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Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Death and the Girl

My baby has a father and a mother,
Rich little baby!
Fatherless, motherless, I know another
Forlorn as may be:
Poor little baby!

   - My Baby Has A Father And A Mother, Christina Georgina Rossetti

~o0o~

It started as it always did. She was lying in the dark as she braced for what was coming. Anticipation locked her small limbs in place like electrocution, painfully rigid yet shuddering with an overflow of prickling energy. Her insides hurt like she was sick, nauseating and heavy and twisting. 

“Cassie!" Tatty’s voice called from outside the large dark room, muffled and distant as if just walking in the front door. Her breath caught. "Where are you, Cassie?! I'm home from work!”

She heard footsteps. They sounded like her tatty’s shoes on the floor of the hall but the rhythm, the tempo… it wasn't him. He had never walked that hallway. He never would.

She could smell just a hint of smoke and it was getting stronger. Not like tobacco or the woody smoke of a fireplace but acidic and sharp, chemical as burnt paint and mortal terror.

The footsteps got closer as she heard it knock on each door in the hall, one after another, calling out for her. Knock knock knock. “Sunshine!” Knock knock knock. “Pumpkin!” Knock knock knock. “My dearest!” Knock knock knock. “My heart!”

Her heart was pounding, and hurting, and her hands were sweaty and aching where they gripped the sheets tight; the voice getting closer and closer with every call, the knocking nearer and nearer until eventually it went silent.

It was outside the door.

“Cassie, are you in there?”

She could not quite stifle the whine.

She drew the covers up to her chin and sat utterly still on the bed. The smoke smell was thickening as if it were filling the room like wool in her throat, and it was getting warmer as well. Her eyes strained in the dark to make out the rectangular shape of the closed door on the far wall.

The knob jiggled, straining against the lock. The thing with her tatty’s voice but not their language was trying to get in. "You know not to lock this door, young lady! Let me in!”

Was it the smoke, heat, or fear that made it hard to breath? She was sweating through her nightgown, hair plastered to her forehead and only the metal of her pendant cool against her flushed chest. The whole door rattled in its frame and she began to mouth her auntie’s prayer knowing it would do nothing, not even comfort, the words tasting dead in her mouth. Terror consumed her like so many forks in her stomach and tiny centipedes in her veins.

"Let me in, pumpkin," her tatty’s voice crooned but far less patient. "Cassie? Sweetheart?! Baby!”

Her tatty was gone, she knew. She was all alone.

"LET ME IN!" The door shuddered on its hinges, and then with each BANG BANG BANG it shook, the plane of wood pushed inwards from the force smashed against it. She whimpered but didn't dare call out. “LET ME IN!” Even if she screamed, no one would come.

The bedroom was sweltering and hazy with smoke, blinding and stinging even as she squeezed her watering eyes shut and muffled her coughing with her blanket. It rubbed her insides raw and turned every breath into a struggle. With her tatty’s voice the thing at the door began to describe what it’d do to her if she didn’t let it in, terrible horrible things to her body and mind, the door rattling and groaning but never breaking beneath the onslaught. Then it switched back to sugar-sweet nicknames with none of the softness and warmth, thick and sickening, and then to promises of surprises and presents if she would just. Open. The door.

Hours passed like this, terrified in her bed as it cried and consoled and raged against her bedroom door, rising in intensity as the night progressed. She never quite suffocated but it was a close thing, almost intentionally so; struggling harder and harder until she was given one clear gasp of air and it started all over again. She never quite burned, but the heat was enough to sicken and pain like standing too close to an open flame.

Finally the bursts of anger began to become more and more sparse. The air cooled. She could taste wisps of the fresh night and breathing came easier. The rage dissipated, trailed off into a tremulous quiet.

“It’s okay,” her tatty’s voice finally said, truly soft for the first time since it first called to her tonight. Despite herself she slid out of bed, knowing it was about to be over soon. Whenever it sounded soft—whenever it sounded something like her tatty again—she knew it was going to leave.

