctance to leave her alone in this place. It seemed… unwise.
He could just steal another boat after dark like his original plan. He was feeling confident in his ability to find his way back.
Cassandra scoffed but did not respond.
Well, at least he’s probably not going to leave with our boat and strand us here, John remarked.
“What?” Arthur exclaimed, alarmed.
It was just a thought, John assured. Since there is no way off the island other than our boat, I wondered if the lighthouse keeper might be trapped here too. I know little about him or his duty, or how long he has been here. We did leave our boat unattended and if he wished to leave, theft may be his only option.
Arthur felt his heart skip a beat.
But he doesn’t strike me as greedily excited to leave, John added. And if he wanted he could have stolen Cassandra’s boat long before we got here on one of her visits. Or he could have asked her to take him since she’s certainly naive enough to take him on his word. If escape was what he wanted, there would have been plenty of opportunities before we arrived. I’m just being a pessimist.
“Realist, remember?” Arthur reminded with a sigh. Just because Cassandra alone wasn’t enough to trigger an escape attempt didn’t mean the lighthouse keeper wouldn’t try with them. Being a lighthouse keeper on this island with no way off and no one to share the burden of duty could easily mean it was a prison. But it seemed pointless to worry about at this point. “Well, anything of interest here?”
Not really. As I mentioned, he clearly lives in this small area. There’s the staircase leading up, John reported. Not much stuff for someone who lives here full time.
“No, this is the most boring place on the island,” Cassandra complained, unhelpfully. There was a squawk of squeaky metal and a muffled, fabric-adjacent thump.
Cassandra is sprawled out on the lighthouse keeper’s cot, John said, then added unnecessarily, She seems upset.
Somehow, in spite his current visual impairment, Arthur had figured that out. She was hardly being subtle.
“Has the lighthouse wick ever gone out while you were watching it?” Arthur asked her.
“No,” she said snippily. “Even I can’t screw up something that easy.”
Arthur withheld a sigh, then tilted his head. He heard something. Like the trickle of sand.
“Do you hear that?” he asked.
Cassandra soundly ignored him. Arthur listened more closely.
It sounded like it was coming from beneath the floor.
“Do you see anything?” Arthur asked more softly, head turned away from Cassandra.
I… yes, the floorboards, John answered. There’s a floorboard in the corner that looks almost…
“Like they have something beneath?”
Yes, John said, his attention a pressure within the nothing of his eyes.
Arthur walked around the room with his hand on the wall. He stopped when he felt the flooring under his feet shift ever-so-slightly under his weight. “Here?”
Yes, John confirmed.
Arthur did not so much grin as bare his teeth. One of the benefits of the job, there was something deeply satisfying about tearing up the literal floorboards in search of a lead. Cathartic, one could say.
“Hey, what are you doing?!” The metal bed frame—he assumed—squawked and boots shuffled across the the floor but Arthur ignored it, running his hands across the flooring until he found a gap in the planks larger than all the rest.
Cassandra is coming over to us, John informed, needlessly.
Arthur hooked his fingers in and pulled.
The floorboard came out with a grunt of effort and the crackle of old wood that splintered more than it flexed. Old and musty, yes... but not as stuck as years of laying there would make it.
“What the hell!” Cassandra exclaimed and Arthur couldn’t tell if it was at him or whatever she saw beneath the floorboards.
It’s… there looks to be a lower level, John observed.
“Did you know about this, Cassandra?” Arthur asked, turning his head to face her voice.
“I…”
She’s shaking her head slowly, her eyes wide with shock and apprehension and… curiosity as she leans a little closer, John observed carefully. I don’t think she knew there was something under there.
“Are there stairs?” Arthur asked John, turning back to the gap in the floorboards.
I don’t know. Maybe but… these aren’t it.
So if Arthur wanted to go down there he’d either have to drop in with no guaranteed way out, or find an alternative entrance.
“There is it again!” Arthur exclaimed, unnerved. “It sounds a bit like sand. What is that?”
We can try to find out.
“Mr. Holder, what’s going on?” Cassandra demanded, voice kept to an anxious stage-whisper. “You can’t just– this is André’s home! Is this part of some kind of case? Does it have to do with the lady who died?”
Arthur inhaled sharply. “Something is wrong about this place, this island,” he said, speaking from the gut. He couldn’t tell if it was to himself, to John, or to Cassandra. “The lighthouse keeper said some things… and there’s clearly something here related to Amanda.”
“Are you crazy?” Cassandra hissed. “You can’t just go around tearing up people’s floorboards. We’ll get into trouble!”
“You weren’t that upset about breaking and entering earlier,” Arthur retorted, a tad sharpishly. “In fact you seemed quite excited. We’ll put the boards back after and it will be fine.”
“That was different!” she exclaimed, then fell utterly, anxiously silent, as if worried someone heard her shout. "I just– I don't think we should do this without telling someone."
Arthur… her eyes are locked on the opening in the floor, John offered, silky and low. For all she denies it... she wants to know more.
Oh. Oh, yes. Arthur could use that.
“Look, it's plain to me that you want to know what’s going on, just like I do,” he pushed quite persuasively. “You think you know everything about this island but here’s proof that you don’t. I’ll even tell you what I know if you don’t run off. And, if something does happen, you can just blame me and say I– say I threatened you. They'll believe you over me."
“I–” she hesitated.
“Trust me, Cassandra,” Arthur implored. “This is incredibly important. There is something sinister going on here and people’s lives are at stake. A woman has already died. If we do nothing, who could say what might happen next?”
The sound of sand moving. Of Cassandra breathing, heavy with stress.
“Alright,” Cassandra yielded. “Alright.”
Arthur nodded gratefully. “Thank you.”
“Just.. don’t make me regret it,” Cassandra warned, a threat that came out more like a weak plea. But Arthur was already focused on the hole in the floor once again.
