Lighthouse Hauntings by Charles Waugh

Author:Charles Waugh
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781461740988
Publisher: Down East Books

MATT COSTELLO & A. J. MATTHEWS

And the Sea

Shall Claim Them

The expression “It was a dark and stormy night” ran through Derek Townsend’s mind as he pulled to a stop in the parking lot of the Rusty Scupper.

He grinned. Might be a cliche ... but they do occur.

Take tonight, for example. Rain just letting up, but the clouds black as mud and lying low enough to meet what seemed to be a permanent fog bank.

“Dark, stormy, and hot,” he muttered as he killed the ignition. He’d thought Maine never got hot.

He swung open the car door, stepped out on the hard-packed gravel, and tilted his head back. No stars—though a sickly July moon had started to cast a faint fluorescent glow through the cloud cover.

Maybe it would burn off.

He smiled at that. Burn ... off.

He stretched his arms over his head and groaned loudly. He knew he sounded like a bear waking up after a long winter’s sleep. Tough; he ached.

The drive out to Cape Tumbles—a small coastal town some three hours northeast of Bar Harbor, Maine—had been long and tortuous. The thin, winding ribbon of road hugged the southern edge of the cape close and tight; it had tested Derek’s nerves and driving skills. He hated driving anyway.

Every time his headlights swung around a curve, briefly illuminating the vast, dark stretch of ocean and jagged granite rocks off to his right, he felt like he was in free-fall. The sudden drop to his right made his stomach slide up into his chest. Nice feeling... like some demented roller-coaster ride.

He looked back at the sky. A bit more moonlight was seeping through.

Derek was damn glad the drive was over. He looked around the parking lot.

Not many vehicles in the Rusty Scupper’s parking lot—a handful of battered pickup trucks, some loaded with bait barrels; a Harley or two; a mud-splattered four-by-four; and a rusting white Volvo station wagon.

Nice eclectic group.

Probably half the drinking-age population of town, Derek thought as he walked up to the bar’s entrance. He took a deep breath of the air—as close as it was—and pulled the door open.

Inside, the scene was exactly what he had expected. The room thick with cigarette smoke. Small knots of townies ranged along the bar and seated at a few round tables. From the jukebox, Mick Jagger was singing about shuffling on the streets of Manhattan. Manhattan was a world away for these yokels.

It took a few seconds for Derek’s eyes to adjust to the dim lighting.

After scanning the room, he had the feeling that the man he was here to meet was the dark hulk seated at the far end of the bar, leaning on both elbows. As Derek started walking toward him, the man turned around and nodded.

“Evenin’,” the man said.

The man’s deep voice was slurred, but what did he expect? In a backwater coastal town like this, what else could you do but drink yourself into oblivion every night? It’s practically a hobby.

“Evenin’,” Derek replied with a quick nod of the head.

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