What Lies Beneath the Fog

》13《

After dinner, I climbed the stairs again, disappearing into my room, feeling exhausted. The days since our arrival here had been busy and exciting, definitely not what I was expecting to find on this sleepy little island hiding in the fog.

Now I just couldn't wait to have some alone time, to read Will's notebook, and discover something more about the White Lady and the mystery that was surrounding her.

Lost in my thoughts, I walked towards the half open window. The events and impressions of the day were spinning in my mind in confused swirls. All that had happened during the day, now passed in front of my eyes in broken flashes, tiny fragments mixed up and distorted, as if I was looking at them through a kaleidoscope-- different bits and pieces coming back together randomly.

The crumbling bridge leading to the Byron's Lighthouse and the treacherous steps descending to the sea spreading deep below. The sheer drop of the cliff behind the lighthouse keeper's house, where Walter Byron met his voluntary death when he jumped off the tower. The vast field of heather swaying in the light breeze, making Emma's eyes look like two pieces of mirror, reflecting its colour. The icily cold halves of the broken key in my pocket. The sound of the fog bell bouncing off the rocks and the surface of the heaving sea, filling my ears, mixed with the cries of the seagulls and waves crashing against the cliff. Emma's freezing hand in mine, when she led me to the old grave, her eyes turning hauntingly black, her long hair moving around in the wind, the wind that I could not feel...

I shivered at the memory of that moment. The White Lady was definitely trying to lead me, us, to something. Emma was involved, too. I was sure about it; she had been seeing the ghost for years...

It was nearly completely dark outside now. My room was shrouded in shadows that were being chased around by the beam of the light, reaching inside from the Byron's Lighthouse. The light that not many people could see.

I opened the window wide, inhaling the cool night's air, impregnated with the humidity and saltiness of the sea. The scent of the blooming heather reached me, flaring up my nostrils, filling my room. Now that I was familiar with it, I could recognize it among the other scents of the island. Its perfume was so faint, just a hint, a note carried by the gentle sea breeze.

Through the light mist, which had already settled back in its place, I could see huge clouds gathering on the horizon behind the lighthouse. Hopefully, the weather will remain unchanged for a few more days. Or at least tomorrow. I was looking forward to the promised boat trip.

Leaving the window open, I took Will's notebook and my camera out of my backpack. The bright beam of my reading light dispersed the darkness, banishing it into the corners. I felt drained, but I wanted to see the pictures I had taken by the lighthouse and read.

Deciding that I was too tired to do both, and the pictures could wait, I put the camera along with my sketchbook and paints on top of the chest of drawers. My phone, as usual, went under my pillow. I realised that I hadn't even asked Emma for her number. Surely she had a mobile phone. But, with the bad or non-existent reception and the sketchy Wi-Fi, she probably didn't use it much around here.

Finally lying down, I opened the notebook. It was quite thick, its yellowed pages filled by Will's handwritten scribbles.

The first part described, very briefly, the history of the lighthouse. It was constructed in eighteen ninety, designed by a famous architect of the Victorian era. The cliff which he chose to build it on, the highest one of the island, had always been considered to be too dangerous and unreachable to hold any constructions. Not so for the skilled Victorians, though. They built the seventeen meters tall masonry tower and the large keeper's house around it in no time. The clever architect also designed the bridge connecting the lighthouse to the main part of the island and the stairs leading to the beach. This way, the keepers, or their guests, could come and go using their own boats without having to come to the village or the main harbour. The Byrons moved in as soon as it was finished and stayed for four years.

That was it, and it left me craving for more information. I needed to know more about the people who had lived up there, Anne and Walter, and the thick mist of mystery surrounding their lives.

Hopefully, Emma will take me to the library soon. There must be something else in one of their old books for me to read. I had to learn more to unravel this tangled story and separate the gossip from the truth.

The thought that popped into my mind when Emma showed me Walter Byron's grave came back, more insistently. What if Anne had never left the island?

The locals back then were convinced that she fell in love with her painting teacher, and when he returned for her, she left with him. That's what I gathered about the story, putting together bits and pieces of what I had heard and read about it so far.

But where was Walter when she disappeared? Was it really that easy for Anne to hop on a boat and leave unnoticed? Were they all wrong, was that why her ghost still lingered around? Was her husband involved, somehow, in all this story?

The second part of the notebook was a rambling list of sightings of the ghost. The first entry was dated back to fifteen years ago. Someone must have seen the White Lady even before, but this was the first encounter that Will reported in his notebook. Most probably, that was when he started to believe that the local legend was something more than just an invented ghost story.

A couple of tourists, photographers, decided to spend a night under the stars on the cliff by the Old Lighthouse, intending to take pictures of the sunrise. They came rushing down to the village at the first light of the day, claiming that they had seen a ghost... After that, the entries were less detailed, mostly just a name, followed by the place where, and the date when they saw the White Lady. Some of them, the more recent ones, carried Emma's name.

Until now, the ghost seemed to mostly keep to the lighthouse's cliff. It was unusual that she should come strolling down the road leading towards our house, as I saw her. Was she coming here on purpose, checking me out? That was only one of my endless questions with no answers to match.

I took my phone from under the pillow to check the time. It was two o'clock already. I needed to get some sleep before the trip. Surprised, I noticed a message from an unknown number. Opening it, I grinned widely.

It was from Emma. She always seemed to be one step ahead of me.

'Hi, it's Emma. Got your number from Dean, who got it from his dad, who... long story. Thanks for the nice afternoon. See you at ten tomorrow. The last swim of the summer. Prepare yourself; the water here is freezing!'

My grin began to fade at the mention of the cold water. Did she really expect me to swim? I thought they had only been joking before... At the thought of the freezing water, I shivered, feeling cold, so I stood up and went to close the window.

It didn't even surprise me when I saw her standing out there again.

The White Lady, lurking in the light mist, her long hair floating around her figure as if she was surrounded by water, and not the cool, fast thickening fog. Her huge eyes were pleading, inviting, whispering to me silently.

She was mesmerising, I would give anything to know her secrets.

The back of my neck was prickling, as if someone just breathed on it. My room was freezing cold, and I couldn't move until she broke eye contact with me. All of a sudden, she just walked away, up the cliff, disappearing soon behind it, in the place where the bridge was.

I shivered again as I shook my head to clear my thoughts. It seemed that the apparition was getting more insistent night after night. Anne Byron wanted me to follow her somewhere, she was showing me the way. The good thing was that she didn't really scare me because, I was sure, sooner or later, I would have to follow her. I was too intrigued by her. My curiosity was definitely stronger than my fear.

However, for tonight, she was gone. I went back to bed and fell asleep immediately, holding my phone in my hand, trying to think of a response to Emma's message.