Continued from Part VI:
The Lighthouse, Part VI
Continued from Part V: The Lighthouse Part VI I woke to the immense stillness of the house. It was still very dark, and I heard nothing now but my own breathing, and the torn shrouds of crying echoing still from my dream. It was not past two in the morning. Rarely indeed have I spent such a dreadful hour, as that which interposed itself between my mind and further sleep. The house, as I have said, was perfectly still, there was not even a wind abroad to leave in its wake any alarming creaks or rattling. Yet this very stillness implied to my addled brain, a consciousness, and an observer—as though the house itself regarded me, or something within the house, which nevertheless had eyes in the beams, and that peered at me from where the linoleum curled up from the floor, and revealed the house’s foundation. The door to the tower did not shake, yet no less did I fear something beyond its heavy frame, that might at any moment grow restless of its long confinement.
The sensation I underwent in that moment, forbade me to question, or even to speak. After a few moments, however, I was master enough of myself to ask, “Was it after this that Robert—” I hesitated to finish the sentence, so close as I felt my own state to the old man’s.
She nodded. “I tried to tell myself he was just an old fool, but lately—I’ve felt differently.”
Here she gave me a look of meaning, and when I would not repulse her look by word or otherwise, she leaned forward.
“Listen—there’s a dock by the boathouse, about half a mile North. It’s kept in good repair. It looks like a clear night; I could get a boat down there, say, midnight?”
Even in the midst of my wretchedness, this invitation struck a chord in my mind, which called up ghosts of childhood’s forgotten things—and it was with a childish thrill that I agreed.
Now, that I am really waiting for her, I am prey to far different feelings—but I must try to recall some of that boyish bravery, for there is a long night ahead.