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S HEA RADCLYFFE

That a maiden lived there whom you may know by the name of Annabel Lee...

Annabel Lee

SILVERTOWN UPPER PENINSULA OF MICHIGAN PRESENT DAY

A NUT-brOWN CURL BOUNCED in front of her right eye. Shea Radclyffe blew it away with an irritated puff. Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the ocean between her and Canada. Only it wasn’t the ocean; it was Lake Superior. Or “Gitche Gumee,” as Longfellow had dubbed it in his poem. Her wipers swept back and forth across her windshield as rain pelted the glass. She squinted, hardly able to see through the darkness of the night and the sheets of rain. The rain was like the tears she had shed on much of her drive here. Tears that mimicked the storm in her heart, in her marriage, in her life.

More lightning revealed the stretch of highway ahead, bordered to the left by endless miles of forest, and to the right by the lake whose waves were—well, she certainly couldn’t measure them, but she’d read online that they were capable of reaching thirty feet.

“Oh, thank the good Lord.” Her acclamation was less a prayer and more an outburst of relief.

Thunder rolled and thrummed in the air, the lightning acting as a beacon, for the silhouetted lighthouse had been dark since the late 1930s. Decommissioned. Retired. No longer needed. The same words were on repeat in Shea’s mind, but about herself. And she was only thirty. Just thirty and already feeling washed up and forgotten.

She swiped at a rogue tear. Another mile and Shea saw the gravel drive. She didn’t bother with her indicator but turned onto the path, stuffing down the trepidation she felt as she approached the abandoned site. Her car pointed toward the lake, toward the roiling whitecap waves that were terrifying in their rage. Dark waters beneath tsunami-like emotion, the parallels between the darkened lighthouse and herself were frightening. She had come here on impulse, but now Shea doubted her common sense. She’d been doubting it since leaving Wisconsin in her rearview mirror. Since she’d left Pete.

Pulling the car to a halt, she shifted into park. A lone light shone in the window on the arched door of the lighthouse. This one wasn’t like those she’d toured in Oregon on the West Coast—tall, stately, majestic lighthouses with beacons that stretched for miles. No. This lighthouse was different. It was Midwestern. Before coming, she’d seen pictures of the historic building that stood outside of Silvertown, U.P. of Michigan.

The lighthouse sat on an expansive lawn that topped a vast cliff above the lake. For the most part, it looked more like a brown brick, two-story farmhouse with a single gable roof and a small attic window at its peak. The lighthouse was abutted to the house, rising taller than the roof, reminding Shea of a grain silo rather than the picturesque lighthouse often shown on calendars. It was squatter while still boasting the iron catwalk that encircled the lamp room. The entire lighthouse was made of brick, its beacon designed to wage war against angry thirty-foot waves, rising on a shoreline of basalt cliffs and a wilderness of pines that hid darkness in its depths.

She could hardly see anything now. Shea grimaced as she pulled a water-resistant parka from the passenger seat behind her and flung it over her head.

Wrestling her body from the car, her feet vanished into puddles. She kicked the car door shut behind her and ran through the rain, stepping onto a white, wooden stair. Shea grabbed the old doorknob, which in the light of day was probably its own bit of historical curiosity, and then burst into the entryway. The smells of woodsmoke and age met her nose, along with that of cinnamon and citrus. The warmth of the interior space permeated her soaking-wet feet.

Two hands reached out and swung her parka off her head. The accumulated water slid down the side and onto the floor, avoiding giving her another shower, all while Shea yelped in surprise at the human form waiting inside the lighthouse.

A male voice greeted her. “Welcome to Annabel’s Lighthouse!”

Shea ran her hands over her unruly, now sopping-wet curls, sweeping them back so she could see clearly.

The man hung her parka on an antique hall tree. Light filtered into the entry from the room beyond, which looked to be an old kitchen. Small, cozy, a woodstove filling the room with dry, comforting heat.

He turned to her, a sideways grin mixed with a wince. “Not the greatest weather, but that’s life here in the U.P.”

“Guess I’ll get used to it!” Shea managed a laugh, her stomach curling beneath the kindness of the man of obvious Viking descent. He had blond wavy hair, brilliant blue eyes, and a jawline that could slice bread.

He stuck out his hand. “Holt. Holt Nelson.”