Lay down and let me check more closely, John instructed. With a grunt, Arthur laid flat on the floor, cheek pressed against the edge of the opening.
Oh. Oh, Arthur.
“What?” Arthur’s voice echoed, speaking into the open space below them.
Bones.
“Bones? What kind?” Arthur demanded.
“Bones?” Cassandra echoed weakly.
Human.
“Jesus!” Arthur scrambled back to his feet, heart crawling up his throat.
We need to leave this place. Now! Put the board back, John ordered.
“Mr. Holder, what bones?!” Cassandra asked, voice pitching high and anxious.
“Human bones,” he said, short and somewhat panicked as he grabbed the boards and slid them back over the hole until they slotted into the place. Human remains– well, humans remains hidden under the floorboard changed things.
“I can’t– they must be very old,” Cassandra rationalized uneasily. “This is a graveyard. They probably built the lighthouse on top of some graves.”
“Perhaps,” Arthur allowed even though that didn’t sound right. "When the lighthouse keeper comes back we could–"
Arthur! John growled. We don’t know the lighthouse keeper, or what he plans on doing. The bones didn't look like they were from the graveyard. They looked fresher. We need to take Cassandra and leave.
“How fresh?” Arthur asked, dread filling his stomach.
Fresh enough for me to tell you to get the fuck out! John snarled. Move, Arthur!
Except… the wick.
“I– I don’t–” Arthur stammered, feeling his limbs and mind lock in place. The lighthouse keeper’s words rang in his mind, pushing against his instinct to simply listen to the loud voice in his head and get the fuck out. “I don’t know if we should leave!”
You want to wait? John asked in stunned disbelief.
“No, I– I don’t know. M-maybe, I…?” Don’t let the wick go out. Bones in the space under the floor. Cassandra trying to keep her raspy breath steady right next to him. The full weight of John’s presence pressing down on him like a thousand eyes. The impossible problem of making a choice without all the information, without knowing the rules of this place. Why this of all things, something as little as some goddamn human remains, was making him lightheaded–
He used to be better at this, he was certain.
(Parker would decide without hesitation. Arthur wished he was here.)
Are you fucking kidding me, Arthur! John roared. Have you learned nothing? Make a decision!
Something grabbed his arm and he jerked back with a choked yelp. Jesus Christ, Arthur! It’s just Cassandra!
“Mr. Holder, what’s going on!” Her hand clutched his jacket-sleeve like a child, her voice brittle with an anger that was really just fear.
She looks scared, Arthur. If you won’t move for yourself then do it for the innocent girl you dragged into this mess! John snarled.
“Cassandra,” Arthur gasped, twisting out of her grip to grab her wrist tight. To keep her there, or the steady himself, he did not know. “Do you trust the lighthouse keeper?” he demanded, staring directly at where he assumed was her face. “Can you tell me for absolute certain that he doesn’t have anything to do with the human bones underneath his home?”
Cassandra’s exhale shuddered with horrified realization. Of what exactly, Arthur could not say. But it was not a good sign.
Arthur, you need to make a decision! Should we wait or should we leave?
“I don’t know! I don’t know!” Arthur yelled and Cassandra let out a cry of fright, wrenching free and fleeing with the pounding of boots on wood. A new panic gripped him for a brief moment, terrified she had fled outside alone, into whatever potential threats lay in wait—but the door hadn’t opened and he could still hear her breathing from across the small room.
Cassandra has retreated to the other side of the room, arms wrapped tight around her stomach, John reported quickly. She is staring at you with uncertainty and fear like a cornered animal, her back pressed against the far wall and the table between us and her. Her eyes keep moving between you and the door. Make a choice. Fucking do something, Arthur!
“What– what the hell is wrong with you?” she yelled, voice suspiciously thick and fragile.
“I– I’m sorry!” Arthur stammered, immediate bitter regret pooling in his stomach, curdling with the fear into something foul. “I didn't mean– we– we need to think, Cassandra.”
“Think about what?!” she exclaimed.
There was a wail. So terrible, it struck them silent as they listened. A long, drawn out cry like the howl of the wind only far too ghastly, rising and falling and ever so pained.
It stopped and Arthur felt like something horrible had happened.
“It’s out!” Cassandra shouted.
Fuck, John cursed.
“What’s out?” Arthur yelled, for a brief moment thinking something had escaped.
“The wick!” Cassandra cried. “The lighthouse! We need to– oh no no no!”
Arthur. The. Light. Went. Out.
“What?”
The lighthouse.
“He said the wick, he said it cannot falter…” Arthur realized, panicked. He took too long and now the choice was made for him. “And now…”
Cassandra moaned.
The next wail was too close and too earthly to be just the wind, though they felt it like a gale against stone walls just the same.
There’s something outside. Something inhuman, John said grimly.
“The door?” Arthur asked.
It’s unlocked.
With the unsettling calm of someone so terrified it looped back around to unthinking action, Arthur walked over to the door. He grabbed the handle and turned the inner lock.
“Mr. Holder?” Cassandra whispered between rabbit-quick breaths. Arthur was not ignorant of the situation. He knew how it looked. The terror was likely not just for what may be outside but the man she was now locked in with. The seconds stretched.
The start of many a missing persons case, indeed.
We need to move, John said firmly.
Arthur hesitated, his mind straining as desperation forced the locked gears of his logic into juddering, grinding motion. The wick. The lighthouse. The rules. Light.
Arthur! John snarled.
“We could light it,” Arthur realized.
Arthur, it’s–
“We’ll go up and light it!” Arthur said firmly, latching on to the only possible solution. He turned toward Cassandra, the noise of her stifled terror guiding him.
“Cassandra, we are going to light the wick,” he told her hurriedly, hoping she was either trusting or scared enough to do as he said. “Stay here. Do not let anything or anyone inside.”
Arthur, we should get out of here, John urged. Grab the girl and run!
“But André–” she began to protest.
