The glass shattered amongst the tulips. The garden outside the window just witnessed one of the many tantrums that had plagued this house since the new tenants moved in. The mistress of the house filled it with her furniture and her temper quickly. Although, the latter was more the fault of her husband whose infidelities came to light about the same time. And that wasn’t really his fault either. Well, it was, but had his own “mistress not included a pair of her underwear in his suitcase” after the last business trip, he found himself presented with two options. Either confess his “lustful” activities… or admit he was the most hip drag-queen south of Manchester. Which was the truth in actuality, but not like he really wanted to be outed in such a manner. Thus, he was “unfaithful”. It was a little lie on his part, but to her… He was the devil incarnate who dashed her trust and faith in all of male-kind. Much like that ashtray with shards now scattered amongst the tulips. Or the one after that. She drew in a deep breath feeling the fire in her soul match the of the whiskey in the bottle at her fingertips. The bottle with the intact seal. There was much she regretted in her life and while marrying …that Bastard… sat right on the verge of becoming regret, she wouldn’t have left Texas for the cloud-laden shores of England had it not been for that…
“Bastard.” She muttered beneath her breath. But that was that. She wasn’t one much to dwell on those who wronged her or to give them much hold over her emotions. If he couldn’t deliver on caring for her in sickness and in health (and be faithful and not stick his churro in places it didn’t belong), he didn’t deserve to live under the same roof as her. Thus, he got his bit of sugar. And she got the lighthouse.
It was pure chance that they had happened to find residence on the top of a cliff. And even more of a chance that this refurbished lighthouse happened to come on the market at the same time that they arrived. But life could smile on on one one day just as quickly as it could twist the storming clouds overhead into a tornado and tear your life apart.
And she’d had enough tornadoes. Pulling the world beneath her feet up in chunks and splinters of sod and timber and loved ones… She gave up a life of overburnt desserts and miles of loneliness for marriage and a trip to Europe. It’s a shame life couldn’t remain intact across the pond, but that’s just where life goes. And it can’t be helped.
She looked out over the miles of sea-grey ocean with white-tipped waves chopping across the surface. Always forming and churning closer to the cliffs below. She couldn’t see where the two met, but it didn’t matter. That distance was what brought her to this house in the first place. The distance and an odd feeling she felt as she stood outside the door. Amidst wind embraced with sea salt and the sense of freedom one finds when truly on their own, she knew there was one watching over her shoulder. She never saw the figure, but looking up the tall black and white check pillar of salvation that was the first lighthouse on the point, she could have sworn she felt someone looking back. And that watchful eye was… comforting.
The door closed behind her with a heavy thud as she crossed the threshold back into the darkness within what was now home. The air was thick with a headiness she’d grown accustomed to passing from room to room. Nautical themed items were at a minimum around the house. Her husband (or ex-bastard) had sought to hang ships and bits of nautical themed items around the house. Probably wanted to fulfill some deep-down desire he couldn’t fully embrace due to his tendencies to get immensely seasick. But if this was her house, and it was going to be her home, she would have none of that. No ships-in-bottles. No bits of ropework or cross-stitched tropes like, “From shore to shore, And even more, The sea is Home-Sweet-Home”.
“Not a chance. …Bastard.” She whispered to herself. The one thing he did place (the one thing), was a spy glass. Made of polished brass and sitting at the highest point of the house, it occupied the lone window in the attic. Dim, but sufficient, she had it furnished to make the most of the space. Comfortable and close-set, there was a table, chair, and a small hurricane lamp for reading by when the sun’s rays became but more than tinted shadows. It was her space now.
The only stairwell in the house was the one to the light’s pinnacle. A winding work of wrought-iron and concrete, each step clanged and echoed up the vast cavernous interior reverberating all the more in the thick sea air. A window opened at the third, sixth, and ninth floors. The ocean’s clashing below was but a whisper, but the waves were still there. At the top, this light was of a unique construction. A heavy oak door swung out on worn brass hinges opening to the sky and elements. outside. It closed just as heavily, too. The storms of years past had worn deep into the grain of the wood. Constantly beaten by salt and sunshine day after day, it was a stalwart guard against the worst tempest the sea had to offer. The sun peeked through the clouds. But this game of light and shadow could not hide the shimmering care of the glass and brass clockworks within the tower. The previous tenant had cared for the tower so long as the sea air filled his lung. But then the sea itself filled them… And that was that.
This was hers now, and its care would not falter under her watchful eye. Years as a waitress had prepared her elbows for hard work. Days of pouring coffee and nights of pouring over textbooks, paid off in the end til the day she had that scroll that declared her a Registered Nurse. But the cleaning didn’t end. Exchange kitchen pans for bed pans and there was little difference. But she was glad to be rid of those, too. Still though, seldom in a story had the tower rescued the princess, but her she was. She went back to cleaning the lens.
