I Love Ghost Stories
THE LIGHTHOUSE
Rory felt he was at the nadir of his existence. The usual reason. She hadn't even explained why. He needed to get away. One morning he read an obscure news story about an eccentric Scottish hotelier who had bought a decommissioned lighthouse some miles from the coast and was preparing to rent it as a holiday with a difference. A long list of house rules - no internet, tv/radio, all seemingly designed to increase the isolation. The only exception an emergency-only phone line directly to the hotelier himself. Within days Rory was there.
The 100 year old tower was four storeys high. Perched on a rock with a large key hanging from a hook inside the only door; as if there could be anyone who would seek admittance. The top room, where the beacon used to be housed, was now an office with sea views to die for : not impossible, he thought grimly as the waves thudded into the structure like a power-driver determined on its demolition. At times the sea swell was so high that the waves and foam crashed against the top window. He enjoyed it for a few days, the sound of the waves either thrilling as he lay in bed at night, or lulling him into sleep like a soothing lullaby. After a time it started to get boring.
One night he woke with a start. What a dream! But there it was again. Surging in with the sound of the wind and sea, he could just about hear a man's voice. Impossible of course. It took all his concentration to decipher the words one by one. They sounded like " Able - to live -in stone". Repeated in a kind of loop. Clearly he was losing the plot. An early breakfast. He began to wonder if his landlord was playing a trick. He spent the day with a powerful torch, searching every inch of the building for a radio bug or something. Nothing. That evening the voice started again, this time more insistent. It was time to use the emergency phone line.
The landlord eventually agreed to contact the Coastguard the following morning. As soon as he'd put the phone down he started to worry about Rory's mental condition and rang back. No answer. He could hear the phone ringing on the other side, but nobody to pick it up. The lighthouse was hard to access and required a guy lowered by winch from a helicopter. As expected the door was locked from the inside. A few minutes later came the puzzled report "There's no one here. Its as if this guy was absorbed into the stone". In the study he found what Rory had been using as a logbook, with daily entries written in his neat handwriting. Beneath the final entry and in a very different handwriting was scrawled "Abel Livingstone".
Rory felt he was at the nadir of his existence. The usual reason. She hadn't even explained why. He needed to get away. One morning he read an obscure news story about an eccentric Scottish hotelier who had bought a decommissioned lighthouse some miles from the coast and was preparing to rent it as a holiday with a difference. A long list of house rules - no internet, tv/radio, all seemingly designed to increase the isolation. The only exception an emergency-only phone line directly to the hotelier himself. Within days Rory was there.
The 100 year old tower was four storeys high. Perched on a rock with a large key hanging from a hook inside the only door; as if there could be anyone who would seek admittance. The top room, where the beacon used to be housed, was now an office with sea views to die for : not impossible, he thought grimly as the waves thudded into the structure like a power-driver determined on its demolition. At times the sea swell was so high that the waves and foam crashed against the top window. He enjoyed it for a few days, the sound of the waves either thrilling as he lay in bed at night, or lulling him into sleep like a soothing lullaby. After a time it started to get boring.
One night he woke with a start. What a dream! But there it was again. Surging in with the sound of the wind and sea, he could just about hear a man's voice. Impossible of course. It took all his concentration to decipher the words one by one. They sounded like " Able - to live -in stone". Repeated in a kind of loop. Clearly he was losing the plot. An early breakfast. He began to wonder if his landlord was playing a trick. He spent the day with a powerful torch, searching every inch of the building for a radio bug or something. Nothing. That evening the voice started again, this time more insistent. It was time to use the emergency phone line.
The landlord eventually agreed to contact the Coastguard the following morning. As soon as he'd put the phone down he started to worry about Rory's mental condition and rang back. No answer. He could hear the phone ringing on the other side, but nobody to pick it up. The lighthouse was hard to access and required a guy lowered by winch from a helicopter. As expected the door was locked from the inside. A few minutes later came the puzzled report "There's no one here. Its as if this guy was absorbed into the stone". In the study he found what Rory had been using as a logbook, with daily entries written in his neat handwriting. Beneath the final entry and in a very different handwriting was scrawled "Abel Livingstone".
