The Lighthouse

By Nerissa McCanmore

Enter the world of the Lighthouse, a club for supernatural beings and social misfits.  In this Gothic story collection you will find castles, ghosts, vampires, romance and terror:

 

Bedlam Castle–An American college girl loses herself in the hallways of a 900-year-old castle.  Eccentric characters invite her to dinner.  One is a genie, one is an undine, and most of the others are ghosts.  One man intrigues her the most–but is he a mortal man or a supernatural creature like the rest?

 

Jarkin–Becky Stevens falls in love against her will with Archibald Jarkin, an eccentric, austere and charismatic preacher.  Their passionate marriage is tested when Jarkin's TV ministry turns into a witch hunt.  When Becky discovers the Lighthouse, their life together takes a startling new path.

 

Alexander Boa: Or, I was a co-ed vampire slave–When a young woman's college is taken over by a vampire, she becomes his secret mistress.  Will she be torn apart when her friends decide to kill him?

 

Candida–A young man is stricken with a girl who falls under a vampire's spell.  Soon married and pregnant with the vampire's baby, she has no idea what danger she'll be in if the baby is a boy.

 

The frame story–Jenny, a social misfit, is introduced to the Lighthouse, supernatural creatures, and a deceptive man.  When he leaves her and then accuses her of stalking him, she can only vindicate herself by facing the horrors of a haunted cave.  Will she survive?  Will she fall in love again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nerissa McCanmore
• Release date: Oct 28, 2008
• ISBN: 9781393824503

Nerissa McCanmore

Nerissa McCanmore grew up in Northern Indiana, and has lived in Wisconsin for many years.

Book preview

Copyright

Copyright 2008 Nerissa McCanmore; Revised Edition Copyright 2020. This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

Prologue

On a back road sits a lighthouse on a hill. No water lies near it: The lighthouse was the retirement home of an eccentric sea captain. When he died, the new owner, Ibrahim, converted it into a sanctuary for freaks, vampires, werewolves, witches and the like. It has bedrooms for those who are too drunk or tired to go home, or for those who need to hide. One room holds a library, full of stories about the patrons.

In which Jenny enters the Lighthouse

In the early evening, Astrid drove Jenny down a back road outside South Bend, Indiana, close to the toll road that leads to Chicago, to a hill far away from the city. This region had many hills, but this one was the highest around. Though a narrow road went up a gradual incline, Astrid parked the car in a parking lot at the foot of the hill.

That road is good for getting up the hill fast, but this is the fun way up the hill, she said, leading Jenny down a dirt path to the side hidden from the road. She pointed to a rope tow that went so far up the hill that they couldn’t see the other end of it. "This is to help you walk up the hill safely, though you really don’t need it: It isn’t that steep. Hold on tight. You have to keep up, and it’s a long drag if you slip."

Jenny doubted the wisdom of using the rope.

Astrid held the moving rope as she walked up the hill. Jenny watched her until she disappeared from view, then stared at the rope. It was just a regular rope looped around two pulleys, not inspiring confidence. Jenny sighed and grabbed it. She shrieked as the pull knocked her off balance. Please, God, don’t let me go bounding down the hill, over and over in a dirty, bloody mess. She clutched the rope and righted herself as it crept up the hill to the sound of cranking gears. She stumbled sometimes, but always held on, never falling. Getting rope burn was more fun than taking the road?

Within maybe five minutes she came to a flatter area at the top of the hill, and saw the top pulley. Astrid stood next to it.

There you are. She grinned as if the rope tow were the easiest thing in the world.

Jenny let go of the rope and fell into the grass. Grimacing, she brushed herself off.

Astrid had no grass on her face at all.

How did you do it so perfectly? Jenny grumbled.

Astrid chuckled. Practice. We like to use it a lot, though the vampires prefer to turn into bats and fly.

That was a better idea.

Astrid turned. The Lighthouse. She threw her arms open wide to indicate the building in front of them. It looked like a traditional, though extra-wide, lighthouse from the outside. The wall was green, the door blue. The top light was on, not for ships but to keep planes from crashing into it. It was a lighthouse for a sea of greening hills.

