The Lighthouse

I walk down the dusty street, concentrating hard on putting one foot in front of the other. I don't want to look around me and see the ruins of what was once my hometown. The remains of buildings, now low hulking piles of rubble, are half hidden in the swirling ash mist that's blown in from across the sea. The dust is red in the setting sunlight that shines on it. Even what's left of the trees is coated in it.

I feel a scream of rage building inside me, but no sound comes from my throat. The reports said the bombs weren't dropped this far south, but what else could have destroyed the town this way? The butcher shop is an empty ruin, as is the bakery. Another person might have thought the war had occurred here on neutral soil. The only thing that tells me it didn't is the conspicuous absence of bodies. Where have the people all gone?

My eyes drift to the only point ahead of me that matters, the reason I came back. The lighthouse. My heart lightens when I see it still stands a mile ahead outside of town. It's the only thing that seems untouched. I hope this means she is still alive. She said she would be there when I came home.

I leave the ruined town and begin the rising, winding trek to the cliff-side where the lighthouse sits. I feel as though I'm approaching the end of the world when I finally make it to the rough-hewn steps at the structure's base. I turn my eyes away from the sprawling beach below the cliffs. A shudder goes through my bones. After Omaha, I never want to see a beach again. As a lilac dusk replaces sunset there is a dim glow from the beacon at the top of the tower.

My heart races with hope. I find the door to the house ajar and that hope wavers. A heavy dust has settled on everything inside. Each beat of my heart becomes a little more painful as I search the rooms and find them all empty. There are plates of desiccated food in the kitchen. Noise from the bedroom gave me a shred of hope but all I found was a wireless radio, sputtering static.

In frustration, I fling the radio across the room, breaking the mirror on the dresser. The mirror she would stand in front of before leaving the house. Hot tears escape though I do my best to bury them. She's not here. All the things that I never told her circle around my head and threaten to drown me.

There's a clanging. I look up, thinking my overcautious ears are playing tricks on me again. The noise, something between a footstep and a dropped object, sounds a second time. It comes from the door that leads to the steps up to the beacon. Barely trusting to hope, I open the door and look up through the spiraling cast iron steps. The way looks empty, but the light of the beacon shines brighter, drawing me on.

I creep up the twisting steps, my eyes staying on where I know the door to deck that surrounds the beacon is. The noise sounds again and I keep my steps as light as possible. When I reach the door, it's open and an eerie blue light is coming from the beacon housing. When I lived here with her, the light was always the blazing yellow of the sun.

A shadow passes the door and I freeze, a nervous thrill rising in me. After a few moments without sound or movement, I cannot wait any longer. I leap from my hiding place onto the deck and look towards the beacon. There, where the lamp should be, stands a woman facing away from me. In the darkness, she glows like a moonbeam, her dark hair and white dress billowing out behind her as if she were caught in a gale.

As I watch, she turns to face me. Her pale eyes are hollow, her form an ethereal mist. Yet her features are familiar.

"Lena..." I breathe.

She smiles warmly and as she fades into the night her voice remains clear. "Welcome home, my love."

THE END

Bio: Ms. Lloyd writes a combination of short horror, fantasy and science fiction.stories She is inspired by real (strange) historical events.A list of her published works can be found on www.anatomystory.com.

E-mail: Hallie M. Smith

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