“We can try again tomorrow,” the thing with her tatty’s voice promised, warm and loving, and she felt herself about to cry. She raced over to the door, bare feet smacking loudly against the wooden floor. The slats were still warm on her soles but cooler with every step.

“Tsuzog mir?” she asked, pleaded, voice hoarse and ragged as she whispered through the door as if it’d respond in a kindred’s tongue. It hurt to speak. It hurt to breath. She imagined her insides filled with black gunk, just like the phlegm she coughed up after–

She rested her small hand on the now cool metal of the doorknob, cold as if it had never been hot at all. Her cheek pressed up against the varnished wood.

There was beat.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

She sobbed.

“Cassandra.”

The first light of dawn shone through the window and with it came silence. It was gone. Only the faint scent of smoke lingered, as it always did, and the choking gasps of her sorrow.

“Cassandra!”

As always, it never called her by her name.

“Cassandra!”

Three sharp raps.

“CASSANDRA!”

Several years later a much older girl jolted awake as light streamed through the open window of her bedroom, vague formless dreams dissolving like dew in the summer’s yellow sun. She rolled over to squint blearily her bedside clock, strands of hair clinging to the corner of her mouth. It was roughly three hours past the first light of dawn and therefore three hours since she fell asleep.

Three sharp raps against the bedroom door, one more time. “CASSANDRA KOHEN!”

“I’M UP!” Cassandra hollered back, words somewhat slurred with sleep.

“Get out of bed!”

It was the summer of 1934. FDR was trying to fix the Great Depression, the Hayes Code was about to make films a lot more boring, and Cassandra Kohen was doing just fine.

~o0o~

Arthur Lester (and company) left Amanda Cummings’ apartment with a new sense of purpose, book in hand and each new connection clicking together one after another in his head, gladly relayed to his current… companion? Tag-along, perhaps? Whatever the case, it was movement forward, it was actual progress, and satisfying progress as well. He descended the stairs from the third floor to the first, prepared to rush through the unattended lobby and out into the town once more, when–

“Mrs. Williams! Mrs. Williams could you let me inside?!” a feminine voice—a little rough, but youthful, like someone who had already taken up the habit of heavy smoking, and with a bit of a Scottish accent as well—shouted alongside the sound of knocking at the door. His head turned in the direction of the sound. “Mrs. Williams, please let me in!”

You are looking down a short dim hallway lined with doors, John informed him. There is person roughly three doors down near to where the hall ends, knocking frantically at the last door to your right.

“This way?” Arthur muttered, turning towards the noise and walking forward.

This is the floor that lady was one. The one in the wheelchair. We should leave, John cautioned, for some reason still unnerved by what seemed to be the mere existence of an elderly woman.

“She might need some help,” Arthur muttered then cleared his throat. “Excuse me, miss?” Arthur called out and strode forward, closing the distance and giving John a better look.

It’s a girl with a soft face and floppy cap on her head, John described dutifully and with a slight air of suspicion. Her eyes are dark with deep bags beneath them as if she has not slept well in a while, and her hair is tied back in a braid that is slowly coming undone, several stray curls sticking out. She’s wearing a button-up shirt and dark green skirt with sturdy lace-up boots and a leather satchel over her shoulder. Close to her is a contraption of some kind leaning against the hallway wall. It has two large wheels not that unlike those of a wheelchair attached to a metal frame with handles, one wheel in the front and one in the back. There is a canvas bundle lashed on to the back with rope.

It took a few moments to realize what “contraption” John was referring to. “It’s a bicycle, John,” Arthur muttered, lips quirking up in a shadow of an amused smile. The way John didn’t recognize everything on sight was… endearing. A reminder of how new he was. Though it did beg the question as to why John recognized of the majority of what he saw but demonstrated ignorance of other things at random.

You want to stop here. Yes, good. You’re right in front of her. Look down a little, she’s shorter than you.

“Uh,” she mumbled. “Hi. Can I… help?”

She took a step back. She looks nervous and keeps glancing at the door.

