Chapter 1

ONE

T he Maine town of Caerlloyd Harbor is as charming as it is quiet with its dangerous cliffs peering over the ocean making way to gentle sloping hills and battered shutters.

It feels like a town out of a Hallmark movie, where everyone knows everyone and happily-ever-afters come for each and every inhabitant, perched contradictorily on the edge of the violent Atlantic Ocean. Each house is stilted carefully on a cliffside or tucked between rocky, weed-ridden hills, and even the rugged, sharp cobblestones bear sprigs of clover and dandelions in the crevices around each rock.

It's a quiet little place despite its eccentricities; the loudest noises around are the waves against the towering white stone cliffs between Caerlloyd and the sea. A dock surges out at the end of the long, thin road that leads into Caerlloyd, mooring a few fishing boats and smaller, less commercial craft.

For Simon Abbott, the salt-faint air tastes of opportunity and smoke.

Though, the smoke might just be from the massive stone brick fireplace jutting out of the wall of the building he's standing beside: an inn of sorts made of whitewashed siding and sea-smoothed rock. It's allegedly where Simon is staying during his time in Caerlloyd, and he opens the door with only a modicum of trepidation.

The inside vestibule matches the vibes of the small coastal town well. The furthest wall, behind the small check-in desk, is painted a soft greyish blue—not that Simon could see the color much through the myriad of decorative frames, art prints, and mounted tchotchkes. Directly above the desk itself is an oar with deep teeth marks embedded in the wooden shaft, with the name ‘The Dispatch' painted on in old crooked lettering.

To Simon's direct right is a coat rack, one of the old fashioned antiques with carved feet and symmetrical hooks. Further to his right is a door— the top of the frame lined with wooden block houses not particularly recognizable— cracked to reveal a dining room. Another door, this one behind the check-in desk, is shut tight. Beside it is an unoccupied stool, a red velvet thing with tufting secured in golden rivets. After Simon takes in the crowded room, he rings a small metal bell perched on the desk.

There isn't an immediate response, so Simon pulls out his phone to check his reservation. He thumbs over the fingerprint reader and unlocks it readily, the lock screen picture of the Boston skyline fading into the elegant, non-distracting monochrome shapes of his home page. The stacked bars in the corner of the screen blink once, twice, and then change: NO SIGNAL.

A frustrated noise rips itself from Simon's throat and he clicks on the settings—the only Wi-Fi network nearby is locked.

No internet. Great .

As Simon shoves the useless device back into his coat pocket, he reaches out with his other hand and taps the bell again, and again, and again.

"What'd that bell ever do to you?" a female voice says and Simon spins around to see a woman standing in the main entranceway. Her long, red hair is tucked up into a multi-colored knit hat with a few strands falling out and she's wearing thick denim overalls over another piece of knitwear. The stitches on the cream sweater are intricate and precise; it must've cost a fortune.

"I've been waiting to check in," Simon responds and not-so-subtly glances at his smart watch through the thick lenses of his glasses. The woman raises a reddish eyebrow and drops the basket she's carrying onto the floor just inside the doorway.

"Check ins are at five," she says and gestures to a massive clock hanging on the wall above the closed door. The paint on the numbers is chipped and worn and the hands are made of old brass, pointing clearly at the time: 4:30.

"For once, the traffic in Boston cooperated," Simon says back and tugs the extended handle of his rolling suitcase closer again. "Can I check in now, or not? And do you have a Wi-Fi network? I have work to do."

The woman crosses her arms across her chest with a vaguely stunned expression on her face. She lingers a moment more in the entrance before letting out a long sigh, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, and thudding over to the desk. Each step in her huge utility boots is a crash, making a short— maybe five foot six— woman feel massive, like she takes up more space in the small vestibule to the inn than Simon and his luggage do combined.

"Name?" she asks and opens a large ledger to a page covered in writing.

"Abbott," Simon replies, "Simon. I made the reservation yesterday."

"Oh, of course," the woman says and her expression shifts into something unreadable. "You're the one buying the lighthouse."

"Oh, I've already bought it, but yes," Simon replies and glances down at his luggage. "I'll be in town for a few days to check it out, then I'll be back in a week or so to start renovations. I'm going to turn it into a short-term rental, like an Airbnb. I'm meeting with a man named Bruce tomorrow about it, actually."

The woman's face twists further and she takes a small key with a large, plastic keychain attached. The number 04 is etched in white into the plastic and Simon rubs over the engraving with his thumb.

"Awesome," she says, almost mechanically, like a marionette past their cue. "Enjoy your stay. Your room is upstairs and to the left." With that, she turns and leaves through the door behind the desk, wet and grim.

Simon is left at the desk, and the entryway becomes a quiet tomb once more.

