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R EBECCA

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling my beautiful Annabel Lee...

Annabel Lee

ANNABEL’S LIGHTHOUSE SPRING, 1874

ABEL SLAMMED THE DOOR. Rebecca startled from where she sliced the last of Niina’s bread as she attempted to help make lunch for the two lightkeepers.

His eyes were wide, and urgency in them she’d not witnessed since her arrival. He motioned toward the inner sanctum of the house. “Go, Rebecca! Now. Go to the oil room.”

“What?” Dazed by his sudden appearance as it cut through the otherwise quiet day, Rebecca stared at him in confusion.

“Go!” His eyes widened even further, and he leaped forward, grabbing her arm. The knife slipped from her grasp and clattered onto the cutting board.

She shrank away from him, and Abel dropped his grip as if touching her had burned him. Apology spread across his face, but he didn’t voice it. Instead, he shot a harried look over his shoulder toward the door, then back to Rebecca.

“Please, Rebecca. Trust me. There are men coming. You need to take refuge in the oil room, and don’t come out until they are gone.”

“Are they—?” She bit her tongue. How would Abel know if they were the men who had assaulted her? But his imperative pushing her into hiding made sense now. She nodded and hurried from the kitchen just as someone banged on the door. Scurrying around the corner, she ducked into the oil room, careful to avoid the window. She pulled the door shut, leaving it open only a crack so she could hear.

“—saw her last night.” The man’s voice was gruff and unfamiliar.

“Saw who?” Abel’s attempt to sound nonchalant didn’t fool Rebecca at all. She heard the brief quiver in his voice, and he must have noticed it also, for he coughed as if clearing his throat to cover it.

“Annabel’s ghost.” The man spat the words as though it were an accusation.

Rebecca shrank into the corner, her back against the wall, an oilcan on the shelf near her shoulder. She was careful not to kick a box of lantern wicks as she pulled her knees up to her chest.

“And you know what that means!” Another man’s voice broke in.

“No. No, I don’t.” Abel’s tone was controlled now.

“It’s a bad omen, Abel, and ya know it. We already had the shipwreck—come to find out it sank with the supplies for Hilliard’s mine. Set us back by weeks.”

“Edgar and I have nothing to do with Annabel—or her—her ghost.” Abel’s words made Rebecca hold her breath. She had been on the shore last night. Had the men seen her and believed she was Annabel? Or had they seen the same apparition Rebecca had, wilting into the waves and disappearing? Maybe it hadn’t been just her own vision. Maybe Annabel really had made an appearance.

Abel was speaking again, this time more insistent. “I’m telling you, whoever you saw, we had nothing to do with it. Do you think we conjure Annabel’s spirit? No!”

“Sure you do!” The original man’s voice rose. “We all know she thinks this place is her own. This lighthouse and the land around it. She don’t want Hilliard and his mines here.”

“That’s superstition, man, and you know it!” Abel snapped.

“Do I now? Not after what I seen last night. And so did others. On the shore just like they describe her. Pacing the sand like a wraith. She’s real as real can be.”

“She hasn’t done anything.” Abel defended the dead woman’s spirit—or perhaps he defended Rebecca, for she was almost certain it was her the men had seen. “And what do you want us to do about it anyway? We can’t catch a ghost and lock her up. If you saw Annabel, then she’ll do what she wants, there’s no doubt about that, and you can rot in your superstitions.” There was a bitter edge to Abel’s voice now.

“What’s next? You say she’s not done anything? She’s caused a shipwreck. She lost our supplies. Next, she’ll be going after us ! The men are shook up.”

“Don’t be daft,” Abel shot back. “Annabel’s ghost doesn’t control the weather. There’s nothing Edgar and I can do about your superstitions.”

“You listen here, and you listen close.” There was a chill in the man’s voice that made Rebecca hug her legs tighter. “If I see her again, I’ve no problem—”

“No problem what?” Abel interrupted. “Are you going to kill a dead woman?”

Silence was his answer, and then finally there was the stomping of feet, the men walking away. But then they turned and came back. One of them said, “You’re still not welcome in town, you know that, Abel.”

It was an unsettling declaration, and Rebecca strained to hear, wondering why these men held Abel so responsible for the supposed actions of a spirit.

“Do you see me in town?” Abel retorted. “You think I have any desire to be there?”

“Keep it that way,” the man concluded. “And make sure your mother keeps her nose to herself too.”