Astrid pulled open the heavy door and greeted the normal-looking, hefty bouncer. Jenny stood outside, gazing at the scant view inside from the doorway. Astrid grimaced and moved behind her.

Astrid called out, Hey, everybody, I’ve got some new blood here. She shoved Jenny through the doorway. Jenny stumbled.

Had Astrid made her into a sacrifice for vampires?

Jenny loved the ambience of the room despite, or maybe because of, the red, hellish walls, the strange dolls and morbid mural, and smoky haze that made the room look misty like a cemetery at night. Only the setting sun lit the lounge through the windows and door. She loved the electronic and industrial music.

Many eyes stared at her. Her face had to be as red as the walls. Thanks a lot, Astrid. Astrid closed the door, shutting Jenny in the room.

Petite Jenny wore no makeup on her well-proportioned features, framing her sweet face with long, medium brown, natural curls. She hated wearing her glasses, but her parents wouldn’t buy contacts for her near-sighted gray eyes.

She contrasted with tall Astrid, who wore a black velvet dress, white face makeup, and black eyeliner in intricate lines and swirls. Astrid’s true features were obscured. Her chin-length, curly hair was naturally black, not dyed; though normally she let it fall as it would, tonight she’d moussed it into spikes.

A newbie! cried a college-aged man with red hair and freckles. And a cute one, too. Are you legal?

Barely-seen faces tittered. Jenny simpered at the compliment.

Who is she, Astrid? asked a middle-aged woman.

My bosom friend Jenny, Astrid said, stepping into the room and putting her arm around Jenny’s shoulders. She looks normal, but she’s actually weird. She thinks it’s bad, though, and needs us to help her see it’s more fun to be weird.

Yeah, as if that would repair the damage of years of teasing.

Astrid went around the room and introduced the people to Jenny. There were about forty of them of various ages, the youngest fourteen and the oldest fifty-six. This, of course, didn’t include the ages of the vampires and the genie (or, rather, jinniyah) Zara.

Zara’s usual manifestation was a Middle Eastern woman with abnormally enormous black eyes and shiny black hair pulled into pigtails. She wore a veil attached to a little hat, a beautifully embroidered caftan, and slippers.

The others looked normal enough, despite a tendency for black clothes, strange hair or makeup and, occasionally, pierced body parts and tattoos. But Astrid described them as werewolves (who’d be locked up in chains downstairs during the full moon), witches (who were male and female and looked just like anyone else except for those pentacle pendants), psychics, Zara and one time traveler. Some had fairy or jinn blood. One claimed to have had a ghostly lover. One claimed to have an alien lover. Some were just misunderstood: computer geeks, Dungeons and Dragons players, Goths. Not far in the future, a dwarf would join.

This all had to be a joke. If Jenny showed any sign of believing Astrid, everyone would laugh at her.

Myself, my great-grandfather was a vampire, Astrid said. I never told you this before. He lived for fifty years as a vampire past the age of forty, until someone came along and staked him.

Jenny stared at her. Oh, please. This is all a joke, right? This is just one of your Goth clubs, right? she asked, her voice faltering.

One of my Goth clubs? Such things are not on every block, you know. My beloved friend, why would we go to all this trouble for a joke? Watch Clive here down in the basement during a full moon, and you won’t think it’s a joke. 

But I’m not supernatural, and I’m not a computer geek, Dungeons and Dragons player, or Goth. How would I fit in here?

Astrid chuckled. You have more in common with Goths than you realize. It’s not just about fashion, you know, but about Gothic art, literature, music–things I know you like.

Music?

I play Goth all the time, and you like it.

That’s true. What about the fashion? I don’t want to dye my hair black or pink. I also don’t want to look like an Astrid clone.

Of course not. Be yourself. There’s a lot more variety in Goth fashion than you realize. I think you’d love it.

She took Jenny over to sit at the bar. Jenny’s shin hit the stool.

What’ll you and the newbie have tonight, Astrid? Ibrahim asked.

Astrid, I don’t have any money with me, Jenny said. I didn’t even think of it.

This club is private, for safety reasons, and we pay dues. All this is paid for, Astrid said.

Black letters on a dry erase board behind the bar read: pop, beer, wine, blood, hamburgers, pizza.