“No! Do not open that door for any reason,” Arthur snapped with what was almost a snarl, shoving everything he could—threat, gravity, his own mortal terror—into his words, anything to make her comprehend the direness of the situation as fast as possible. “Do you understand me? If you open that fucking door. We. Will. Die. You will die.”
She sucked in a breath then sniffed.
She’s nodding, Arthur, watching you with wide, terrified eyes, her tears barely visible in the dim orange light of the still-burning stove, John described. There was an odd quality to his voice, different from their shared fear. Distant. Unsure. Uneasy. I think she’s scared of us.
If it kept her from opening the door, Arthur could live with that.
“Don’t open the door,” she repeated meekly.
“Good girl,” he said, then darted for the stairs.
Sprinting quickly became steady climbing as the consequences of a month-long coma made themself known. And maybe just the consequences of being over thirty.
“This island…” he panted because he needed to explain his thought process to someone. “It… it has its own logic. It has rules. Like with the wraith. And this light being lit must be part of it.”
Arthur, this is a bad idea, we should be getting out of here, John argued. We should be moving as far away from this place as possible.
“Light is… light is often used to ward off evil. To repel the dark,” Arthur continued, heedless, gripping the rectangle of metal tightly in his pocket. Fire. Light. “So it would make sense a lighthouse would keep… whatever is trying to get in, out. Keep it off the island, even.”
What else were lighthouses for?
"God I can barely breath," Arthur gasped.
Arthur, this is a bad idea. We should be moving and getting out of here, as far away as possible.
“I know,” Arthur gasped. “But this… this is our best shot.”
Cassandra might run, John snarled, words digging in then tearing like dragging claws through flesh. You scared her. You. Do you want her to run outside alone? Do you want another death on your conscious?
Should he have brought Cassandra with him to light the wick? She wasn’t blind, she likely could move up the stairs faster, reach the wick sooner. Had she left already, fled the meagre defences of the lighthouse walls? And if something broke down the door–
John made a noise of disbelief and frustrated resignation. You’re near the top. There. Arthur stepped off the last stair. You’ve made it.
Arthur wheezed. “How… where is… do we have, uh?” Was what he was holding, what he had clutched so tightly in his pocket, even a lighter?
As if understanding what Arthur meant when waving the small metal object in front of his eyes, John answered. A lighter, yes.
“Good.” He hadn’t managed to fuck that up. He moved towards what he assumed was the centre of the room, trusting John to tell him if he was wrong. Large panes of glass rattled in groaning metal frames from every direction.
Arthur, the glass panels that surround us are weathered, John described as Arthur knelt by the wick, keeping his head moving for John to keep watch. They’re shuddering, shaking as the upper portion of the lighthouse is buffeted by the wind. It is still day but the light is beginning to dim as the pale blotch of sunlight falls lower. The fog– the fog–
His voice stammered into silence, speechless.
“Come on,” Arthur hissed desperately, wick pinched between the fingers of his left hand like Arthur was lighting a cigarette for a friend. The lighter clicked. The clicked again.
Arthur.
“Come on,” as the flame refused to spark. The glass shuddered violently.
The fog has moved onto the island.
“What? How?!” Arthur demanded fearfully, as if the answer were not obvious.
The light must have been keeping it away, John said.
“Fuck! Come on! Light, you fucking–” Arthur begged. He needed to light it, it was their only chance–
The glass shattered inwards and the wind swept in like a hurricane, howling mad with a chill that bit at his exposed flesh.
“Come on, light, light you piece of shit!” Arthur yelled, the wind swallowing it and their last hope whole.
It’s too windy, Arthur, it won’t light! We need to get the fuck out of here, the fog, It’s–
“What?” Arthur demanded, staggering to his feet.
It’s moving along the ground. I can see it whirl and twist as if it’s alive, John described, then gasped. Arthur, I can see things in the fog. Just shapes but they’re… they’re moving. They’re coming towards the lighthouse!
“The stairs!”
To your left!
Arthur turned and ran for the stairs, hand outstretched to grab on to the guardrail that ringed the staircase, but he missed. Or, more accurately, he didn’t run into the guarded side of the staircase but right onto, over, the first unexpected step, his stride maybe even long enough to reach the steeper drop of the second. His foot met air and for a brief, stomach-swooping moment he was sure he was about to die by falling face-first down a stairway and breaking his neck.
I’ve got you! Now move!
John had grabbed on to the railing mid-fall. His left shoulder ached from all his weight being suddenly put on the joint, yanked back on his ass instead of falling forward into the void. But there was no time to hang there stunned. Arthur got his feet under himself and descended as fast as a blind man could.
(There was once a sharp cut-off at the wrist, where Arthur’s control ended and John’s began. A clean divide. While he could still feel his arm down to his wrist, there was something else now. The cut-off no longer felt quite so clear, bleeding and blurry up his arm to just past the elbow. How had John grabbed the railing with just the hand? How had John managed to drag him to the road, even?)
(No time to think about it now)
They heard the banging when Arthur guessed they were halfway down. Like something was being smashed against the wooden door.
“Cassandra!” he called. He heard no reply and his stomach dropped, a sudden, familiar dread filling his heart. “Cassandra!” he yelled, the air warming with every step down.
Last step! John warned and Arthur still nearly tripped, expecting another stair but getting solid ground rising to meet his foot instead.
The door rattled on its hinges with each heavy impact. Beneath the noise was a whisper.
“It’s not him, it’s not him, it’s not even real.” It was Cassandra’s voice. Small. Alive. Terrified. He wasn't too late.
Cassandra is standing right in front of the door, Arthur! John exclaimed. One hand is over her mouth and the other is clenched tight to her chest. She’s not doing anything, she’s just staring at the door–
Another round of banging, like fists against the wood hitting with all the strength a human body could muster. Something was knocking and it wanted in. Cassandra let out a long, high-pitched whine.