A yell split the tension. Rebecca recognized Edgar’s growly vibrato, the one that emanated straight from his gut. “Get off my property!” His shout was followed by loud thwacks and thumps.

Rebecca dared to crane her neck to look out the window covered by white sheer curtains. Two men jogged away, Edgar chasing them as fast as he could hobble, waving an oar in the air and attempting to bring it down on the back of one of the men.

A tiny smile toyed at Rebecca’s mouth even as she absorbed the gravity of the moment. The puzzling questions piled up inside of her. There was a hatred in the men that went deep and spoke to a history that was darker than their words stated. A hatred for Annabel’s ghost, yes, but also for Abel. Which made little sense. He would have been a young child when Annabel was alive. He had nothing to do with her, and he was obviously not her son or anything sensational such as that because it was apparent Niina was his mother. Even they had said as such.

So why were Annabel and Abel linked so closely in the eyes of the mining community in Silvertown?

While the answers to those questions evaded her, Rebecca knew with certainty it was her on the shore the men had seen last night. Her own vision of Annabel had been brief, while the men had stated they saw Annabel pacing the shore. Rebecca held her hands over her abdomen as she considered the weight of that. The small mining community believed her to be a ghost, and there was no mention of a missing woman. If she had been from Silvertown and had somehow gone missing, wouldn’t it stand to reason that they would assume it could have been her before they leaped to the conclusion of Annabel’s ghost? Even Abel had been harried, wanting her to hide on the men’s arrival. Abel must have assumed the men were looking for her, not to confront him about a ghost.

But no. There had been no mention of her. Just a superstition. A belief. The overwhelming awareness that the miners frantically searched for a dead woman’s ghost, while flesh-and-blood Rebecca huddled in a corner, crashed over her with the ferocity of the lake’s frigid waters.

It was a lonely, vicious realization that shattered Rebecca.

No one was looking for her.

She was not missed—by anyone.

She felt him crouch before her, but Rebecca kept her eyes closed and her face turned away. Something deep inside told her she had always questioned her place, but now it dawned on her that it was more than that. It was a knowing that she was truly alone. That the memories that teased just out of her reach did not hold promise of desperate reunion with family who was besides themselves to find her. Instead, they hold no promise of reunion whatsoever.

Abel moved, and the air between them shifted. A whiff of the lake came off him and awakened her senses. Rebecca had no doubt he was staring at her, his gaze boring holes into her skin, her soul. Yet she didn’t dare open her eyes. She couldn’t bear to see whatever lay in the depths of his look. Disdain? Pity? Compassion? She feared any of them would be her undoing.

“They’re gone now, Rebecca.”

She managed to pry her lids apart, and for a long moment she drew strength from his sharp blue eyes that mimicked ice but somehow still mirrored a strength that promised protection.

“It’s not your fault.” Abel tipped his head toward the window. “Those men, they’re from Hilliard’s mine. They’re sore about the ship going down. The silver mine has been underperforming, and this is a setback. Not to mention there’s so much wild superstition in the area about Annabel.”

“It was me they saw last night,” Rebecca breathed.

“I know.”

“You didn’t tell them. Why?”

Abel frowned. “Why would I tell them? We don’t know who hurt you and...” His eyes dropped to her abdomen and rose again. “And there’s no reason to put you in more danger.”

Did Abel know about the babe within her also? Rebecca’s cheeks warmed even as she responded. “But we don’t know why I am in danger—at least I don’t.” She leveled a look on Abel, and he averted his eyes. “If you know something ... something about me, please tell me.”

He glanced back at her, an uninterpretable look in his eyes. It was as if he warred with saying more yet believed he should say less. “It’s too much.” Abel squeezed the bridge of his nose with his fingers and drew in a steadying breath. “Just trust me, Rebecca. Please .”

He hadn’t given her a reason to, but he hadn’t given her a reason not to either. Rebecca searched his face, and he didn’t look away this time. Their eyes met in a silent plea, her for more knowledge and him for her not to ask more questions. “Edgar and I aren’t turning you out to a mining community of men.”

“Why do they hate you?” Rebecca didn’t miss the shadow that crossed Abel’s face.

He offered her a resigned smile. “Why do men hate other men? There’s always a reason, and it’s usually jealousy or greed or maybe one man thwarted another’s success.”

“And which one is your story?” Rebecca dared.

