“We can get out of here,” she breathes, her blue eyes alight with hope and excitement. Even in the dark, it shines brighter than the sleeping beacon.
She rushes to the panel, and just as I take a step toward her, there’s a slight shuffling sound from above. I freeze, listening intently while Sawyer presses buttons and tinkers with the radio. Lost in her eagerness, she hadn’t heard the noise.
“I think it works!” she squeals, and the low buzz of the radio follows shortly after.
However, I’m too focused on the growing disturbance from above.
“Sawyer,” I whisper sharply. She turns to me, her brows pinched with concern. Her mouth opens, readying to say something, but then there’s a slow drag across the ceiling.
Chains.
My heart rate kicks up as the drag goes in a circle, as if it’s walking around the light.
Whatever was downstairs is now up there, maybe deliberately leaving the bookshelf door open for us to find. Too focused on finally finding the beacon, I hadn’t even considered that the… thing came up here first.
“Come here, bella,” I say, holding out my hand for her to grab. The moment it slips into mine, I tug her behind me and reposition the gun.
The chains stop for a brief moment before appearing on the side of the glass where the ladder is. Adrenaline bleeds into my system as a pale, feminine foot appears, and then the other.
Two thick metal bands are clasped around each ankle, a long chain dangling between them.
“Enzo,” Sawyer hedges. “Should we shoot it?”
“Thought we couldn’t fight ghosts?” I remind her. Though, as it slowly makes its way down the ladder, it’s apparent that it’s a girl. She’s incredibly thin, with a long white dress billowing around her. She reaches the bottom, but her head is tipped down, long tresses of blonde hair covering her face.
“Oh my God. That must be the girl we saw in the ocean,” Sawyer breathes.
“This… doesn’t make sense,” I murmur, thoughts racing while I try to piece together Sylvester’s lies.
He had said that the chains were from prisoners he killed years ago, their spirits haunting the lighthouse. He had also said his daughter had killed herself, but if this is her spirit… why is she wearing chains?
My heart drops, and I feel my features slacken.
“Sawyer,” I start, watching the girl slowly make her way toward the door, the ring of metal dragging along loudly.
Her head lifts, almost as if hearing me, and my entire being freezes. I barely hear Sawyer’s gasp from behind me, both enraptured and disturbed.
She has no mouth. Or rather, where her mouth used to be is a line of thick, black stitches.
“Sawyer,” I start again, backing the both of us away as the girl comes closer, her hair blowing almost violently in the wind. “That’s not a ghost. She’s real.”
We watch her round behind us, her eyes straight ahead, and the thick strings in her mouth visible and grotesque.
“What?” Sawyer screeches. “What do you mean she’s real? Is that better or worse?”
“I think he lied about the prisoners, which is why we couldn’t find a report about it. Sylvester said he had two daughters here, remember? He claimed Trinity hung herself outside our window while Raven and Kacey left. Either she never did, or Kacey never left.”
I feel her tremble as she asks, “So, you’re saying there aren’t any ghosts here? It was just her all along?”
“I think so,” I mumble as the blonde girl reaches the door. “That’s probably how Sylvester got free from the cellar. She let him out.”
“Fuck,” Sawyer whispers.
The wind howls as she opens it, tipping her head down again, hiding herself once more. I keep the gun aimed at her, feeling Sawyer move out from behind me as the girl steps inside and closes the door behind her.
For a moment, none of us move or hardly even breathe. And then, she’s lifting her chin, and the brutality of what was done to her is glaring. It’s enough to curdle my stomach.
The white dress she’s wearing is more of a yellow, and there’s a rotting stench emanating from her.
But her face… it’s so much worse than I initially thought. Thick ropes of black thread loosen across her mouth and up to her cheeks. It appears as if the wound is rotting, the flesh around it blackened and decayed.
She stares at us with pale blue eyes, watery and wide. It takes another moment to realize that she’s shaking like a leaf.
Sawyer steps in front of me, and my hand instinctively flies to her wrist. She pauses and looks back at me, mouthing, “It’s okay.”