Arthur, there is no other way out, John said grimly. We’ll have to leave through the front door.
Arthur swallowed. “Okay,” he rasped, then walked forward.
“It’s not him, it’s not him,” Cassandra chanted quietly, muffled by her hand.
“Cassandra,” Arthur said then reached for her voice. His knuckles brushed against her arm–
She shrieked, tearing herself away from him. The shuffle of her feet led her away from the door, thankfully, and not towards.
The knocking stopped. The only sound was the wind outside, the quiet crackle of the stove, and the overlap of their scared breathing. Compared to the bitter and frigid wind he just came from, the small space was stifling, fire-warm and fear-thick.
Cassandra is staring at you, wild-eyed and frantic, John relayed.
“It’s wasn’t him,” she said, begged, pleading and desperate and incoherent. To Arthur, or to herself? “I can– it has his voice he was yelling he was begging but– the smoke and– it’s not him! I know it’s not real! I know! I know it's not real! I swear I know!”
“Cassandra, we need to open the door now,” he explained, steady and clear, and slowly reached into his jacket. The door was holding, they had the time. “It’s our only way out. I have a gun. I’m going to shoot whatever fucking thing is out there. But I need your help. Do you understand?”
He showed her the gun, careful not to point it anywhere near her direction. While a handgun probably wouldn't kill something truly supernatural, if it was solid enough to be stopped by a door it could probably be knocked over or stunned, maybe even frightened off.
“Wait–” she wheezed. “Wait, we could– under us– the floorboards. We could drop down instead.”
Arthur considered it.
That is a possibility, John allowed.
“No,” Arthur shook his head. “We have no idea if there’s a way out. We could end up trapped.”
We have no idea what’s down there, either, John agreed. Outside, we at least have room to run.
“Cassandra, I need you to open the door. When you open it, I’ll shoot,” Arthur instructed, tone brokering no room for argument. Whatever was out there stayed silent.
Arthur didn’t trust it.
She’s nodding, Arthur.
Cassandra choked on a truly wretched sob.
The door is in front of you. Cassandra has moved to the door, her hand on the knob, John informed. I’ll steady your aim and tell you when to pull the trigger.
For a brief moment, Arthur hesitated. Could he trust John with a weapon? He didn't think John would kill a young woman but guns were easy to make a terrible mistake with.
“When she’s out of the way,” Arthur reminded with just an edge of threat. Both their hands clasped the gun tightly but only Arthur’s finger rested on the trigger.
Of course, John promised smoothly.
There was a tense moment where Arthur and John were pointing the gun at the closed door, Cassandra somewhere between it and them. Arthur knew it would be so easily for John to just– for either of them– and some part lingered on the thought, the possibility, the impulse– in the great background clamour of his head, the fact he could do it made noise, even if he would never.
“Open it,” Arthur ordered.
The lock turned. The door was yanked open with the sound of someone scrambling back. The cold damp air rushed in, sweeping through the room like a flood. He could taste the fog.
Now!
A crack like lightning split his head open, his ears ringing even though he had been prepared. The recoil smarted against his sore shoulder. The acrid scent of gunpowder briefly overwhelmed the lingering haze of tobacco and woodsmoke.
Jesus Christ! John exclaimed.
“What! What is it?!” Arthur shouted, still partially deafened.
It’s the lighthouse keeper!
“Oh. Oh no–” Arthur recoiled, feeling sick and lightheaded. Had he just–
Cassandra let out a startled scream of grief-struck horror, cut off halfway through by an attempt to swallow it back down only for it to burble back up in half-strangled sobs. She stumbled back, away from the door—Arthur felt her move closer, could track how the floor bent slightly beneath her weight and the sound of each staggered step—and on instinct, gun left to John, threw out his arm to catch her around the shoulders as she passed. He pulled her against his side, less a comfort than a firm restraint; a way to keep track of her with his fingers dug into her shoulder to hold her still. She bent over at the waist and keened like an animal, fearful and wounded.
Had they just killed a man?
“Oh god,” Arthur whispered. He had just murdered a man. Not like Kellin, or Eddie, in the heat of the moment for survival. He had made this young woman his accomplice. He had–
Arthur, he was already dead, John said hurriedly. He was on the ground when the door opened, you didn’t even hit him.
“Oh god,” Arthur exhaled, this time with a relief that had no time to last before it became a different kind of horror.
His flesh has been picked clean and large pieces of him are missing, John said flatly. There’s nothing else out there but fog.
Cassandra’s shoulders were awkward and sharp under his arm, shaking with each stifled sob.
“Jesus Christ. What has happened?”
Arthur, whatever this light was keeping at bay is no longer the case. We fucked up. You fucked up, John snarled.
“I didn’t– I thought–!” Cassandra stuttered between cries, then bit down on them harder. “Sorry. ‘m sorry. I didn't–”
“I couldn’t think, I… I couldn’t make a decision, I…” Arthur said weakly.
The room grew colder and wetter and despite his lack of sight, Arthur could feel it like a growing dimness as the woodstove’s fire began to audibly sputter.
We need to move, now! The fog is already starting to creep in, John ordered.
Cassandra kept crying, quiet, shaking against his side. Through her tears came a muffled, nervous prayer mixed with the meaningless noise of fear, or perhaps very poor Latin. For all he didn't know this one specifically, the sounds of it were mundanely familiar.
"Iä Maria, ub ple– plena, I beg of thee on– on newborn knees to watch over your child, iä y'fhalma–"
Who is she praying to? John asked suddenly, sharp. It sounds familiar.
But if they were going to make a break for it–
"ya'st– ya'stell'bsna nnn-fructus ve– ventris tui– ex y'gnaiihiih s'uhn. Dimitte y'debita–"
“Wait,” Arthur said, a clarity washing over him.
What?