“No,” Arthur said, hoping he didn’t appear too haggard. He didn’t want to frighten her and the situation—a man and a young woman, alone in a hallway, in a building where there had just been a murder?—he could easily scare her off. She sounded rather skittish already. “And what are you doing here, miss? Do you need help?”

There was the sound of a truly painful cough from behind the thin door. The kind that tore at the throat and strained the lungs; the kind that sounded like the terrible wrack of influenza.

She flinched when she heard the cough. Arthur, she is looking at you with a petulant, defensive distrust.

“Just making a delivery, mister,” the young woman said stiffly.

“Ah,” Arthur nodded. “I see. And the apartment’s owner is not responding.”

She’s shifting uncomfortably, looking to the side as if to avoid your gaze. She nodded.

“I can hear her coughing inside,” the young woman admitted, sounding distressed. As if waiting for a cue, another round of wet hacking noises came from the door. “She won’t let me in– I’m here to deliver her groceries, y’see?”

She just gestured at her bicycle and the canvas pack tied to it.

“The woman who lives here is in a wheelchair, correct?” Arthur asked.

“Yes, Mrs. Williams, but she can get to her door just fine. She always answers the door,” the girl insisted. “Should I… should I call someone?”

No! Arthur, she’s looking at you as if seeking some kind of direction. Do not tell her to call the police, John ordered fiercely, as if Arthur needed his advice to not call the cops on himself.

“No, no, I don’t think we want to bother anyone until we know she’s in trouble for sure,” Arthur soothed. “She may just have a bad cough.”

She is biting her lip and staring at door to the apartment, expression one of deep doubt.

“Mrs. Williams needs to pay me back for the groceries and I’m getting worried,” she explained uneasily. “She’s really old and she’s all alone. She can’t go far with her wheelchair and sometimes she forgets where she is.”

“She might have just forgotten you were coming?” Arthur suggested. But the more he listened to the coughing the more he felt that there was something else wrong, as well as a nagging paranoia to get the young woman away from this place as quickly as possible.

“No, she always answers the door,” the delivery girl stated with confidence. “She’s waiting for someone to come home.”

Arthur nodded slowly, thinking. “All right. How about I perform a wellness check,” Arthur offered.

NO! Jesus Christ, Arthur– John growled. Arthur ignored the voice in his head and discreetly tucked his clenching left hand behind his back.

When Arthur had been fresh off the boat from England, a young man in a new country, he had gotten deathly ill. The Spanish flu, or maybe pneumonia, or some combination of both. It didn’t really matter. He had been entirely bedridden for weeks in an overcrowded hospital room surrounded by the dead and dying, and left weakened for months after.

What he did remember from his fever-stricken daze was the complete and utter certainty that he was going to die there; the sleepless terror of his own body drowning itself on its own fluids, alone and unknown in a foreign land he had yet to make his home. That, and pulling handfuls of bloody mucus out of his own throat before he could choke to death on it.

It was a terrible way to go. A terrible thing to see as well.

“I can make sure Mrs. Williams is okay. I’m a detective, you know. It’s what I do,” he told her, letting a little bit of professional confidence strengthen his voice. While detective wasn’t entirely accurate, it was close enough for his purposes and far more trustworthy than a private investigator.

Arthur, you–! She’s smiling at you now. It’s small and shy and just a little bit lopsided. Arthur, I swear if you– her eyes are wide and shining with excitement goddamnit–

“Really? Like in radio shows?” the girl asked, hesitant yet undeniably tinged with excitement.

Arthur chuckled a little, feeling uplifted by her likely rose-coloured interest at his supposed profession. The grin he could hear in her voice… Radio shows… “Yes, yes, exactly like that,” he lied, then lowered his voice just enough to be dramatic. “I’m on a case right now but I can spare the time to check on an elderly lady who may need some help. I have the skills to pick the lock. Can’t say much more though.”

She’s smiling properly now, nodding her head– I fucking swear Arthur–

“Okay, okay, so how about you open the door and I’ll come in with you–”

“No!” Arthur interjected sharply, then recollected himself. “No, no. Really, I– how much did all this cost?” He gestured in the vague direction the bike should be.