Blood? Jenny cried.

One blood coming up. Ibrahim picked up a glass.

She held up one hand. No, no, I don’t want blood. Ugh! Who’d want that?

Astrid snorted. You’ll find out once the sun is down.

Eww. I’d much rather have pop. A Mountain Dew, please.

And I’ll have a Coke, Ibrahim.

Jenny and Astrid were both seniors in high school, and Ibrahim carded.

Where do they get the blood? Jenny asked.

Cows, Astrid said. They have an understanding with a local butcher. And it’s part of the dues to–donate once in a while. You get your choice of sugar cookies or chocolate chip cookies afterward. Plus there’s fresh meat. They take it from the hamburger meat before it’s cooked out.

Jenny grimaced. That’s vile.

Positively vile, I know, but some can’t survive without it. They’d shrivel up into pruney heaps who can’t even crawl to find a rat to drink.

The last rays of the sun disappeared. Jenny drummed her fingers on the bar to the beat of a new song. Soon, the sound of flapping filled the windows, and three black shapes flew into the room. Small wings seemed to flap in time with the techno. One shape flew to the bar and lit on the stool next to her: a bat! She gasped and started. The bat transformed into a black man. He grinned at her and ran a long-nailed finger over her neck. She tensed.

Is this to be my vampette? he asked.

Astrid laughed. No, Vincent, it’s my friend Jenny. She doesn’t want to be like you, though I wouldn’t mind it so much.

Better keep a good watch over her, then. He turned to Ibrahim and ordered blood.

Jenny shrank away from him and leaned against Astrid.

Don’t worry, Astrid whispered. This club has rules. Our vampires aren’t allowed to bite other Lighthouse people without permission, even if it is for just a sip.

Ibrahim poured a small glass of red liquid and handed it to Vincent. It sure looked like real blood. Vincent lifted it to his mouth.

The beat twisted Jenny’s stomach. She shrank back even more, nearly knocking both herself and Astrid off their stools. Astrid caught her and helped her out of her stool.

Maybe we should move, she said. I don’t think you’re quite ready for this part yet.

After handing Jenny her glass of Mountain Dew, she led her past the dancers–most of whom either stomped to the beat, or stood in place and moved their arms to the music like ballet or hula dancers–to the pool table. Sitting in facing church pews were two human women, not vampires.

Oh, Beth, I didn’t know you had Spring Break this week. I’m so glad you’re here, Astrid said. I think you and Jenny will have a lot in common. She’s just as green as you were. Is your story ready for the annals yet?

Yep, Beth said. My diary has been a great help. I didn’t even realize until I read it, just how much I forgot.

I can’t wait to read it. She has quite a story, Jenny. Oh, and this is Elinor.

Elinor Sevres held out her hand. The lace on the sleeves of her dark-blue velvet minidress draped over her golden arm. Her dark blonde hair was piled high on her head. Her light brown face glowed with elegant, perfect makeup.

I’m in here for being a vampire’s lover, she said. What’s your crime?

Being weird, that’s all, Jenny said.

That’s enough. You can read my story in the annals.

Beth just sat quietly and smiled.

Beth, tell Jenny about your story, Astrid said. I have to give blood for my club dues before Vincent bites me for being late.

As Jenny later discovered, blood was collected in a little room set up like a Red Cross blood collection unit. It was all safe and professional, done by a nurse paid generously for her discretion, and the donor even got a cookie afterwards. The donor had to forego alcohol afterwards, but Astrid refused to drink underage, and Jenny was raised to be a teetotaler.

Beth continued. Well, I won’t tell most of it because she can read it in the annals. But I went to England last year. I stayed in a castle, and it was haunted. I met–no, I won’t tell her. I want her to read it: I spent all that time making the words just right.

Beth attended a small college in Wisconsin; her time there had given her a strange, hybrid accent with strong o’s, clipped r’s, an ow that sounded more like oh, and a tendency to occasionally say soda instead of pop or Let’s go by the Lighthouse instead of Let’s go to the Lighthouse.