“Shouldn’t we find out what killed him?” Arthur said, already pulling away from Cassandra mid-sentence. Cassandra made a (different) noise of distress but didn’t try to stop him or flee, prayer cut short.
How? John asked, apprehensive.
“W– what are you doing?” Cassandra rasped thickly.
“We could touch him,” Arthur suggested, though it wasn't really a suggestion.
Arthur, no, John said firmly, tightly, tense and strained as if holding something back. His hand clenched tight enough for Arthur to feel the strain up his arm.
Arthur was not listening, already committed to the obvious course of action. “We can prepare this way,” Arthur said, shuffling to feel for the threshold and then crouching down.
“What– what are you doing?” Cassandra asked more loudly, then another whimper slipped free. He barely registered the floorboards bend slightly behind him as–
Arthur, no! John yelled and he sounded afraid, he sounded truly scared as–
–his grasping hand touched the body.
It was like being crushed. It was like being pulled through a thin iron pipe, his entire being distorting and compressing to fit. It was cold, and wet, and his feet were on both hard wood and sinking slightly into the wet earth of the island.
But also not. It was just the ghost of it, a phantom overlayed on top of reality. Arthur was still there, secure in his own body, kneeling upon the threshold of the lighthouse with hand holding something slick and already cold. It didn’t even have the hold of a nightmare, or even a memory—just the distant echo of something barely there.
I see him, John narrated glassily, almost sounding outside himself. Arthur hadn’t noticed– not with Amanda’s body, not until this moment. He’s… walking through the Devil’s Graveyard, he’s carrying something. A lantern. He’s walking back towards the lighthouse. He sees the light going out. He’s running. The fog it’s… it’s moving in, it’s moving in quickly around him.
Arthur could feel the fog on his skin as well as the lingering heat of the room on his back. He felt a thin hand on his shoulder, shaking him frantically. Like through water someone was shouting, crying; he heard the swing of the lighthouse keeper’s lantern.
John grew more frantic, more frightened as the vision progressed.
He looks panicked and nervous. He’s running to the door. He’s putting – he’s putting the lantern down by his feet. He’s banging on the door. He’s calling out for Cassandra! Arthur, he was the one banging on the door!
John sounded terrified. And that, somehow, is what made Arthur flinch.
He’s turned around and the fog is all-consuming and… something is emerging from the fog, it’s… John described, words coming faster and faster as–
Arthur let go.
Arthur fell back, landing on his ass. Cassandra let out a startled yelp and then another sob, this one maybe of relief.
Why did you let go? John demanded immediately.
“I thought you were having a fucking fit!” Cassandra yelled, voice hoarse. “What did you do?! What was that?!”
“You said… you didn’t want…” Arthur said dazedly as he struggled to parse the two voices, the vision still lingering in the strangeness of his own body.
Whatever anger John felt, or why, was quickly put aside for a different sort of urgency.
Arthur, we need to get the fuck off this island now! John snarled. Grab the lamp and move to the boat, quickly!
Arthur remembered Cassandra.
“Cassandra,” he said as he got to his feet, knees aching. “We’re going to make a run for the boat.”
“I don’t–” Cassandra began, then faltered.
No. We should leave her, John said with a sudden coldness.
“What? No, John– weren’t you the one who said we needed to get out with her?!” Arthur hissed, baffled as much as he was horrified. This close he could smell the lighthouse keeper’s remains in the fog-thick air, a tang of blood and viscera and exposed marrow.
He was not going to leave some poor girl to the same fate. He wasn’t going to be responsible for another death today.
That was before things went to shit! John yelled. At this point it’s survival. She’s just going to slow us down even if she doesn't go mad and run off into the fog. Her mind is fracturing, Arthur. She’s easy prey. If you had left when I said we should–
“No. No, we’re not leaving her behind,” Arthur insisted, firm edging on frantic. Cassandra made a noise of closed-mouth terror. “We got her into this mess. We have to get her out.”
Well then maybe you should’ve listened to me! John spat. I told you she would be a liability!
Suddenly, even the faint heat at his back went cold. Like the stove’s fire had just be snuffed, smothered by the encroaching mist. For a brief moment, all three of them were silent.
“She’ll die if we leave her,” Arthur said simply.
A beat. Cassandra sniffled pathetically.
Fine! Fine! Just hurry up! The fog is gathering more! John relented, likely not willing to risk further argument.
“Alright. Alright,” Arthur said, mind racing on how to get out himself and Cassandra out alive. He felt around for the lantern.
“John, I need you to hold on to her,” Arthur instructed as his hand brushed the lantern, the metal ice cold and lightless. He felt around for the handle.
What?
“Hold her hand,” Arthur instructed, standing upright. He heard something, a loud, distant howl that trailed off in a cackle. It sounded as if it came from the far side of the island. “You have my left hand and I need my right free for the lantern.”
And why would I do that? John asked like now was the time to reaffirm his status as a malevolent entity from a cursed tome.
“Because you can grab her again if she slips better than I can blind,” Arthur said shortly, purposefully not thinking about the ambiguous control John had up to his elbow and maybe even beyond. “I’ll hold the lantern out. I swear to God, do not let her go.”
Arthur wasn’t sure what he expected. A fight, an argument, an attempt at bargaining. Clearly he misjudged how fond John was of the girl if he was willing to leave her to die.
What about the gun? John asked instead.
Arthur had forgotten John was holding it.
Arthur put the lantern on the ground and took the gun from his left hand. He checked the safety—off, Jesus Christ, had it been off the whole time?—and quickly stowed it away. “There. Now help me light the lantern and take her hand.”
It took a few clicks of his lighter before he heard the subtle woosh of a lit flame. Cassandra gasped.
The fog, John said, momentarily awed. It almost seems to… to cower from the light.
“Well, that’s good,” Arthur said briskly. “Maybe we could stay here?”
I saw things in the fog, Arthur, John cautioned. They were coming to the lighthouse. I don’t know if the lantern alone will stop them. Either way, it’s best not to corner ourselves in here.