She looks disappointed, Arthur. The excitement has dimmed from her eyes, John said pettily. You hurt her feelings.

“2.25 plus a 10 cent delivery fee,” she answered promptly, if a little sullen.

“Yes, well, I’ll pay for it and bring it to her,” Arthur insisted. “I’m friends with someone who lives in this building and I have the time to spare in case Mrs. Williams needs someone to stay longer. I assume you have more deliveries to get done? There’s no need for you linger.”

He is braced for her to ask more questions—who does he know, why is he here—but she didn’t.

“I– really? I… I really shouldn’t…”

“I’m sure. I’ll see if Mrs. Williams is okay and if she’s not I’ll call the police,” Arthur assured her, using the same voice he used on anxious or doubtful clients and got them to just trust. “If she truly needs help there’s no need for you to see her in such a state, and you’d need to stay to answer any questions the police may have which can take quite a long time. It wouldn’t do for you to get in trouble for breaking and entering either. It’s better if I take care of this.”

She still looks conflicted, torn between her concern for the old lady and her desire to leave, John observed. I think she needs just one more push.

“How about… here, my ID. If I cheat you or hurt anyone you can call the police on me,” Arthur offered, pulling out his wallet with his new (fake) ID.

Arthur! John exclaimed, shocked as much as he was furious. She’s seen us in the same building where we just broke into a crime scene! She looks conflicted, her brow furrowing as if in deep thought as she inspects the ID– Arthur, I can’t believe you’re fucking do this. Do not go into that apartment!

“Alright, Mr. Holder,” she finally said.

She’s offering back the ID, John said shortly, his displeasure winding taut in Arthur’s skull right behind the eyes, not unlike a tightness in the ribs.

Arthur held out his hand, palm upturned in expectation, and she placed the card in it.

“But you must promise to make sure Mrs. Williams is okay,” she burst out fiercely, the boldest Arthur had heard from her so far. “And I’ll be checking up on her tomorrow, and with the police if she’s not okay!”

She’s pointing at you like she’s giving you a warning, John said, deeply unimpressed.

The words stuck in his throat for a moment but he managed to force them out smoothly. “I promise.”

“Good.”

She nodded decisively, as if making a decision of some great importance.

“Shake on in,” the delivery girl insisted, presumably holding out her hand.

She’s holding her right hand out in front of her, palm facing sideways. Roughly at the height of your stomach.

Arthur smiled. “Of course.” He held out his hand—waiting for her to make contact rather than blindly flailing for it—and she grabbed on to it readily.

Her hand was small in his, slim and bony and cool.

“Now, there’s some things you need to know…”

Three minutes later the cash had been exchanged and the delivery girl had relayed all the relevant information—at least from her perspective, such as the fact Mrs. Williams may need help finding her grocery money or to get through the house or even know what’s happening but just be patient, and also to breath through his mouth if he could. Whatever shyness that had initially marked their meeting had faded quickly beneath her forceful, rapid-fire instruction.

Then she was on her way, the faint sound of her rolling her bike down the hall as she left for the front door. She was so trusting it bothered Arthur; no doubt a product of living in a small town where a single murder made the front page. One day she’d learn not to be and there was even the possibility that it was going to be this—him—that taught her so.

Though this would at least be a lesson that let her go home alive.

Jesus, he had become quite morbid lately.

Finally. She’s gone.

“If this ends with Mrs. Williams getting hurt she’s going to blame herself,” Arthur sighed as faced the door, holding the bag of presumed food goods with John’s his left hand. The wretched retching sounds from inside continued.

Yes, Arthur, but if you leave with the groceries then she will think she trusted someone who stole food from a sick old lady, John chuckled, grim and snide. And if you leave them in front of the door someone else could steal them. Then she will call the police and ruin the fake ID we just bought for avoiding the law. Good job. You could have remained uninvolved but now there’s no way you win.

“If this is as dangerous as you think then I wouldn’t want that girl going into the apartment anyway,” Arthur insisted, then faltered. “But maybe… maybe we can just leave the groceries inside the door,” he allowed. “So they don’t get stolen. And it’s not like we didn’t pay for these groceries so it’s not even stealing, it’s like a gift even! But if this Mrs. Williams is in trouble–”

We should leave her. Leave this place.