Beth’s dress was the simple, cheap garb of a college student: a pair of black pants, black ballet flats, a Swiss-style vest and a white, long-sleeved shirt. Her hair was dressy and looked intricate, but was deceptively simple to arrange: She started two braids, braided them together halfway down, then clipped the end of the braid to the back of her head. She wore little makeup.

One of the vampires, a beautiful black woman, stepped quietly around the room, visiting all her friends. Jenny later heard that once, back in the 50s, she and Vincent tried dating, but it didn’t work out.

As for Vincent, he moved so silently that he startled Jenny when he appeared at her side. She didn’t like being startled by a vampire.

Would the newbie care to dance? he asked.

Elinor grinned at her with wide eyes. Vincent wants to dance with you! You should do it, because he’s the best-looking man in the Lighthouse and the most eligible vampire.

Vincent grinned at her, his fangs showing. You’re next, Elinor.

She beamed.

As Jenny took Vincent’s hand and he led her away, Beth whispered to Elinor, What is it with you and vampires?

Whatever it was, Jenny did not share it.

Though no one else danced, Vincent put one arm around Jenny’s waist and one hand in hers, as if the techno were a ballroom dance song. At once repulsed and attracted by this bloodsucker, this killer, this mythical creature that couldn’t really exist, she gazed at him. He held her gaze in his black eyes. He smelled of fresh blood; his rough, dark skin glowed. Was it his eyes or the music that put her into a trance?

He smirked. Do I scare you? he asked.

She said, Of course.

He chuckled. Watch out for Tad, the blond vampire over there. He’s looking for someone to be his mistress. It’s been a hundred years since he held the mayor’s daughter in his power, and he’s feeling lonely. It was horrible: She asked to be a vampire, but then the townspeople staked her.

I like my men–alive.

None of us would make you a vampire unless you want to be.

Is this vampire bothering you? asked a male voice.

It belonged to a tall young man with short blond hair, turquoise eyes, cute wire-rimmed glasses, a long nose, a sensuous mouth and a long, black coat.

He said, If you don’t like vampires, I’m very much alive–and a newbie like you.

Well, he isn’t bothering me all that much, Jenny said. This new guy’s smile made her tingle.

That’s good to hear, Vincent said. He grinned, bowed his head and stepped away.

Greetings. My name is Scott, the young man said. He took her sweaty, trembling, cold hand in his dry, steady, warm one and led her to a table away from the densest clamor. He chatted with her for a while; his breath smelled of mint. He was a junior with a business major in one of the many local colleges, Roanoke, the same one she was to go to in the fall.

It was easy to talk with him, but she did most of the talking. Though she did sometimes talk too much and chase people away, Scott smiled a lot and seemed interested. Nevertheless, he said little about himself, and Jenny knew that wasn’t her fault. To demonstrate:

Jenny said, If my parents saw me here, they’d freak. They’re old-school Nazarenes. The denomination no longer has a problem with dancing or movies or any of that stuff, but my parents do.

What about you? Scott asked.

I’m trying to get over all that. It’s legalism; we’re supposed to focus on the heart, keep it right with God and do things from the heart, not concentrate on looking righteous. I believe the things the Nazarene church still says. It says alcohol and gambling are wrong, for example, and I do believe that. But I was raised to believe that dancing and going to movies are wrong because that’s what the church said, and now it doesn’t say that anymore. It’s confusing. I don’t go to dances because my parents would get mad at me. But Astrid has taken me to a few movies, and I don’t see what’s so evil about that. Yet I feel like I’m doing something wrong when I go there.

Then don’t see anything R-rated. Light flashed in Scott’s eyes.

Do you go to church? Jenny asked.

What movies have you seen? Scott asked.

"Three Musketeers, Cool Runnings, Mrs. Doubtfire and Schindler’s List."

All good movies.

"Yes, especially Schindler’s List. The nude scenes were a bit embarrassing, but the movie really makes you feel the horrors of the Holocaust. When I saw those smokestacks, they were filmed in such a way that I had to look up and up to see the top, just like if I were really seeing them. She took a sip of her drink as she tried to remember impressions. I found myself praying for the people, even though they were characters and I didn’t know how much of the plot was factual. So I said some prayers for the people who really did go through this. Retroactive prayers, of course; God would have known back then that I would pray them in the future."

