The Ghost of Bradburry Lighthouse

When I first heard of the Bradburry lighthouse, I was at a roadside diner somewhere along US Highway 1. 

I had stopped at Mike’s Diner for dinner after a day of driving in the pouring rain. The burger was underwhelming, but the coffee had hit the spot. So I was dithering about the amount I would leave for a tip, when I overheard a young man insulting one of his friends. 

“You wouldn’t last one night in the Bradburry lighthouse,” He said.

I turned my head to take a look at the group in question.

“Like you have, Sid?” One of the boys challenged.

“I have.”

Shouts of dissent came from the gathering of boys.

“I have. I really have,” Sid continued his protests over the voices of the others. 

One boy with dark hair and a crooked smile slapped a hand on the table silencing the others and leaned in, eyeing Sid, “I believe you, Sid.”

“You do?”

“Yea, I believe it, but the real question is did you see him? Did you see the ghost of the old lighthouse keeper?”  

“I didn’t see him,” Sid was quiet for a moment, “But I heard him.”

The other boys made a ruckus of protest, but the dark haired boy smacked the table again and they quieted.

“He was moanin’ and there was bangin’ on the stairs, like he was fallin’ down them all over again,” Sid said, “Clunk, clunk, clunk.”

He smacked the table with each clunk. 

Before Sid could continue his tale the diner’s sole waitress had decided to end the conversation.

“You boys are scaring the guests. Run home or I’ll call your mothers,” She threatened.

Sufficiently threatened, the boys started scrambling out of the booth. For a moment the dark haired boy looked around the diner scanning it and his eyes caught mine. I felt in that instant like a thief who had been caught with the pearl necklace in hand, and I looked back down at my empty coffee cup.

Moments later Marge came by to fill up my cup. 

“Is it true?” I asked her, “The stuff about the lighthouse being haunted.”

Marge leveled me with a look that I could not quite decipher and said, “Its boys talking nonsense is what it is. Best to ignore it.”

I looked down again, ashamed of my curiosity.

Marge grabbed my coffee cup and then said, “Sun’s going to set soon. If you’re looking for a place to stay, Bradburry has an inn. Just down that way.”

She pointed, mug in hand, towards a road that disappeared into a shroud of trees.

Taking her advice, I drove to the inn and found it with relative ease. 

If I had been trying to ignore the story of the lighthouse imprinted on my mind, it had become impossible. There on the hill above Bradburry township the lighthouse stood proud and untouchable like a princess in a tiara. Even from a distance, I could see that it was made of sturdy stones from its base to its top.

The innkeeper was a polite old man and when I inquired about the lighthouse, he had drawn me a map on how to get there from the inn.

“It’s the off season, but you could probably drive up there tomorrow morning. Old Alex might still give you a tour,” He told me, “he doesn’t see too many visitors up that way this time of year, so he’ll probably be happy to see someone.”

“Are the tours interesting?”

“Well, I’ve not been in some time, but it has an interesting history with the Civil War.”  

“I see,” I decided to probe about the ghost story I had heard, “And is there any new history about it?”

For a moment he leveled me with the same look as Marge, that indecipherable glance.

“If you're here for a ghost hunt there’s not much of one.”

“So the ghost thing is well known then?”

“A local legend really, but it's not so much of a ghost story as it is a tragedy,” He said, “the kids like to make up ghosts in their minds.”

“Well, what’s the tragedy?” I asked. 

“It’s not my story to tell.” He said.

Disappointed, I went to settle myself into my room. As I was getting myself ready for bed I peered out the window to see the lighthouse. It stood tall, solitary and grandiose. There was a certain charm about it that held me captive, and I watched it as the light of the sun faded from behind the dark storm clouds.

At some point, the lighthouse opened one eager eye and began shedding light upon the dark sea over the hill. 

The next day, I packed my car and drove up the hill to the lighthouse. The clouds from the previous day had lifted, and I was left with a crisp, bright autumn day. Upon arrival, I discovered that a pleasant-looking cottage was stationed near the base of the infamous structure. 

I parked on the gravel and began making my way towards it. Outside, working in the garden around the cottage was an elderly man bent burying seeds in tilled soil. I reached the white wooden gate and cleared my throat to get his attention. A cloud of silver hair popped up and blue eyes looked through me. 

I asked if he would give me a tour of the lighthouse, and the old man brightened.

I paid him for an hour tour, which included an inside walk through of the tower and the watch room. 

We walked the cliff and looked out at the sea. There the waves made war with the rocks and the wind tugged at my coat and hair. 

“It’s such a beautiful day,” I commented to him.

“Yes, it often is after storms like yesterdays,” He said, “it makes the grass green and the air fresh.” 

He took me up the path to the lighthouse and began commenting on the rather dull history of its construction.

“This lighthouse has been my family’s job for two hundred years now,” He explained, “even though it mostly runs itself now, I couldn’t bring myself to part from it and the town allowed me to stay and care for the grounds.”

“You mean you don’t light it yourself,” I asked. 

He laughed, “Dear, no, the work is automated these days. No trimming wicks for me.”

“Did you ever have to take care of it manually?” 

He nodded, “When I was a young man, my father took care of the lighthouse. He taught me the inner workings of it from a simpler time.”

We had reached the tower, and he opened the door for me. For an old man, he climbed the stone steps quite well. Still, there were times he slowed, and I became impatient. When we had finally reached the peak of the steps, he paused. His hand stopped on the wall there and he stroked it lovingly. 

“The tower is almost totally original.” He explained. “The only renovations having been the newer electric lantern at the top, but everything from the stones to the windows is the same as it was when I was a boy.” 

I looked out of the windows at the town and the sea. I was hesitant to leave the view behind, but my hour was nearly up. 

When we reached the bottom, he asked me to join him for some coffee. 

“It’s lonely up here, not many tours this time of year,” He said, “I wouldn’t mind your company.”

I was after all this, still curious about the ghost story, so I accepted the offer.

The cottage was quaint on the inside and much warmer than I thought it would be. Inside, while Alex made the coffee, I perused the photographs hanging from the walls. 

One in particular caught my eye, it was an old photograph of a family. The man had a stern expression on his face, while the woman and boy had the blank expression endemic to old photos. 

“Is this your family?” I asked. 

He set two steaming mugs of coffee on the table and came to look at the photo. 

“Yes, that’s my father, mother and I.” He said. “I look to be nine when the photo was taken.”

In the photo, the boy had a black eye, which I dismissed knowing that boys tended to get into mischief. And yet, there was something about it that made me feel sick in my stomach. The way his father’s hand rested on his shoulder in the photo.

“If you don’t mind, I had heard that there was something of tragedy here with the old lighthouse keeper.” I said. “I was interested to see if the rumors about a ghost were true.”

He seemed to find that amusing. “The only ghosts that exist are the ones we let inhabit our minds.”

“It is true thought that my father died in the tower.” He continued after a minute. “The police said that the stairs had been wet from a storm the previous day. He must have slipped because I found him the next day at the bottom.”

I looked at him with some sympathy. “That must have been such an ordeal for you to see your father like that.”

He merely looked out the window at the tower and said, “I suppose.”

“Sorry that I  didn’t have much of a ghost story for you after you came all this way.” He said. 

“No, it was a pleasure to come here.  Quite beautiful and interesting, even without a ghost story.” I said.

After I had finished my coffee, I said goodbye to him. As I drove away, one crucial fact had buried itself within my skull. The steps in the lighthouse had been dry, totally dry.