“No,” Arthur shook his head. “A simple wellness check is all we need to do. We don’t even need to have Mrs. Williams pay us. We can duck in, leave the groceries on the counter, check around and make sure she’s okay, and then we can leave.”

John growled. And if things are not okay?

“Then we give the police an anonymous tip,” Arthur told him. “You heard that girl, this woman is harmless. At worst she needs help.”

She’s unwell.

“Sick does not mean dangerous,” Arthur chided and knelt down to force the lock. John grumbled but cooperated.

As it turned out, Mrs. Williams was absolutely not doing well and with what little context the delivery girl had given them, Arthur felt a kind of pity even within his revulsion. Even after the elderly woman tried clawing at his leg. It was disturbing, yes, but he mostly hoped she would get the help she needed.

She’s waiting for someone to come home. That’s what that girl said, John remarked, oddly neutral despite being proven right as they walked sombrely down the street. Arthur’s ankle still burned with the imprint of poor Mrs. William’s grasping, desperate hands.

“Yes,” Arthur confirmed quietly. He wondered if whoever Mrs. Williams was waiting for knew how much they were missed. That they were needed. He wondered if they were still alive at all.

That girl cared about her wellbeing, John added carefully, the implication of a question hanging unfinished, unsaid.

“That she did, John,” Arthur agreed. “Basic human compassion, I suppose, felt for even the most pathetic of sorts. Perhaps she knew Mrs. Williams before she got so bad. Perhaps she’s just a kind person.”

John scoffed as if that was not the answer he was looking for.

There was something wrong with the old woman. With all of this, John declared.

“Sometimes humans get sick, John,” Arthur sighed, absently rubbing his upper arm as if that would wipe off any lingering stench. “I can’t say what it was, but…”

It could have been age. It could have been fever cooking her mind. It could have been pain rending sense from her brain. There were a great many ways to render a person incoherent, especially with disease at play.

That’s not what I meant. Something has been strange with many of the people we’ve met… John insisted. That woman seemed far sicker then the girl described her as. She reminded me of Kellin.

Arthur’s breath caught.

John told Arthur his theory as they made their way to the train station, that something was influencing the people around them. And on the way, Arthur stepped into a payphone to call the police. Hopefully poor Mrs. Williams would get the care she needed.

John did not say a thing against it.

~o0o~

Harper’s Hill was a small town if John were to be believed, and Arthur thought he had no reason to lie. It could even be described as quaint, or at least as much as a town with a hospital could be. Small towns tended to be reserved around strangers, Arthur knew. Small towns were often even less welcoming to men who were anything but lily-white and god-fearing, of which Arthur was neither.

The city was no paradise but it was at least less grating. There were more options. More anonymity. More people willing to do business, regardless of their personal reservations. Arthur was so close to answers he could feel it like an itch beneath his skin, like crawling ants in his bones, and yet– and yet–

One might think a depression would make a man eager for any kind of business. Apparently not.

He was sick of it. He was sick of being pushed around, pulled along blindly, blocked at every turn, let alone for something like this. So he was going to take what he needed.

He was going to steal a boat.

You're going to steal a boat? John asked in a tone that verged on disbelieving delight.

"Yes," Arthur confirmed surely. "It’s what I should have done last time, we don’t need to rely on anyone else, and frankly we shouldn’t."

Alright, I like this, John affirmed, finally happy with something Arthur was doing. And it felt good. There’s a rowboat tied to one of the docks we’re heading to. The man is still watching us, though.

"I don't care," Arthur said thoughtlessly, determinedly shuffling down the dock.

He was going to steal a goddamn boat.

Then, very suddenly, he was not.

“Oy! Mr. Holder!” came a not-so-distant shout. It took a moment to realize that the voice was calling out to him—that was the name in his fake ID, after all—and that it was not someone coming to arrest him.

Of course not. He hadn’t stolen the boat yet.