What was so evil about going to movies?

I don’t know. I never really understood it. After all, they had no problem with us renting videos or watching movies on TV.

Weird. My church has no problem with it. They never have.

What church is that?

He paused and rubbed his nose. Non-denominational.

What’s it called?

He shrugged his shoulders. It’s in my hometown. You’ve probably never heard of it.

What’s your hometown?

Niles.

Oh, right across the border.

Yes. To think we’ve lived so close to each other for all these years, and yet so far away. He brushed his hand against hers as she reached for her glass.

He asked many questions about her interests, intended major, family, beliefs. Every once in a while, he talked about himself enough to tell her that he shared many of her interests and beliefs. He kept looking directly into her eyes and grinning.

Though to others his interest was obvious, Jenny had gone through so many embarrassing misunderstandings with boys that she no longer trusted her impressions. She often saw interest in a boy’s face, only to find he actually wanted some other girl. The closest thing she’d ever gotten to a boyfriend was an admirer freshman year, before she was allowed to date.

Oh, my friends are waving to me, Scott said. I have to go. But I want to talk to you again before the evening is over, so don’t leave before then. He squeezed her hand, got up and walked away. Jenny skipped over to Astrid, Beth and Elinor.

Wow, Astrid said, in between eating cookies and drinking a tall glass of water. If she was paler, it didn’t show under the white makeup. You’re the belle of the club.

Beth half-closed her eyes. I envy girls like that, she said. She bent her head to sip from her straw and stared at the table.

Jenny sighed. I think this Scott is serious about it, though. In the safety of Astrid’s presence, she was more confident of Scott’s interest in her.

Are you kidding? They’re all half in love with you, Astrid said.

Jenny did not believe that, though she wanted to. Well, this one took the time to talk to me about me.

A guy who doesn’t just talk about himself? Elinor said. I don’t know him, but he must be a winner.

Beth sighed and glared at Elinor.

What? Elinor cried.

The way he looks at me, too– Jenny said.

They all look at you that way. I’m starting to think I should’ve left you at home, Astrid said with a sardonic grin.

I think the girl’s stricken, Elinor said. Or is that smitten?

Either one works for me, Beth said.

More like bitten if she doesn’t watch herself.

I’ve never gotten so much attention before, Jenny said. Guys usually just ignore me.

Maybe they’re mystified by your beauty and can’t muster the courage to talk to you, Astrid said.

Jenny snorted. I’m serious. I’ve never dated much before.

Much? At all was more like it.

She continued, Why did guys stop looking at me after the first year of high school? I’m allowed to date now, which I wasn’t back then, but nobody’s interested!–until now, that is. Do guys only like me after first meeting me, then stop once they get to know me?

I had the same problem before I started college, Beth said.

So you’re just about ripe, Jenny, Elinor said.

And Astrid thought Jenny was weird? Jenny felt oddly normal around these people. Beth was the only one who didn’t seem at all strange.

It’s good to just sit here relaxing tonight, Beth said. I’ve got so much homework over Break. I don’t know when I’ll have a chance to see my man.

With all her talk of jealousy and datelessness, she had a boyfriend?

Well, we can forget about that tonight, Elinor said. When’s Vincent going to claim that dance?

Jenny, there are a few others you should meet, Astrid said. She jumped out of her seat and grabbed Jenny’s arm. She said, so quickly her words ran together, The Lighthouse is full of good people for you to meet. Here, this is Peter. Peter, this is my bosom friend Jenny.

"Bosom friend?" Peter winked at Jenny.

Peter was the redhead who first greeted Jenny as she came in the door. He was of average height, build and looks, but his blue, slanted eyes behind metal-rimmed glasses gave him a mesmerizing face. For a moment, his eyes stared into Jenny’s as if looking into her heart. He grinned and kissed her hand. His hot breath touched her skin. As he released her hand, the spot turned cold, longing for more breath to warm it again.

Welcome, newbie, he said. We always love new blood. It tastes better fresh. His voice was naturally soothing, no matter what he said.

Are–you a vampire, too? she asked.

Peter and Astrid laughed. If I were, I’d be dust by now, Peter said.