Abel’s expression steeled, and he gave a short shake of his head. “Doesn’t matter. The fact is this lighthouse is the best place for you and the best place for me. Edgar can go to town if we need supplies. You and I will stay away from the madness of silver and copper ore and all the chaos it creates.”

“You never wanted to be a miner?”

Abel pushed himself up from his crouch before her and extended his hand. Rebecca tentatively reached up and took it. He helped her to her feet and then released her immediately. “No. There is nothing innately wrong with it. In fact, I suppose it is necessary. But...” He let his words hang as he turned to stare out the window. “I love the water. I love the lake. I love the roar of the waves, the unbridled power. It reminds me of God. So gentle one day, so far beyond our comprehension the next. I don’t think He should be questioned flippantly.”

“I question Him.” Rebecca’s admission surprised even her.

Abel looked to her, curiosity in his expression.

“I question why He allowed this to happen to me. W-why I am in this condition and don’t even know who I am.”

If being in her situation was teaching her anything, it was that each day was unpredictable, and each day was as dangerous as the one before.

Nighttime was becoming her nemesis.

Rebecca sat up in the bed and stared at the doorway, certain only moments before she’d heard it creak open. It was open too, but only a crack, which could be blamed on the shifting of the lighthouse.

An overwhelming sense of not being alone was what had awakened her. That eerie sensation that someone was there but just out of reach hung in her mind. She squinted into the corners of the small bedroom. Aside from Kjersti’s trunk—which she dared not open on her own out of respect for her family—there was nothing else in the sparse room to imitate a figure. It didn’t appear as though Annabel had come calling. For that, Rebecca was both grateful and curiously disappointed. She surveyed the room again. The dresser was too bulky to be mistaken for anything but what it was. Rebecca swung her legs from the bed and padded across the wood floor to the basin and pitcher that sat on the bureau’s top. She poured water into the basin and splashed it on her face, urging the cold to startle any remaining sleep from her.

The floor creaked outside her room and Rebecca froze, her hands poised around her face as she bent over the basin, water dripping down her cheeks.

Silence.

Rebecca snatched the tea towel that hung over the bureau’s mirror and dabbed at her face.

The bedroom door began to swing open.

Rebecca spun, staring as the door moved as if of its own volition. A few inches, pausing for a moment before continuing its slow swing, until soon Rebecca stared wide-eyed into an empty hall.

She took a tentative step forward, her bare toes connecting against the cool, wood floor.

Squinting into the darkness of the hallway, Rebecca strained to see. But no one was there.

The door ended its journey when it reached the wall behind it, the knob bouncing with a quiet thud .

All privacy gone, Rebecca held the tea towel to her chest as if it were a shield. “Hello?” Her whisper was shaky.

There was no response.

“H-hello?” She tried increasing her volume, hoping Abel would speak from the hallway. Hoping he had merely gone to check the lantern on Edgar’s behalf and was returning to his room, that the weight of his footsteps had somehow instigated the swing of the door and—

The floor creaked again.

Rebecca stilled.

She couldn’t tear her gaze from the open doorway, the wall beyond it, and the darkness that enveloped the hall. Only a crack of light from beneath the door to the spiral staircase of the lighthouse provided any illumination, and it revealed nothing that might explain the noise.

Rebecca had just taken a few more tentative steps to the doorway when a rush of cold air swiped through her. Bumps rose on her flesh. Her hip bumped the edge of the small table by the bed that held the pitcher and basin, and the pitcher tipped, crashing onto the floor. Shattering, water splashed on Rebecca’s legs, the porcelain exploding into shards.

The cold air dissipated, but as it did, it stole her breath. A phantom, reaching inside of her and wrapping vengeful fingers around her lungs and squeezing. Black shields closed over her eyes. Rebecca screamed, grabbing for the bed even as her foot came down on a sharp piece of the broken pitcher, the stabbing pain of it only adding to the intense disorientation of the moment. She wrestled to stay conscious, to stay alert, and she cursed the weakness that enfolded her. Fumbling to find the bed, Rebecca blinked against the darkness rising before her vision. In that brief second, a ghoulish face of a woman pressed in close to hers, blackness for eye sockets, her mouth gaping, and her breath frigid but ripe with the stench of smoke. Like a fire made of ice.

“Go away, Annabel!” Rebecca moaned as she fell into the oblivion that sought to claim her, missing the bed and collapsing onto the porcelain that littered the floor.