There was the sound of bicycle wheels spinning, coming closer, and then the scrape of rubber dragging against gravel.

It’s that girl again, Arthur, John reported, sounding somewhat baffled in sharp contrast to his satisfied anticipation from but a moment ago. The one from the apartments with the old woman. She is sitting on her bicycle, one foot on the ground where she slowed to a stop right where the docks meet the land. The canvas bundle on the back of her bike is once again filled and she has a small but genuine smile on her face.

Arthur was taken so genuinely off-guard that he stammered for a moment, the momentum he had been riding for boat-theft disrupted and lost. Then he waved a hand in what he hoped was her direction with a feeble “hello again,” feeling terribly awkward.

Arthur, I thought we were going to steal a boat, John complained. She’s gotten off the bike now and is rolling it up the dock. She’s approaching us. Arthur, are people usually this friendly to strangers?

“She knows us, John,” Arthur muttered, listening to her boots on the wooden dock come closer. “We helped her. Of course she likes us. Let’s wait until she leaves.”

Then they could steal the boat. In broad daylight. In front of a witness. Who he had given the name on his ID. Which, now that he was actually thinking about it, was becoming less of an appealing idea by the second. He did not want to deal with police, let alone small town police with something to prove, one of whom had already stared suspiciously his ID while he was buying a gun.

They could wait to steal a boat after dark, even if it would be less satisfying.

“How was Mrs. Williams doing?” she asked once she was close enough—Arthur presumed—for politenesses sake. “She okay? Did she pay you? I ought to say thank you for doing my job.”

She let out an awkward little laugh and his mouth went dry.

He could feel her hopeful gaze boring into him, for all he could not see it. Arthur had never been the people person between the two of them. Between him and Parker, that is. He could fake it, yes, earn trust and confidence and present himself as entirely capable of whatever task was at hand, but Parker–

Don’t tell her anything. We were never there.

Of course John, Arthur thought. Let’s just pretend we didn’t enter the apartment of her elderly sick neighbour after sending her away. That would end well.

Instead of saying that out loud, mostly due to the need to not appear too overtly insane, Arthur took a breath and adopted the steady tone he had to use far too often when the trail went cold or led to something even worse. One of the worst parts of being a private investigator.

“She’s alive,” he began with so she wouldn’t assume the worst.

There was a slight, sharp intake of breath.

Her hand is covering her mouth. What happened to listening to me? Your whole speech about how I was right and you were wrong? Go back to that, John demanded.

Arthur ignored him. There wasn’t much room to explain why that lie wouldn’t work with her right there.

“She was very… unwell,” Arthur settled on. “I called the authorities so hopefully they’ll be able to help her.”

“Oh. Oh, poor Mrs. Williams,” she said, sounding upset. “I’m glad you called for help. But she’s so old… thank you for staying with her. I shouldn’t– I shouldn’t have left.”

A small pit of guilt twisted Arthur’s stomach. He had very much not stayed with her and if John’s theory was correct, he might even be the cause of her sudden decline. Either due to her proximity to Amanda, whose location he gave away, or his own presence.

“Cassie!” came a sharp cry from the other side of the docks. His sightless gaze jerked automatically in the direction of the noise. “What are you doing with the likes of him?!”

“The likes of him?” Arthur muttered, offended but not particularly surprised. He swallowed back the irritation.

It’s the boat man who refused us! He is approaching, Arthur, very quickly with his bushy brows knitted together like one big caterpillar of worry. He’s looking at the girl he called Cassie with the occasional suspicious glance at you.

“Oh, hi Ian,” the newly named Cassie said, sounding politely unenthused and still rather glum. “He was just… Mr. Holder was giving me some bad news. He helped me out a little this morning on one of my deliveries.”

The man—Ian—grunted. “Yeah? Well, forget about that. He’s bad news.”

“Excuse me sir,” Arthur cut in stiffly, leaning into his accent a bit more than usual. “I have done nothing worthy of that sort of suspicion. I was simply trying to charter passage to an island.”