His distinction is fey blood, Astrid said. At least, that’s the family legend.

What’s that mean? Jenny asked.

Somewhere, way back in the annals of his Irish history, one of his ancestors may have had a fairy lover, producing another of his ancestors.

So, depending on how long fairies live, one of my ancestors may still be alive, Peter said. I can just picture that: I walk up to some gorgeous, naked fairy sitting on a toadstool and say, ‘Hi, great-grandma!’ He waved to no one, the goof. My fey blood and Irish blood have both been diluted from generations of intermixing, though, so don’t be too surprised if I have no more than an iota of fairy power, or no fiery temper.

Don’t be so sure, Astrid said. You may not always show it, but I know you get stressed out sometimes. She turned to Jenny and grinned. He doesn’t cuss, but beware: He does get impatient.

Peter curled his fingers at her like Nosferatu. Grr. Jenny, some people here tell me about Fairy Wicca, and they say I’d be really good at magic because of my fairy blood. But I explain to them–kindly, of course–that I’m a Christian and I don’t want to go there. Prayer is the closest I want to get to magic.

Another Christian in a place like this! Imagine that.

Astrid poked and prodded him with her questions for Jenny’s benefit, making him say he was a senior at a local college, a volunteer in a food pantry, an Anthropology major and a brilliant artist who might supersede all that anthropology stuff by selling his work.

She says I’m brilliant, anyway. He shrugged. You might like it, if you like bare-breasted mermaids and naked fairies.

It sounded like pornography. Jenny did eventually see his work and yes, it was brilliant, with rich color. The nudity was actually fitting for the subject matter and tasteful, with certain parts hidden by leaves or long flowing locks or a leg. At the time, though, all Jenny could think was that Scott would never draw pornography.

He’s not a pervert, really, Astrid said. These are art drawings. They’re beautiful.

Peter spoke in falsetto. With listings on the side telling what are their interests, major and favorite color. His voice returned to normal. Really, Astrid, are you suggesting they could possibly be Playboy bunnies? I don’t even read that stuff.

No, I just know Jenny’s mind and what it’ll jump to first. I have one question for you, though. I can’t tell from your pictures–Are you a breast man or a leg man?

Peter arched an eyebrow. I’m a wing man, myself.

Jenny groaned–yet she could enjoy having an oddball like him in the group.

Now, young newbie. He turned to Jenny and put his arm around her shoulders. After tensing with surprise, her shoulders relaxed and nestled into his warmth. We only have one rule, and you will need to know it: Absolute respect is to be shown to everyone in the Lighthouse– he reached his other hand around and counted off each point on his fingers–regardless of age, gender, creed, race, or supernatural abilities or lack thereof. Everyone has the right to feel like no one’s harassing them. This is supposed to be a safe haven, even if you believe in Cthulu. I needed to tell you because there are several different religions represented here. Then there’s the obvious differences in age, gender, race.

Oh, no, I’d never harass anyone, Jenny said. I believe in respect and tolerance for other beliefs, even though I don’t agree with them. I’ll share my beliefs, but I won’t force anybody to agree with them.

Good for you.

Actually, there are two rules, Astrid said. Don’t forget: ‘No biting or clawing, not even during a full moon.’

You’re quite right.

Scott walked by just then. Jenny’s eyes followed him. Astrid sighed. Peter frowned and took his arm away.

Would you like the grand tour? Peter sounded less hyper.

Of course she would. Scott turned around and joined them. He’d had the tour already, but wanted to take it again. He stayed close by Jenny’s side as they walked to the staircase. Peter stopped joking so much. Jenny’s hip rammed into the end of the railing.

Ow!

She simpered at her new friends. Scott asked, Are you all right? Peter merely smirked.

First they went upstairs. The first level up had a library, the second sleeping rooms. On each level were two one-person bathrooms, one for men and one for women. Above these levels was the control room. When the big lamp wasn’t lit, lights along the top of the Lighthouse were turned on so planes wouldn’t crash into it.  After this the group went downstairs to the basement, just a storage room except for chains and shackles along one wall, and one padlocked and barred door.

