Never Fear (32 page)

“
I’m too late,” Ainsley
whispered.

She stumbled into the kitchen, the
last place she hadn’t looked.

Empty.

Ainsley sighed and placed her palm on
the table. Bowing her head, she gritted her teeth and fought back
the forming tears.

Why?

Why this place?

Why this lighthouse.

Why this damned holiday?

The nightmare of finding her parents
on Christmas morning, replayed in her mind. That was the day
Christmas stopped being a magical time, and instead, became a time
of horror.

A horror she couldn’t bear to repeat.
Not with Nanna.

Blinking, Ainsley sucked in a
fortifying breath and looked up.

A gingerbread replica of the
lighthouse sat in the center of the table, a tradition her
grandmother had each year. Ainsley smiled, feeling her heart tug in
her chest. Although they always made the gingerbread house together
weeks before the holiday, her grandmother only allowed her to eat
the confection on Christmas Eve. Even this game, this one small
happiness, was never enough to ease Ainsley’s anxiety when it came
to the Yule season.

Turning her back on the memory,
Ainsley grabbed her coat and then the flashlight Nanna kept on the
counter. Switching it on, she turned toward the door leading to the
lighthouse. She reached out, curling her fingers around the ancient
brass knob, the mechanism stiff from the North Atlantic cold. She
stepped into the breezeway connecting the light to the keeper’s
house. They built the houses this way to help prevent any fire from
back in the day when oil was used to operate the light.

The sound of the storm was deafening
as she stood at the now closed door. The wind, cold and severe,
took her breath away. Ducking her head against the oncoming gale,
she secured her hood and walked slowly over the slippery ground
toward the cliff.

“
Please don’t be here.
Please don’t be here.”

Nausea, hot and acidic, pooled in
Ainsley’s belly when she came to a stop at the old fence. Sand
piled up against the weathered boards and the sea grass bent under
the onslaught of the unrelenting wind. The sound of the angry ocean
crashing against the rocks filled the air, as lightning illuminated
the landscape. The sharp and jagged rocks down below glistened
under the assault of water and snow.

Memories of the last time she stood at
this fence crashed over her, as fierce and violent as the waves
below. She’d been seven. The broken and battered bodies of her mama
and daddy rested below her. The Atlantic pulling at them with each
breaking wave. The excitement of what Santa had brought her forever
eclipsed by the loss of her parents. By the realization something
was wrong here.

Very wrong.

Even now, the memory of her parent’s
death iced her blood. The sense of loss remained to this
day.

Ainsley’s jaw began to chatter. She
panned her flashlight over the rocks.

“
Please don’t be there.
Please don’t be there,” she chanted, the mantra ridiculous but
better than screaming.

She stepped closer to the edge of the
cliff. Her foot slipped and she wind milled her arms to prevent
falling to the icy ground. She caught her balance, whimpering as
she stepped away from the ledge. Fear stilled her movement. The
storm continued to pummel her and the coast. Tipping her head back,
she looked to the top of the light where the lantern signal flashed
and warned mariners off of the rocky jetty. A light two hundred and
seven feet tall. A fall from that height would be
deadly.

Or a shove.

Closing her eyes, she sent a prayer
heavenward and moved once again closer to the edge of the cliff.
With deliberate and slow intent, she focused her gaze where the
flashlight cut a path through the darkness.

A scream tore from her throat and she
dropped to the wet ground. The sea pulled at her beloved
grandmother, battered and broken on the wet rocks below.

“
NO!”

She collapsed to her knees on the
frozen ground, sealing a palm over her mouth to silence her
cries.

The wind tore her words away, as she
sobbed her heartbreak. The sleet pelted her now uncovered head, but
she hardly felt the pain and sting of the ice. She knew she needed
to move, needed to call the police. But she couldn’t tear her gaze
away from the body dancing in the water with the ebb and flow of
each wave.

A laugh, diabolical and amused,
drifted down the beach.

Ainsley scooted back on her backside
shaking her head back and forth.

Her stomach dropped to her feet. Her
hearing had to be playing tricks on her. She couldn’t have just
heard a laugh from down below.

“
Ainsley.”

The singsong calling of her name
forced her to her feet. She slipped and fell as she tried to
scramble away from the icy ledge… the sound of a ghostly
voice.

“
Ainsley.”

“
No! No!” Ainsley spun
around, looking through the darkness for the source of the sound.
An icy cold fist tightened around her heart. Holding her breath,
Ainsley slowly tipped her head back, exhaling relief when she saw
the lighthouse railing empty.

“
You’re next.”
The words were spoken aloud, crisp and clear in
her ear.

Gasping, Ainsley spun, letting loose a
scream. Floating in front of her was a woman, grotesquely formed.
Her hair long and unkempt, string-like—almost like seaweed, danced
on the air. Her face was white and skeletal, yet Ainsley could make
out dark, dead eyes, and bruised, colored bags beneath the eyes.
Jagged tears in the thing’s skin oozed a black gelatinous muck. The
clothes were old, a long full skirt of indeterminate color and a
shirtwaist served as a top with mutton sleeves.

The thing raised its arm and pointed a
bony finger at Ainsley.

“
You’re next.”

Chapter 2

Ainsley slammed the door shut, setting
the old deadbolt with shaking fingers. With her back literally
against the wall, she tried to calm her racing heart. Her
grandmother was dead. Shattered on the rocks below the lighthouse.
Like her parents. Like her aunts.

Like you’ll be.

Shaking away the thought, Ainsley took
in her surroundings.