Yes, he had been about to steal a boat in a fit of spite but Cassie had interrupted him before he could. He was, as far as this man knew, completely innocent.

He’s scowling at us. Perhaps he knows we were planning to steal from him, John speculated baselessly.

“Where to?” Cassie asked. “I mean, Mr. Holder, where do you need to go?”

She’s looking at us expectantly, as if we’re just going to tell her, John scoffed, then he noticed Arthur pulling the map out. Arthur. Arthur! Don’t give her the map!

Arthur held out the map in direction of Cassie’s voice, ignoring John’s protests or the tension he could feel radiating up from his numb left hand. There was a crinkle of paper as she took it. “See that island in the middle of this lake? That is where I need to go but I can’t find it on any official maps.”

She’s looking at the map. Arthur, Arthur! She recognizes it! Fuck, that asshole was lying to us! John exclaimed furiously, his anger switching quickly from Arthur to Ian with ease.

“That’s the Devil’s Graveyard,” she said almost immediately. Arthur, she’s giving back the map. “You don’t find it on most maps because people don’t like to admit that it exists. It’s not even on the mail route.”

“Really now,” Arthur breathed as he tucked the map away, turning his head towards where he last heard Ian to hopefully aim his glare correctly.

“And it’s cursed,” the man grunted, and Arthur adjusted the aim his foul look. “Cassie, you shouldn't be telling strangers these sorts of things. What business do they have in a place like that?”

“Good business,” Arthur interjected. He recalled what Cassie said—not even on a mail route—and tried to make it fit his previous lie. “I have a delivery to make. Friend of the family owns the island, remember?”

“There is no good business there,” Ian insisted. “Don’t you make that face, lassie. You know I’m right.”

“I know you’re a big baby still scared of ghost stories,” was Cassie’s retort.

She’s turning to look at us.

“I’ve been there plenty of times. I can give you a ride,” Cassie offered. “My last delivery of the day is to the island. We can split the cost of the boat rental.”

“That’d be wonderful! Thank you kindly,” Arthur exclaimed, grinning at the stroke of good fortune, and also out of spite for Ian’s refusal to rent to him.

I don’t know, Arthur. She could cause us problems, John cautioned, frustrated. Didn't we just talk about the chance of something interfering with the minds of those around us. What about relying only on ourselves? Remember Kellin? 

“She seems perfectly sane,” Arthur whispered. No need to look a gift horse in the mouth and it was hardly as if they'd be relying on her.

And, not that he’d say it within earshot of Cassie, but according to John she was considerably smaller than him. If he needed to he could overpower her.

Ian had complaints of his own. “No. I’m not letting you out on the water alone with some strange man,” Ian refused, firm as iron. “Let alone a man who wants to go to the Devil’s Graveyard! Didn't you hear what happened to that Cummings girl?! It’s not safe.”

Arthur kept his expression calm. Small town, it made sense that Amanda’s murder had everyone on edge, even if the apparent perpetrator had been caught.

“You could come with us,” Cassie countered mulishly. “This is my job, Ian.”

He’s thinking, Arthur. “How long are you planning to stay?” He’s directing the question at Cassie, not us.

“Until evening,” she said.

Arthur felt a stab of surprise at that and John spoke his thoughts for him. What business could she have there for so long?

“Until evening might not be long enough…” Arthur muttered back. It was the afternoon. Depending on how long it took to get there they might have very little time to investigate properly.

“I’m not staying near that island that long,” Ian refused curtly.

“Can I just take the goddamn boat?” Cassie huffed.

“No,” Ian repeated. “Not with that man, Cassie. He’s got a look to him.”

“Do I have a look to me?” Arthur wondered quietly.

You are fresh out of a month-long coma and have lost some weight. Your eyes carry in them the weight of what you have experienced. You are not in the best shape, John said bluntly, then as an afterthought, …I think you look fine though.

Well, if the homicidal voice in his head said he liked it.

“I’ll be with André on the island,” Cassie argued. “And if he tries to do anything to me on the water he won’t be able to find his way back easy. He doesn’t know the current and fog like I do.”

That’s reassuring, John grumbled. Ian does not look convinced.