That leads to the caves, Peter said. Some people think they hear ghostly moans in there, but that may just be wind or something–or maybe some couple sneaking down to use the chains and shackles for naughtiness. He raised an eyebrow at Jenny and smirked.

Jenny giggled, but Scott didn’t even smile. He and Peter glanced at each other. Peter frowned and turned away.

Did Jenny miss something?

Peter continued, his voice wavering. "This place was built decades ago by an eccentric sea captain. He had lots of money, but wanted this lighthouse instead of a mansion. Ibrahim bought it after the captain died, and opened it up as a meeting place for people like us.

It’s said that Ibrahim’s mother is a jinn. I’ve heard Zara knows her, though she doesn’t talk about her much. People always thought Ibrahim was strange because of his eyes, but the odder members of society flocked to him. He lives here, in one of the rooms upstairs. There’s one other room you haven’t seen, the kitchen, but there’s nothing much to see there. It’s just your standard home kitchen, except for the blood in the fridge. There are plenty of secret rooms and passages in the Lighthouse. We don’t even know if we’ve found them all.

Intriguing place to explore, Scott whispered to Jenny. His breath smelled of Coke. She tingled at his closeness. Maybe we should go on an expedition together sometime.

She smiled at him. She had not mistaken his signs: He really was interested in her. Now, if only he would ask her out. She was anxious to go on dates and kiss, as other teenagers did.

Astrid kept sighing for some reason. Back in the lounge, she shrugged and left the group. Peter soon left the club, staring at the floor as he went.

Scott sat down with Jenny and chatted with her some more, this time telling a bit more about himself. They had so many things in common that it was unbelievable. Just some of the things: a detest for coffee and olives; a love of dark chocolate, Science Fiction, cats and the Peanuts comic strip; and the term white-out for what happens when a person gets up too fast, a term they both came up with before they ever met.

Around eleven, Astrid said it was time to go home.

Crash in one of the rooms upstairs, Scott said.

No. This girl has a curfew, Astrid said.

Scott grasped Jenny’s hand. You will come back again tomorrow night, won’t you? he said to only her.

No, she said. Sunday morning is church. Remember?

He blinked. Oh, yes, of course. How could I forget? I need to be refreshed that morning so I can sing in the choir. So when will I see you again?

Next Friday, of course.

So you like the Lighthouse? Astrid asked.

It takes some getting used to, but I would certainly like to give it a chance.

In which Jenny gets a secret admirer

That afternoon–Good Friday, April 1, 1994–this had seemed like a good idea. When Jenny said she was bored, Astrid suggested she leave her mundane life for a night by joining the Goth scene. She didn’t need to change her usual look–simple, modest, normal but not fashionable–for this club.

Astrid (who loved old novels and silent movies) said in her usual melodramatic wording, You don’t realize it, but you’re not really so mundane as you imagine. I always knew there was something weird about you. I could sense it when first I saw you.

Thanks. Jenny grimaced.

Jenny never knew how she was supposed to act or what she was supposed to say, so people often called her weird, rude or even snobbish. A few people even called her gullible. On the playground, she often played by herself, acting out her own little stories, because no one else would play the parts properly, messing up the storylines. She made puppets out of her hands. She did these things as late as fourth or fifth grade; her teachers chided her for acting babyish, but she did not understand what was so strange about her way of playing.

She had a terrible time with math, but was soon far ahead of her classmates in spelling and punctuation. Her handwriting looked like chicken scratches until middle school; in middle school, she drew pretty letters, but no one could read them; in high school, she finally mastered the art of drawing pretty letters that were also legible. She didn’t know it yet, but many of her problems socially and with school were caused by a nonverbal learning disorder (NVLD).

Since Jenny often missed body language cues during conversations and accidentally offended her peers, she crawled into a safe but lonely shell. Sometimes people asked if she could talk. Sometimes she talked too much rather than too little, if she warmed up to a person. Either way, it was never correct.

It didn’t help that Jenny was usually too shy to look into another person’s eyes for more than a few seconds. What cues she might have picked up on, were often lost. She was more likely to catch changes in voice tone. If someone did not speak directly and honestly about her feelings, she would miss them completely.