“Too good to be true, then,” Arthur sighed.
John then grabbed Cassandra’s right hand with their left. Arthur could feel the tendons up his arm flex as John squeezed experimentally, but not hard enough to hurt her.
“Cassandra, you’re going to need to run,” Arthur told her, the words coming familiar and steady. This was not the first time he had made this speech. “Don’t let go of our– of my hand. If we let go or you can’t hold on, do not let us out of your sight. Follow as close as possible and the moment you can, you grab back on to either my hand or my jacket. If we get separated, we’re heading for the boathouse.”
God, what she must think. Relying on the lunatic who held conversations with himself to survive a murderous fog. They were lucky she hadn't bolted already.
He heard another sound, closer. Like a rustling underbrush, ahead and to one side. He tensed, hand tightening on the lantern.
“Mr. Holder, who is John?” Cassandra asked quietly.
Arthur grimaced.
Don’t tell her, John warned.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said shortly. “Just stay close and–”
–and I’ll get you home.
The well-worn reassurance lodged in his throat. “Just stay close.”
He almost tripped on the body. Or, the remains. There wasn’t much left.
“Watch out,” Cassandra said, grabbing on to his upper arm as he stumbled. “Don’t trip on– on–” she stuttered on her words then fell silent as he navigated around the corpse.
There was a hiss.
Something’s coming out of the fog!
“By God!”
Run!
They took off.
~o0o~
They sprinted in the opposite direction of the noise. Arthur hoped in the direction of the shore, the path abandoned from the start. It was harder than expected to run while holding hands but it wasn’t like either of them would have been moving much faster on their own. It didn’t take long for Cassandra to start sounding winded. It took even less for the uneven earth to begin making Arthur stumble.
There are things in the fog, Arthur! John exclaimed, terrified. The hand holding Cassandra’s flexed, gripping tight. They’re– they’re all around us. I can’t see them clearly, it’s almost like they’re invisible, but the fog moves around them and outlines them in empty space. There’s so many of them, if they swarm–
Arthur could hear them. What began just as stray wisps of whispers now a constant white noise, pressing down on all sides. Quiet, so quiet and insubstantial as to make him and Cassandra’s panting deafening by comparison, it nonetheless managed to be overwhelming; an incoherent mass of hushed voices speaking something like words that blended and blurred with the rush of distant waves.
If it was light that kept these things at bay, like the lantern and the lighthouse, or even if they stopped moving like the lighthouse keeper did–
They would need to stop and catch their breath at some point. The lantern would run out of oil. The sun would set. They needed to be off the island before any of that happened.
“Wait,” Cassandra hissed, then yanked at their joined hands, still moving, pulling them in a different direction. “Wait! You’re– this way! This way!”
Arthur let her lead them. She knew the island better.
Cassandra pulled ahead, running one in front. Every time he nearly tripped she yanked him up and onwards and so far the momentum kept him on his feet.
A trailing hiss came from behind them, closer and more solid than everything else.
Something’s behind us, John warned. It’s following. Faster than the rest. Don’t slow down.
“Oh god oh god oh god,” Cassandra gasped with each wheezy exhale, raspy and tight. Arthur remembered how quickly her breathing went when rowing. How long could she run?
I can see them moving at the edge of the lantern light, John narrated. They’re still slow but they’re reaching for us as we pass and– god, Arthur, when their limbs emerge from the fog and into the light I can see them– and their faces–!
They are terrible, Arthur. Where the lantern-light touches them I can see their pallid visages, each ghastly, dead, bloodless face with skin stretched tight and translucent over sharp and angular skulls. Their long, thin fingers flex as they reach for us, jaws slack and mouths agape and–
Whatever John was about to say, he cut himself off with a sharp, frantic shout.
Back! Go back! John barked and Arthur obeyed without hesitation. Cassandra let out a breathless shout of shock and Arthur dug in his heels so her momentum wouldn’t pull them forwards right as he felt John pull back on her arm, yanking her away from whatever was in front of them and sending her tripping back into them. Cassandra crashed into Arthur, sending the three of them staggering back, bracing against each other to stay upright.
Left! John ordered and Arthur followed, stumbling left and pulling Cassandra with them.
Wrong left! John shouted frantically as Cassandra latched on to their arm and shoved them further not-left, making Arthur just—just—barely overshoot whatever horror there was. Something still brushed the hand with the lantern, just the barest touch upon his bare skin, and a ghastly chill washed through his whole body; a sucking and draining sensation that stole the warmth right from his blood.
Arthur shuddered, seized for a terrifying moment—Arthur! John roared—but Cassandra pushed ahead to pull him staggering between the sluggish dangers he couldn’t see.
“K-Keep go-ing!” Cassandra forced out between gasps.
Yes. Yes, keep going, John encouraged.
But their pace was faltering. Cassandra was barely running, more an agonized, fumbling jog as she wheezed weakly. Arthur’s mind was foggy, his limbs leaden, only just registering something had even happened to him seconds later.
“What was–”
Arthur, watch for the cliff–! John warned right as Cassandra forced out a single “Jump!”
Arthur obeyed, and he jumped. Barely. Cassandra jumped. A little. Arthur jumped much more poorly than Cassandra and pulled them both down by their joined hands, flailing uncontrollably. Arthur couldn’t predict when he was going to hit the ground. Let alone predict the shallow water.
It wasn’t a long fall, more a high ledge than a cliff, but it still sent them both sprawling forward, face-first and right under the water’s surface. Submerged in the shallow surf all sound was muffled for a moment, the shock of it sending cold water right up his nose that startled him back to alertness.
He flailed more, turning over and breaking the surface with a sudden rush of noise. He coughed, forcing what water he could out of his raw airways. Arthur heard Cassandra coughing beside him and the sound, not a deathly silence, sent a wave of relief through him.