His room mirrors the town itself—small, quiet, and hodgepodged together. The wood making up the double bed is dark where the bedside tables are a light, sanded grain; the rug is round and flattened by years of footsteps. There's a single dresser underneath a square window, which is bracketed on either side by floating, gauzy curtains. Every inch of the pale blue walls is covered in more paintings, knickknacks, and shadow boxes containing who knows what.

One painting in particular, directly across the room from the headboard of the bed, draws Simon's attention—his lighthouse. It's tall and painted white with the topmost ridge made of black iron. The artist was careful with their brushstrokes in the beam of light, using yellow tones and smooth strokes to break up the choppy waves and sheer cliffs that surround the structure. It's a stunning painting, barely the size of a sheet of paper, and Simon can't help but drag his fingers across the bottom of the frame. There's a signature in the corner, but he can't make it out; it's just a small swirl of white paint in the very corner of the piece.

It's the perfect lighthouse of every Mainer's dream, the very picture of New England, and Simon's hands itch to get to renovating.

There is still another hour or so of daylight, so Simon lets his duffel slide off his shoulder and leaves his suitcase by the bed. There's a small table in the corner beside a wooden, surely handmade chair, so he pulls his laptop out of its sleeve and opens it as he sinks into the hard wooden seat.

The rude owner didn't offer the Wi-Fi password. Thankfully, he saved all of his renovation plans, budget spreadsheets, and databases of tiling and hardwood borrowed from work to his hard drive just in case, so he clicks them open and settles in to tweak and edit for the next hour or so.

Travel always leaves Simon weary, so his eyes begin to fall shut with the setting of the sun. Eventually, when his hands press keys on his laptop so hard he fills in a cell on his meticulously organized spreadsheet with gibberish, he allows himself to shut his laptop and head for bed. There's a small door in the hallway clearly labeled ‘Bathroom' that's just as cluttered as the rest of the inn. Anchor-shaped towel rings, bar soap with waves pressed into the top—Simon swipes it away and sets out his own toiletries.

The water pressure is poor and the water takes minutes to warm, but the shower itself is tolerable. The towel provided is scratchy and smells of myrrh, the mirror fogs up with no switch for a fan, and the rugs are shaggy and rough on his bare feet. Simon showers quickly and tries to swallow his distaste for just the few minutes it takes—at the very least, he has some more notes for what not to do with the lighthouse.

He settles in for bed in his pajamas with trepidation; the room hasn't gotten completely dark and the curtains don't close, but he's pleasantly surprised. The bed is soft at least, the mattress decently plush, and even the pillowcases are alright. He closes his eyes and prepares to rest.

Despite it all, Simon doesn't sleep.

He thinks for the first half hour it might be a fluke— he just rolls over, tries to get a better position for his shoulders, his spine— but by one in the morning, he sighs in frustration and gives up, donning his glasses and taking up a small lantern from his bedside to light the way.

The inn is dead asleep when Simon leaves, an oversized cardigan wrapped tight around his body. He inches down the stairs, careful to avoid the cracked step that groaned earlier, and leaves silently through the front door. His lantern illuminates the small, round window above the door once he steps out onto the cobblestones, and his form casts a quivering shadow onto the ground below.

The village is eerily silent. It was quiet before, but there was still a gentle din— the waves, voices traveling on the wind, the distant rumble of a car's puttering engine. Now, the air hangs still. Even the wind has stopped, the leaves of the few bushes and purple-aster petals of the inn's window box flowers barely fluttering.

One thing, however, moves despite it all: the lighthouse. The stark beam swings out over the ocean, then comes back around and flashes over the town for one blinding instant before swirling back out to sea. It's almost hypnotic in its repetition, the structure built carefully on the very apex of a rocky cliff hanging over the waters below. It's over a mile to walk there from the inn, and Simon only put on his slippers, so he doesn't head that way. Instead, he ascends through the hilly town, slowly climbing the cobbled streets until he emerges between buildings with a clear view of the lighthouse itself.

The beam sways, continuing its orbit around the tall, stern structure, its chipped paint and rusting metal Simon saw on the online listing invisible from this distance. From here, it's a beacon, and it's beautiful.

As the light spins back around, there's a flash—a glimpse of something standing at the top of the building, a figure blotting out a human-shaped chunk in the rays. Simon squints. The only person with keys is the mysterious Bruce, and why would he be at the top of the lighthouse this late at night?

The light comes back around.

The figure is gone.

A chill riddles its way up Simon's spine and his body shakes with an involuntary tremor. He pulls his loose sweater tighter around his torso and swallows hard. Tomorrow is the day he's able to finally see the property, finally ascend the spiral steps of his lighthouse that he's only seen in pictures. It won't do him much good to stay awake—he's already seeing things.

Simon pads back to the inn, up the stairs and back into his borrowed bed. The careful stitches in the topmost quilt feel soothing under his fingertips, and he tugs it close, finally ready to rest.

In Caerlloyd Harbor, sleep drifts lazily through the streets, and the lighthouse spins uninterrupted for the rest of the night.