But Astrid saw through the shell and the assumptions about her, the snide remarks people made behind Jenny’s back, to who she really was. Astrid, the new girl in school that year, a transplant from California, had even taken the initiative of sitting with Jenny one day at lunch, when Jenny’s classmates were all in other lunch periods.

So when Astrid called her weird, it stung.

No, I mean in a good way, Astrid said. You’ll fit right in.

Their only obvious similarity was being seniors in the same high school. But soon they discovered more. Jenny’s favorite pastime (besides reading classic novels) was sitting on a hill much like the Lighthouse hill, in George Wilson Park near Mishawaka, a suburb of South Bend. As a child at church picnics, it took her forever to walk up one of those hills; once she got up to the top, she could gaze out so far that a blue line was visible across the horizon. When she showed the hill to Astrid, and they rested inside the wooden pyramid tower, Astrid said,

It’s like I’ve gone to a strange version of Egypt in some alternative world. If you love this hill, I have another one to show you.

Astrid’s cream-colored skin and flat, wide nose showed her to be both black and white, though Jenny didn’t realize that until she met Astrid’s parents. Though not beautiful, Astrid’s face was striking and fascinating.

Today she had black-lined eyes, bright red lipstick, a long, beaded necklace, a brown sweater, a dark green skirt, black stockings and Doc Martens. Until Jenny met Astrid, she had never heard of Goths, just morbid teenagers and punks who dressed all in black.

Jenny knew she was supposed to be careful what friends she picked, not people with black plastic skulls, black curtains and black walls in their bedrooms. But she and Astrid clicked from their first meeting, and Astrid’s influence was never bad. Astrid wanted to paint her walls blue so she’d be different even from other people with skulls in their bedrooms.

The tiny room always made Jenny uneasy, what with the decor, vampire posters and a scarlet bedspread. The lavender incense and the poster of Barnabas Collins, the vampire in the 1960s soap opera Dark Shadows, did not bother her. Jenny wanted to borrow the Anne Rice novels. But Astrid’s old Barbie doll was the most disturbing of all, hanging from the overhead fan by a sash tied around her neck, with black-dyed hair, a homemade black cape and dress, black shoes and blue-penned fangs on the edges of her smiling mouth. Whenever the fan was on, she clicked and banged around and around until Astrid could stand the sound no longer.

Still, Astrid’s presence and the blue (not black) carpet was comforting.

So what’s the Lighthouse Club like? Jenny had asked that afternoon.

Not Lighthouse Club, just the Lighthouse, Astrid had said. "I can’t explain it. It’s like the Caucus Race in Alice in Wonderland: You have to experience it."

***

Scott wrote in an e-mail to a friend:

I just checked out this club a guy told me about. He says it’s a lot like a Goth club. I’d never heard of a Goth club before, but apparently this club and a Goth club are there for freaks to hang out at without getting glared at. With my jinn blood and some jinn powers, I qualify as a freak, so that works for me.

First night I go there, I meet this hot chick who doesn’t even know she’s hot. She dresses conservatively. From that and the things she said, I bet she’s one of those religious types who act all moral, but if you tempt them subtly, pretending to agree with them but going a little further each time before saying Oh no that’s wrong–eventually, they give in to you. I’ve had some experience with this already. We have lots of fun, especially mine at converting a goody-two-shoes fundamentalist into a wild woman. That stuff’s all bunk, anyway; by awakening their sexual desires, I’m doing them a huge favor. One girl even turned Satanist, like me. That was my proudest day.

You asked me, how can I be Satanist when I don’t worship Satan? You’re looking at things from a very narrow view. There are different kinds of Satanists. I believe in myself. You have to believe in the Christian God before you can believe in the Christian Satan. Satanists are realists. I know that no one’s good at heart; everyone is self-motivated, and some are more self-motivated than others. Wiccans are hypocrites, with their idea that you shouldn’t hurt anybody. How can you do whatever you like without hurting anybody? And how can they honestly say they don’t want to hurt anybody? Satanists do whatever we like and hurt those who hurt us.

I don’t want to believe in any other religion, which would make me easily fooled; I especially don’t want to follow a Christian god, who says one thing and does another. I believe not in gods, but in magic that can be used for good or evil.

Without a