“Cassandra!” he coughed, his offhand already reaching for her. Was she–
“I’m fine,” she forced out, then coughed some more, then retched hard enough to make him cringe before breathing became long loud gasping wheezes, strained not just from the water but what must be the continuing problem of her lungs.
“Where’s the boathouse?” he demanded, shivering. “How far–”
To your left, John said, then more thoughtfully, almost calm, I don’t think those beings followed us into the water.
Arthur stood, John’s grip on Cassandra’s hand tight enough that he needed to pull her up with him.
“Come on,” he urged, limbs weak and aching as he forced them to move. The draining cold lingered, But they were almost there. Just a bit further.
Cassandra clung soddenly to his arm as she tried to catch her breath, practically leaning half her weight on them with her head pressed against Arthur’s shoulder. Summer or not, the wind tore through his soaked clothes and he could feel her shivering in her thinner blouse. Awkwardly they began to move, shuffling through the surf.
“Shit. The lantern,” Arthur realized with a jolt of mortal dread.
She has it.
“I got it,” Cassandra croaked flatly and silently passed it over, pressing the handle into his palm. “And– and it’s still lit.”
“Thank god,” Arthur sighed.
They waded through the water and lurched onto the sandy beach, water squelching out of their shoes in great gushes.
There’s a pile of nets in front of you, John warned right as Cassandra silently and subtly adjusted their path around it, pulling him slightly to the side by the arm.
“Any sign–”
No. There is nothing in the fog, John assured.
Cassandra stopped. Arthur stopped with her.
“Where–” Arthur began.
The boat… John interrupted, stealing the breath from his lungs. It’s gone.
“What?”
“Oh Lord,” Cassandra said, quieter. Her grip on his arm tightened, fingers digging in to the crook of his elbow.
“How–” Arthur began, then his words failed.
From this angle I can see inside the boathouse, John informed curtly. There is no boat.
Arthur’s breathing quickened, feeling suddenly lightheaded at the new rush of adrenaline.
"Are we gonna die?" Cassandra whispered, then let out a long, terrified whine, clutching Arthur's arm in a death grip. Because Cassandra knew, she was the one who told them so. There was no other way off the island.
Arthur, compose yourself, John ordered calmly. Far too calm, considering their situation. We are stuck here on this island. We are stranded. You need to make a decision now.
Do we go back to the lighthouse or try for the widow’s house? We know the lighthouse is safe. We should head back there.
Arthur swallowed. He heard Cassandra try to steady her breathing, forehead pressed against his shoulder.
Calm down, Arthur! John snapped, then steadied. There’s nothing around us now but that may change. There’s an innocent girl relying on you so you need to focus.
“Right. Right, right,” Arthur repeated, mind spinning now with not just the paralyzing stress of a decision but the crushing responsibility of another life.
“Mr. Holder–” Cassandra began, then went quiet. Arthur felt through his arm how John squeezed her hand, tight and quick. She inhaled deeply.
Relax. Just breathe, Arthur. John’s voice took on a tone unusual for him. Soothing, almost. More than that–
Whatever way John existed in him, in his brain, in his eyes, in his hand. It felt like… something. Like the stiff, uneven pressure of someone who didn’t know how to give a hug. He felt his muscles relax, almost unwillingly. There, there. Better?
“Better, yes,” Arthur said, and found himself surprised that it was just a little bit true. “It just…”
I know.
“No, but it feels like just yesterday to me that we were back in Arkham,” Arthur said insistently, mindless of Cassandra’s presence as the words began to spill out all at once. They were past watching their words around her and John had a hand on her; it wasn’t like she’d be running off. And really, he didn’t have the energy to care. “Like I was, only moments ago, standing above the book that lay on the floor by my feet.” Arthur inhaled shakily. “As if I could see again.”
They began to walk. Or more accurately Cassandra began to walk without a word and Arthur absently followed her lead along the sandy shore. His clothes hung heavy, still dripping with lake water as they walked.
Arthur, I… John began, then paused. As if considering his words carefully. I suppose I’m sorry.
“Sorry?”
I’ve never said it before, but I’m sorry I’ve taken your eyesight from you. Even with me guiding you…
“Well, perhaps that time in the hospital has injected some humanity into you,” Arthur said, almost a joke and feeling a tad lighter. The entity apologizing to him was a little out of left field, as it was.
Or some has come back, John suggested, a little hopefully.
“Whatever you are and whatever you may have done, there are much more pressing matters,” Arthur said truthfully. And that cut to the quick of it, really. They were stuck together for now and had to survive as a team.
He did feel considerably calmer, though.
That is an understatement. Now, where are we heading? John asked.
“We are–“ Arthur blinked, as if just becoming cognizant of the fact Cassandra had been leading them along the beach from some time. “Where are we going?” Arthur realized, then stumbled a little before catching himself.
“The widow’s house,” Cassandra said shortly, stiff and tense and with a subtle tremble as if barely holding back tears. Her voice was raw like she gargled cotton, and her breathing carefully, forcefully mediated. “The lighthouse is too far from here unless we climb the cliff and you’ve gotta get close to the graveyard. We just… the police will come get us.”
“What?”
What is she talking about?
“Ian will call the cops when I don’t come back,” Cassandra explained brittlely. The shift of sand transitioned into soft earth. “Then they’ll come to fetch me for breaking curfew. We just need to wait.”
“How long?” Arthur asked, momentarily hopping on one leg to try and shake feeling back into his foot before giving up.
“Ian won’t call them until after sunset,” Cassandra said. “And they’re not– it takes them longer to get here than me. They'd be here after midnight if they leave right away. And the lighthouse is out, and the fog is bad, and it will be at night; they might wait until dawn to set out. No one is supposed to be on the lake at night anyways. No one.”
She exhaled shakily then cleared her throat. “But they’ll be here tomorrow.”
It’s barely evening, John said. It may be another hour until sunset.