The lighthouse’s private owner. Yes. She had exchanged multiple emails with him when she’d booked the place as a rental for the next month.

She accepted Holt’s handshake. “Shea Radclyffe.”

“I know.” His eyes twinkled as he held out his other arm to show her into the warm kitchen. “The bestselling author extraordinaire.”

“Hardly.” Shea really wasn’t that famous. Her nonfiction book that featured the history and legends of obscure places had only just hit a bestseller list, and while her agent had sent her a dozen roses from her office in New York, Shea tended to be more pragmatic.

“Either way, glad to have you!” Holt’s shoes echoed on the scarred hardwood floor. A pot of tea perched on a hot pad on a small, round wooden table with chipped white paint. A yellow ceramic teacup beckoned her. Holt gave it a casual nod. “I figured you’d like something to warm you up. I’d recommend staying inside tonight and getting your bags out of the car in the morning. This storm isn’t going to let up anytime soon.”

Shea shot a nervous look over her shoulder toward the doorway she’d just entered. “Is there any reason to be concerned? Will the water rise and be more of a threat?”

Holt’s chuckle was reassuring. “Nah. The lake can’t get at you here. The waves won’t get any higher than they already are, plus it’s why the lighthouse was built in this spot—just out of reach of the monsters of Lake Superior.”

“That makes sense.” Shea felt silly for having asked. It stood to reason no one would build a lighthouse where the waves could destroy it.

Holt’s smile warmed her as much as the nearby woodstove. He wasn’t mocking her or even acting as if she was the outsider that she was.

“I’ll head out now and leave you to it,” he said. “Some of the light switches are dimmers, so just be aware you may need to turn the knob. A bit old-fashioned, I know.”

“Charming,” Shea said.

“I left some basics in the icebox for you since I knew the storm was moving in. Milk, eggs, bread, that sort of thing. As you can see, the stove is a woodstove. We don’t have natural gas this far out, and besides, it’s more authentic if you ask me. There’s the woodbox”—he pointed—“and if you need more firewood, just give me a call. I’ll stop by and refill it for you.” Holt pointed to a yellow rotary phone that hung on the wall. “You probably won’t get a cell signal, at least not much of one. It’s sketchy out here.”

“But there’s Wi-Fi, yes?” Shea needed it to research and write, and she was sure it had been listed as an amenity.

“Yeah, but it’s moody too, though. It’s not like we have fiber optic out here.” He waited, and Shea thought she was supposed to laugh or something. So she did.

Holt nodded, apparently happy with her reaction. “It’s satellite Wi-Fi, but for the most part it works fine. Best we can do in the Porkies.”

The Porcupine Mountains. Yes. She was going to need to explore those too.

Holt bid her farewell, but Shea dogged his heels as he retreated into the little alcove and shrugged into his rain jacket.

“Are you ... going to be okay out in this storm?” Not that she wanted to spend the night with a complete male stranger.

Holt winked. “Born and raised here, Radclyffe. This is nothin’.”

His cavalier way of launching his form into the storm gave her all sorts of Aquaman vibes, even though he more closely resembled Thor.

Shea shut the door and flicked the lock—not that she’d need it. She turned and leaned against it, staring into the kitchen, which led to the darkened rooms beyond.

She was here.

At Annabel’s Lighthouse.

The infamous haunted lighthouse of Silvertown.

The ghostly lighthouse, shrouded in mystery and lore, was much preferred to a husband whose most exciting contribution to their marriage of late was to change the oil on her car before she left. Thirty years old and she wasn’t sure who she was anymore. She wasn’t sure who Pete was either. Their past had included an intoxicating teenage romance, with a reunion when she returned home from college. Pete, the homeboy, the blue-collar mechanic, and Shea the travel-hungry, literature-chasing adventurer. Opposites might attract, but after time they also repelled. If there weren’t enough commonalities between them, how long could it last really?

Shea lifted her eyes to the kitchen ceiling. The markings of old coal fires and days gone by scarred it.

Maybe Annabel had once drank tea here.

Maybe Annabel had once mourned the loss of a man who was supposed to love her.

The twisted part was that Annabel was dead. And Shea? She didn’t feel much different inside. Still, a spirit lingered here that begged to be awakened. She just didn’t know if either her spirit or Annabel’s was going to be friendly or something darker than what she’d bargained for.