The Language of Sand

The kitchen was a shrine to fishing. Rods were propped in every corner, and cans of dried bait were stacked on the floor beneath dozens of colorful lures that hung from specially crafted shelves. Photos of prized catches were affixed to the wall wherever there was space.

“Listen, I apologize for barging in. I’m Abigail Harker. The new caretaker at the lighthouse.”

“Should’ve guessed it,” he said, warming to her. “I’m Merle Braithwaite. Proprietor of Island Hardware, fishing aficionado, and Chapel Isle’s ‘Tallest Man Contest’ winner for over fifty years running, at your service.”

She put out her hand and Merle shook it gently, wary of his own strength, as if it was not entirely under his control.

“Lottie told me you might be stopping by. I’d say have a seat…”

Each of the chairs was piled high with issues of fishing magazines, topped with spools of line.

“That’s all right. I can’t stay. Too much to do. I just came by to ask a few questions about the caretaker’s cottage.”

“Shoot.”

“Well, the light in the bathroom keeps switching on and off. I’m concerned there might be a problem with the wiring. If you could recommend an electrician—”

“Wiring’s fine. Checked it myself last week.”

“Maybe you should check it again, because—”

“Wouldn’t do a bit of difference if I rewired the whole house,” Merle said, towering over Abigail. “He always messes with that light.”

“He who?”

“The caretaker.”

“I thought I was the caretaker.”

“You are. Now.”

“Then who’s he?”

“Name’s Wesley Jasper.”

“Lottie didn’t mention another caretaker.”

“Naw, I bet she didn’t.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because Mr. Jasper isn’t exactly the caretaker anymore.”

“I don’t follow.”

Merle leaned heavily against the refrigerator, clearly annoyed that he had to deliver this news. “Ma’am, to put a fine point on it, the lighthouse is haunted.”

“What?” Abigail was convinced she’d misheard him.

“Haunted.”

“Come again.”

“Haunted,” he said, enunciating. “It ain’t that highfalutin a word.”

“I understand what haunted means. But you’re kidding, right?”

“Gotta give it to Lottie. That woman could sell lizard skin boots to a T. rex. Not a shock she didn’t mention the ghost before you signed on the dotted line.”

Abigail couldn’t believe her ears. “Look, Mr. Braithwaite—”

“Call me Merle. Nobody calls me Mister anything anymore.”

“Fine, Merle, if this is some sort of initiation for nonislanders, let’s get it over with. I had an arduous drive, no sleep, and I burned my tongue on my first cup of coffee today, so I’m in no mood for pranks.”

“Arduous—now that’s a tad highfalutin.”

“It means—”

“Oh, I know what it means.” Merle began to empty the ice packs from the coolers into the freezer, as if nothing was wrong. “Just not the kinda word you hear often in these parts. I like it. Think I’m going to use it more. ‘I had an arduous morning fishing on the bay.’ Or ‘I had an arduous day working at the store.’ Has a ring, don’t it?”

Before Abigail could answer, he went on. “Burned your tongue, huh? Must’ve smarted. Ruth Kepshaw does keep that coffee molten-lava hot. Tell her to put an ice cube in your cup next time.”

“Mr. Braithwaite—Merle, let me get this straight. You’re telling me the reason my bathroom light continues to come on is because of the ghost of the lighthouse’s old caretaker?”

“Pretty much. And don’t mind the smell of pipe smoke. Supposedly that’s how you can tell Mr. Jasper’s around.”

That was the scent Abigail had caught a whiff of while she was in the basement by the cistern—sweet pipe tobacco mixed with the incense-thick odor of decay.

“He won’t bother you as long as you keep the lighthouse as it is. Been said for years he’s a bit of a stickler. Which is why he doesn’t care too much for Lottie. ’Cause of how she’s let the place go to pot. You can ask her