“Okay,” Arthur nodded. “That’s– well, we just need to survive until the police get here then. I’m sure we can manage one night.”
What can the police do against these beings? John asked skeptically.
“I don’t know,” Arthur said grimly, thinking of what remained of the lighthouse keeper. “But they’ll be coming regardless and they’ll have a boat. If we’re quick we may be able to warn them before anything happens and escape. Cassandra, what is closer to the dock, the widow’s house or the lighthouse?”
“The widow’s house,” Cassandra said immediately. “And we can’t go to the lighthouse. The hill is too steep if we need to run. You’ll fall or slide and then–” she cut herself off, choking back another sob. A few moments passed, strangely quiet except for the water lapping against the distant shore and Cassandra valiantly strangling her sorrow. She inhaled deeply.
“The widow’s house might have a place for a fire,” she continued. “I saw– in the lighthouse. The fire held it back a bit. And I–” She sniffed before admitting in a small voice, “I’ve never been outside at night before.”
“The widow’s house it is, then,” Arthur agreed, absently stomping his foot to try and get feeling back into it. “The lighthouse may seem safer but at this point, it’s all an illusion. The island, whatever had been keeping the fog at bay, has broken, and night will make everything darker. Making a fire might be our best chance.”
Then, Arthur thought a bit beyond survival. “And we came to the island for a reason after all. We must persevere,” he decided firmly. “We have until tomorrow to find answers and Amanda went to the widow's house."
That sounds more like it, John said approvingly. And… the lighthouse keeper. When I– when we saw his demise. The light did not just go out on the tower, but also his lamp. He only became scared when his lamp went out.
“This one, yes?” Arthur asked, swinging the lamp to make it squeak.
Yes. And then the stove. The fire in it kept burning and it even seemed brighter when we first came back down. When we opened the door it went out quickly but until it did the fog moved in much more slower.
“I see. You think they’re connected as well.”
I don’t know. I think you were right that light and fire may give us some safety. Maybe this lantern specifically is important. But I don’t know why the lighthouse keeper didn’t just light his lantern again, John said.
“Maybe he didn’t have a lighter on him?” Arthur suggested. “Though that’d be quite a foolish mistake to make if his life depended on this lantern. Is there anything odd about the lamp?”
“That’s– that’s André’s lamp,” Cassandra said thickly before John could respond. “I wasn’t allowed to touch it. It doesn’t use regular oil. I think the ghosts want it too.”
Which meant when it ran out of fuel, it was out. Arthur nearly tripped again and cursed.
…There is a slight greenish hue to the flame, John noted. I didn’t notice it before it’s so subtle, but it’s there.
“Wait. Cassandra, did you say ghosts?” Arthur realized.
She did, John confirmed.
“André told me about it,” Cassandra said quietly, sombrely. “The restless spirits. The– the damned dead. Lost souls. That’s why– he said– he said– it’s like, they want souls or light or warmth. The dead get lost in the fog and can’t rest and they get so cold. That’s why they go after people, for the light of our souls and the warmth of our bodies. I thought–” She took a shuddering breath and sounding on the edge of tears again, she said, “I thought they were just made-up.”
They do somewhat resemble spirits. They’re humanoid, at least, and not entirely tangible. They are not like the wraith though. They are… something else, John said thoughtfully.
Arthur, John, and Cassandra walked in silence for a minute, Cassandra audibly biting back more sobs.
“Goddamnit,” Arthur finally said. “So they want the light?”
“Or us,” Cassandra whispered with a tiny whine.
“So the object keeping away the deadly fog may also be attracting the murderous spirits,” Arthur sighed. “Of course. Do you think we could light the lighthouse again? That seemed to keep everything safe.”
“I– I don’t think so,” Cassandra said quietly. “It’s not… it’s not supposed to go fully out. Ever. I should've noticed–”
The windows surrounding it broke and the wind is too strong to keep the wick lit, John reminded. Even if we could get there safely it wouldn’t work.
Arthur tripped again, this time almost dropping the lantern. “Christ! Sorry. My leg is acting up. It’s like my foot is–”
Arthur stopped.
What do you mean? John asked.
“I can’t seem to feel… my foot,” Arthur realized. He hadn’t thought about it but– but this foot wasn’t just numb. It was rigid, up to and just past the ankle.
Oh, Arthur, John crooned.
“What?”
I can move the toes.
~o0o~
Name: Cassandra Kohen Birthplace: Harper's Hill, Massachusetts Pronouns: She/Her Age: 15
Occupation: Delivery Girl / Artist (aspiring) Residence: 318 McFarlane Parkway, Harper's Hill
Stats
STR 45 CON 50 DEX 60 INT 70 SIZE 40 POW 80 APP 60 EDU 40
MAX SAN 99 SAN 70 HP 9 FP 16
Skills
Art/Craft (fine art) 59
Cthulhu Mythos 5 (non-believer)
Credit Rating 10
Natural World 35
Fast Talk 30
Other Language (Yiddish - Southeastern dialect) 25
Other Language (French) 5
Psychology 55
Spot Hidden 65
Occult 15
Gear & Possessions
Messenger bag (canvas)
Wallet
Sketchbook
The Human Figure (book)
Charcoal pencils
Paint brushes
Palette knife
Linseed oil (8oz)
Wax candle
Turpentine (5oz)
Paint rag
Mortar & pestle (small)
Metal case (reused watercolour pallet)
Glass vials with stoppers
Keys
Silver necklace
Notes: Mild asthma - undiagnosed. More than 3 rounds engaging in physically straining activity will require a CON roll. If CON roll is failed, for the next 3 rounds MOVE is -2 and penalty die to STR and DEX. If CON roll is failed 2 times with no break in physical activity, roll CON and if failed fall prone for the next 3 rounds. See: Asthma for further interactions.
Keepers Note: Ooh, the asthma won't make things easy when you have to run :)