Lighthouse

By Michael Matre

When I was a sophomore at Princeton High School in northern Greater Cincinnati in 1964, my English teacher, Ms. Sally Morrison, assigned each student to choose a book to read and present to the class as an oral book report. The only requirement was that the book be a novel. As a class, we had already read several books, none of which appealed to me to the point of great expectation or excitement. The boring high-society tales of Henry James and Jane Austen had nothing for me. I was stimulated, however, by Herman Melville's Moby Dick, Bram Stoker's Dracula, Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, Charlotte Bronte's Wuthering Heights, and H. G. Wells's The Time Machine. I chose for my book report a paperback novel entitled The Invasion of the Body Snatchers, a science fiction tale about alien creatures who come to Earth disguised as giant pods and steal the identities of Earthlings. Ms. Morrison gave me an astonished look when I submitted my choice, but since my selection met the novel requirement, she approved it. I am proud to say that my performance drew my classmates' very focused attention. Even Ms. Morrison liked it, accepting that I was simply a boy whom God had made differently. I have always loved stories of adventure, action, and intrigue salted with a dash of horror. Lighthouse is such a tale with an ending that will shock you. It is definitely a book for late at night, or perhaps the beach. Beware, my dear reader, but realize that it is only a story, a work of fiction. Or is it? Could it really happen? Moo-oo ah! Ah! Ah!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887930374

Book preview

cover.jpg

Lighthouse

Michael Matre

Copyright © 2023 Michael Matre

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88793-019-0 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88793-037-4 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

For Fran

A Bad Wager

A Brutal Encounter

An Unexpected Horror

The Showing: A Home for Sale

The Housewarming Party

A Frightening Revelation

An Unholy Visitor

Samantha's Truth

The Final Battle: The Mondays' Revenge

About the Author

For Fran

Lighthouse

Hometown Walking Man

He walks the sidewalks and beaches every day.

A silent man, he has not a word to say.

Don't know where he comes from; don't know where he's been.

Some say he lives alone in a flat around the bend.

A pack on his back, a walking stick in his hand, he walks miles a day.

Never sits or just stands; sporting a floppy hat, he is one very staid.

Fair weather or bad, he is undaunted by rain, ice, or snow.

Like a faithful sentinel, he never fails to show.

Some wonder: Could he be a policeman's spirit still walking his beat?

Saw him on a community service detail walking, not talking, as he worked off a ticket for jaywalking.

He was unusually forlorn, but he picked up the street litter and completed his shift,

Then shuffled off like a soft guitar rift.

Saw him again this morning. Like the sunrise, he was back.

Walking the concrete and sand, the pack on his back.

A Bad Wager

The candy cane-colored lighthouse that stood high and proudly on the rocky New England coast was as beautiful inside as it was outside. Remodeled as the cozy residence of schoolteacher Emerson Monday, his wife, Janet, and his teenage son, Andy, the Newbury Port landmark housed a bright, working, blinking beacon that faithfully warned sailors of the treacherous shoreline. Year after year, its hard, shiny paint resisted the frequent whipping rain, fierce winds, heat and bashing waves of summer, and the sharp, cold blasts of winter. It was a lovely place to live, with a panoramic view of the unpredictable sea and endless stretches of bright beaches enjoyed by sun and surf lovers, surfboarders, snorkelers, and swimmers from June through September. The water was safe. Shark and barracuda attacks were rare. Getting stung by a jellyfish was even more unlikely. The hunger-inducing aroma of sausages, hamburgers, and hot dogs cooking on the grills of the many refreshment stands, combined with the endless sight of thong bikinis, the more conservative and safer one-piece bathing suits, Speedos, swimming trunks, multicolored cabanas, and bouncing and floating beach balls, completed the kaleidoscope of summer joy that ran across miles of fine white sand from east to west. Surf fishermen found their special niche there as well. The innocent laughter of children and the flirtatious banter of young adults filled the invigorating salt air. An array of beautiful yachts and sailboats owned and captained by beautiful people dotted the horizon. No one could have imagined the awful thing that was about to happen within the Monday's personal Nirvana.

Emerson Monday liked to gamble, and with a last name that spelled the worst day of the week, nothing good could come of his precarious habit. Except for his beloved abode, the Newbury Port Casino was his favorite domicile. Emerson liked the low bets and high payouts of the slot machines, the slick dealing and exciting unpredictability of the blackjack tables, the rhythmic click-click of the roulette wheel, and the reckless flinging of the dice across the green felt of the craps tables.

The game that offered him the greatest thrill and allure, however, was sports gambling, and the contest didn't matter. Baseball, basketball, football, boxing, golf, hockey, soccer, and tennis were all an irresistible lure, and Emerson was the hungry fish ready to strike. Time and time again, he placed bets with bookies. In the beginning, he put his money up front. No credit. When he won, the bookies paid. When he lost, the bookies had their money. No problem, no trouble. It was danger-free gambling, with Emerson the winner about half the time. That was okay with him. He didn't gamble to make a profit. It was the thrill of the wager that drove him, and he had an uncanny knack for picking big-money winners. As bad luck would have it, however, Emerson finally fell through the treacherous thin ice of private gambling with a hell-born ugly character named Wolf Yeager. With a pockmarked face and mud-brown hair that was thinning too quickly, Yeager was just over six feet tall, scary to look at, and a man that one would think twice about dealing with.

Wolf never required the money in advance, for he delighted in punishing those who owed him and who failed to pay up immediately. Emerson Monday had hit some rough water now, and the bad trip was following him home. Like the predator akin to his first name, Yeager had the scent and was now in hungry pursuit of his prey.

A Brutal Encounter

Autumn had finally arrived in Newbury Port. The leaves on the trees that lined the coast were changing from summer green into sharp reds, bright yellows, and vivid oranges ruffled by gentle, chilly breezes. The beaches were quiet now. The only human life that remained were the surf fishermen and the occasional treasure hunter scanning the sand with a metal detector in search of lost coins. It was also football season. A fan of the NFL, Emerson liked to bet on the Sunday games. He would sometimes place a wager on the Monday and Thursday night contests, but Sundays were his usual play. He had placed a large wager on a team that lost and had not paid up within Yeager's twenty-four-hour time limit. Wolf made no exceptions, never granting any payment extensions.

Emerson had not seen or heard from Yeager, but he could sense his evil presence and was certain that he was somewhere nearby. It was a beautiful afternoon as Emerson strolled down Seaside Walkway, the main street of Newbury Port. He was about to enter Benjamin Sandy's Bakery to pick up his regular order of fresh dinner rolls when he spied Yeager crossing Oyster Lane five hundred feet away, walking briskly toward him. Emerson quickly entered the bakery, assuming that Wolf would not confront him there.

Good afternoon, Emerson, greeted Benjamin. I've got your order ready to… Before Benjamin could say another word, Emerson was out the side door calling over his right shoulder, Back later, Ben! The bakery owner thought Emerson's hasty departure peculiar. Emerson had never acted that way before, always relaxed and eager to share some easy conversation before paying for his bread and sauntering off. Something was up that bothered his longtime friend, but what?

Emerson sprinted up Azure Lane that led to his home like a rabbit flushed from its den by a hunter, in a panic to arrive, slam, and