As she eased the heavy door, a cat’s mew could be heard nine floors below. That was one installation of the house she hadn’t counted on. A small tuxedo cat named Felix stood patiently at the base of the long circular stairs. The mew was practically amplified by the length and depth of the concrete. And when he wanted to make his presence heard, he knew how. Even without this tower-megaphone, if he wasn’t chewing on her house plants, he would head-butt her shins into submission. Which was usually a filled supper dish. But for whatever reason, she cared for him. And he stayed by her side.
His name was Felix. Most thought it was due to his similarity to an animated cat from the time when television was black and white and soon thereafter, when clocks had swinging eyes and metronome tails. She never bothered correct them. It wasn’t worth the time or bother. But the Felix she knew was beyond anything they could ever know. And he is …or was, she guessed… a good man.
But she was neither tied to sentiment nor memories of any kind. And after her last encounter with …that Bastard, she wasn’t going to be giving men any more of her thoughts. Half her was dead from the latter, while the other side still pined for the former. An ache twinged within her chest. No more. The little black-and-white furball was all she needed now.
The sky burnt in umber hues as the sun slipped beneath the waters at the edge of her world. A small furball nestled in closer beside her. The house was a lot emptier now. She didn’t miss the …Bas– …him. But the sound of the ocean was more hollow as it resounded across wooden floorboards and the old beams. Or maybe that was just the house. She now considered electricity a luxury as this house predated anything that needed ionized power. A generator sat idle in the basement should the need arise, but this was a new life and a new adventure. And a new life. She could do without what she didn’t need. Hurricane lamps and oil-based heaters would do the heavy lifting. Otherwise, water boiled in a kettle tasted just as good in her tea as over an electric stove. Baths took a while longer, but she was always organized before, so life just required a little extra preparation. But like Felix, she took life one day at a time now. She just needed to “Hang In There.” …she started to hate that poster.
Nonetheless… her leg was now asleep due to a little fuzzy lead weight against her and a lamp needed lighting. She eased the mound of claws and whiskers aside who gave a mighty stretch flexing each toe and ending with a sound yawn as she relinquished the warm spot on the cushion.
“Freeloader.” She said as she scratched his upturned belly. “Couldn’t do something to earn your keep?” He purred louder. She looked at the silhouettes of furniture around her. Long wooden legs and time-worn tabletops she found at a secondhand store upon arrival. She didn’t know how the English monetary system worked previously. And after the purchase, she still wasn’t sure she knew how it worked. But there was furniture. And no mice. Looking back at Felix, “I guess you do something here afterall.” He continued purring obnoxiously.
Making her way to the hall table, she stepped softly feeling her way in the darkness. The antique floorboards creaked loudly beneath her step. She held still and listened to the silence of the house. Then stepped again.
Creeeeeeaaaaakkkkkk
She listened to the silence of the house. The faucet dripped into a pan far off. The wind tripped over the looser shutters outside. The ocean carried on a conversation with itself far beyond. But still there was noth…
Creeeeeeaaaaakkkkkk
Her breath stopped.
She stopped.
Frozen and barefoot, she listened to one creak after another crossing the floor overhead. And she knew damn well there was no one else in the house. A cloud filled her mind as thoughts raced through of scenarios and questions and non-answers. Looking down, she realized she never changed from her pajamas either.
“Please don’t let me die in some fiddleferning horror movie,” she muttered under her breath. “Gawd…” She shook her head and pressed on into the hall.
With each step of hers, she heard another upstairs edging closer and closer to the stairwell. Feeling along the wall, she reached the kitchen. Wood flooring became cold tiling as the moon spilt over the counters. Long blue shadows stretched from the butcher’s block.
“This ain’t no fiddleferning horror movie.” She said staring at the stainless-steel handles. She sighed and wrapped her petite fingers around a frying pan’s handle. “Tomorrow, I’m getting a gun.”
The heavy oak door of the floor above clanged into the towering stairwell. Her heart pounded out of her chest as she staggered and crouched in the moonbeam. Flinging open a drawer, her hand found a flashlight. Its beam swung weakly around the room.
“Damn… A gun and batteries.”
Edging cautiously towards the tower door, she put the flashlight in her teeth and grasped the gnarled, wrought-iron handle. The door swung in thankfully silent.
With pan raised high in hand, she stepped into the tower. A step clanged softly onto the stairs. But she hadn’t made it to the stairs yet. Another sounded as a shadow spilt down the long, curved wall. She swung her flashlight up to a menacing figure drenched in black as it came into view. Her hand was numb. Her ears rang in the deafening silence. Her eyes went wide as she whispered…
“It’s you. I thought…”