The house was quiet. The sound of the
storm muffled to her own hearing now. On wobbly legs, she moved
into the front parlor, near the glowing Christmas tree. Stripping
off her scarf and coat, she dropped them on the rocker and
collapsed by the fireplace. Tossing in log after log, Ainsley
quickly set a fire, hungry for the warmth it would provide. She
struck a match, and watched as the flame flared to life before she
set it to the paper and kindling. The flames ate greedily at the
wood and soon caught, and heat began to thaw her.

The lone present sitting beneath the
Christmas tree caught her eye. Ainsley crawled over to the huge fir
and sat cross-legged beside its festive boughs. Tears welled in her
eyes, as she ran her finger over the velvet ribbon. She wiped the
salty drops away with the back of her hand and unwrapped the small
box.

Inside was another antique box,
polished golden wood and etched with the old family coat of
arms.

Grandma’s treasure box.

Curiosity took the place of her
despair. With care, she raised the lid and saw a small, burgundy,
bound journal at the bottom of the box. Beneath that was a note and
two small velvet bags.

My darling
Ainsley,

There is so much I
should’ve told you, so much sooner. However, I found it impossible
to verbalize the truth, and foolish old woman that I am, though
perhaps I could change fate.

By the time you read this,
clichéd as it is, I’ll be dead. There is no help for it. The curse
demands it.

I must get to the purpose
of this letter. You must end this now, before you fall prey to the
same evil.

You must find the portrait
of your ancestress Claire and destroy it.

I mean it,
Ainsley.

Burn it to a
cinder.

Before you set flame to
the canvas, you must salt it with rock salt and holy water. I have
secured the vial of holy water and the rock salt in the bags along
with this note. I have never seen the portrait, but I knew it
existed. It is how she remains here to kill and take her
vengeance.

I have enclosed the family
journal, but to paraphrase: Before her death, also on Christmas Day
1842, Claire’s younger sister painted Claire’s likeness as a
tribute. She mixed Claire’s ashes into the paints she used, as a
tribute. Never realizing, I’m sure, that she gave her evil sister
the means by which to haunt us all. I’ve looked everywhere for this
painting and sadly have left the lighthouse for you. I simply could
not climb its steep stairs, but I’m sure that is where she’s
keeping it. I am sorry I failed. Forgive me, my beautiful
granddaughter and be safe. I love you.

Ainsley placed the letter in her
lap.

Her eyes fixed on one word.

Curse.

The fear and the sense of being
watched had been true.

Ainsley sat back against the sofa, the
note from her grandmother crumpled in her hand. Suddenly, the
rocking chair by the fireplace began to move slowly.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

The floor creaked beneath the chair.
The lights flickered and suddenly the radio came on. Crackling and
static hissed through the house. The dial moved up and down before
it settled on a station and filled the air.

“
I’ll be home for
Christmas, you can count on me …”
trilled
from the old radio.

An antique radio Ainsley knew wasn’t
plugged in or functional.

Her breathing turned into
a pant; her wide eyes were fixed on the rocking chair. The room got
cold and the scent of lilacs and decay overpowered the fragrance of
the fir tree. The radio tuned again, this time the carol
Silent Night
began as
the rocker began to move faster.

The baby Jesus from the nativity scene
on the mantel flew at Ainsley. Screaming, she ducked before the
object hit her. Ainsley brushed her hair out of her face and
turned. The statue was imbedded in the wall. If it had hit her
head…

She scrambled to her feet, shaking
from head to toe.

“
Stop it!”

The horrifying sound of laughter
filled the room—not loud laughter, more soft and muffled, and no
less eerie for the volume of it.

Ainsley reached into the box her
grandmother gifted her with and pulled out the two drawstring bags
and clutched them to her chest. They were a treasure beyond
measure.

As quickly as the rocking started, it
stopped.

The radio fell silent, and the room
once again filled with the woodsy scent of the tree and the spicy
fragrance of gingerbread.

Without even realizing it, the heavy
oppression that snuck up on Ainsley lifted.

The sound of the storm
quieted.

She went to the front door and opened
it. Thick fluffy flakes of snow drifted into piles. Her heart sank,
the storm didn’t look as if it would let up anytime soon. The icy
wind tore at her long dark hair and sliced through her. The muffled
howling of the storm, due to the snow, seemed to make this even
more unsettling.

She closed the door and looked
around.

What should I
do
? Should she be the heroine in those
movies she always found herself screaming at:
the-too-stupid-to-live-running-back-into-the-haunted-house-with-the-axe-wielding-murderer,
or be smart and get to her car and wait out the storm then take the
first ferry back to the mainland?

The house shuddered at that moment and
Ainsley’s eyes flew open. The doors opened and closed, slamming
rapidly and loudly.

“
Stop it!” Ainsley
screamed and tightened her hand on her little bags.

She had a job to do and she needed to
do it now.

A shadow crawled across the
wall.

The icy feel of its touch enveloped
her.

Ainsley knew she needed to put an end
to this spirit. Even as a child, she’d always known evil lurked
here. But somehow, she’d managed to ignore it. After all, the
spirit never showed itself to her.

Until tonight.

With this thought in mind, she stuffed
the bags her grandmother had left her, along with her flashlight,
into her coat pocket.

Her gloves were still soaking wet with
snow, melting and dripping onto the rag-braided rug covering the
hardwood floor. She shook her coat and put it back on. Then she
tracked to the kitchen and dug around in the junk drawer and
secured a lighter in the bag as well.

The lights went out, bathing her in
the kitchen in utter darkness. She squeezed her eyes and rooted
around on the counter for the flashlight she’d placed
there.