“Please, Ian, he really did help me out,” Cassie pushed.

Ian’s stoic expression wavers, then folds into reluctant resignation.

“Fine. But be back before dark else I’m calling the coppers to get you,” Ian warned seriously. “You got a curfew and you know how they don’t like going to the Devil’s Graveyard or fetching you from causing trouble. The usual price for the usual boat?”

She just nodded and pulled a wallet out of her satchel, Arthur. She’s handing him a dollar. He’s tucking it away in his pocket.

“Stay safe out there, lassie,” he said. He’s glaring at us, Arthur!

“I will, Ian,” Cassie promised hurriedly, as if eager to get away. “All right, let’s get going.”

She’s gesturing for us to follow.

Arthur followed the sound of her footsteps on the dock and John’s guidance, keeping one hand trailing along the rope guardrail so he didn’t fall. Cassie led them to a different rowboat, much the same as the one Arthur was originally planning to steal according to John.

It’s another rowboat but it seems to be in even better shape. It is sturdy with a lantern affixed to the front and supplies under the seats. It is also a bright yellow, John commented, the last part almost an inane afterthought.

“Yes, at least that makes it easy to see then,” Arthur mumbled. “Now help me get in.”

“Huh? I didn’t quite catch that,” Cassie said.

“Uh, nothing! Just talking to myself!” Arthur deflected as he knelt on the dock and grabbed the boat’s edge.

You were about to steal a boat ten minutes ago. Hurry up, it’s right below your foot, John said impatiently, though still used his hand to help Arthur hold on to the dock while he transferred his weight into the craft. The boat wobbled under his feet—which was a thousand times more disconcerting without sight—and he quickly transferred his grip from the dock to one of the benches. With a relieved sigh Arthur sat down, listening to the water lap at the sides, then turned his head when he heard footsteps on the dock.

Cassie is coming back without her bike, Arthur. She has chained it to one of the posts of the dock. In her arms is the canvas bundle, John informed.

“Alright,” Cassie sighed and there was the sound of canvas and a soft thud. Arthur felt the boat shift in response. He supposed there wasn’t anything particularly fragile in this package if she was tossing it around. She just dropped the canvas bundle into the middle of the craft. She’s untying the knot and climbing in.

The boat once again shifted beneath him as Cassie settled in.

“You ready, Mr. Holder?” she asked.

“Are you okay with rowing the whole way?” Arthur asked instead.

She shrugged and grabbed the oars, using one to push further away from the docks. She’s dipping them in the water.

“I might need a break or two,” she admitted, already sounding a little strained with even the first swoosh of the oars through the water. “But I’ll get you there.”

“Well then,” Arthur said mildly, his blindness making it feel as if the boat was adrift in a vast ocean bordered only by an unending horizon. He clenched the bench beneath him with his hand. “Let us be off.”

Cassie huffed and kept rowing.

~o0o~

1930s ERA INVESTIGATOR

Name: Arthur Lester    Birthplace: England    Pronouns: He/Him    Age: 34
Occupation: Private Investigator    Residence: Arkham, Massachusetts

Stats
STR 50 CON 60 DEX 70 INT 80 SIZ 65 POW 90 APP 60 EDU 70
MAX HP 13 HP 11 Luck 57 MAX SAN 90 SAN 74

Skills
Art/Craft (Piano) 73
Art/Craft (Poetry) 30
Credit Rating 15
Cthulhu Mythos 9
Fast Talk 42
Firearms (Handgun) 48
Intimidate 67
Locksmith 56
Persuade 33
Psychology 54
Spot Hidden 0

Gear & Possessions
Satchel
Wallet
Fake ID (Laurence Holder)
Lighter
Flashlight
45. Automatic (1D10 + 2)
Lockpick set
The Magic Mountain (book)
Map of Lake Crawford
Matches

Effects:
Coma, lingering weakness (10 days): - 1 Move, STR penalty dice

Keepers Note: High rolls for this guy! I’m sure he’ll be able to handle whatever is thrown at him ;)

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.

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 :)