Dash Point

Finalist in the 2021 Vocal+ Fiction Awards. Now featured in December Tales II, a collection of ghost stories from Curious Blue Press.

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***

The air churned around Sam Darkmore, slamming the waves into the shore. Frothing, the saltwater raced at him, but Sam kept his feet just out of reach. To the south, black clouds approached. The sight of the storm sent a chill down his arms despite the leather Coast Guard jacket.

Sam turned away from the simmering edge of the North Atlantic. I don’t want to be anywhere close to here when that storm breaks, he thought. His assignment was already what the seamen of the Provincetown Coast Guard Station referred to as a “shit detail” without being trapped for a night on the tip of Cape Cod. Naturally, he couldn’t help but feel Chief Petty Officer Wyler had chosen his least favorite ensign for the job. He hates anyone that didn’t come from the academy – and I’m not from around here, either. Two nails in the coffin.

In front of him, the structures of Dash Point Light Station littered the dunes. Littered, because they were crumbling into the sand. It had made his job of evaluating the status of the station easy. Sam had made it three steps onto the porch of the keeper’s quarters before the rotting wood split beneath his foot. The maintenance sheds and outbuildings had been similarly condemned.

He would have already been on his way back to Provincetown in the Jeep except for the lighthouse itself. Despite the punishment of years of storms and salt air, the forty-foot iron tower of Dash Point stood stark white. The paint barely even looked weathered. The contrast between the lighthouse and the rest of the buildings made his neck prickle. Worse, its condition meant Sam needed to make a closer inspection. He needed to go inside.

Sam tried to shrug away his feelings. It’s just paranoia from all the stories, he told himself. Dash Point Light Station had led a quiet existence on the tip of Cape Cod until the night of July 9, 1958. As Sam ran through the official history augmented with the stories of the locals, he noticed a reddish ring in the sand. A porthole, missing its glass and rusting with age.

The porthole must have been from the SS Indifference the night it ran aground during a violent storm. The night of July 9. In the morning, the bodies of the passengers had drifted into Provincetown, and the fishermen had found the lighthouse abandoned. Jamison Deen, Dash Point’s keeper, was never found.

Since then, the lighthouse had been manned by rotating details from the Coast Guard. Rumors were that every crew had requested to be transferred within weeks. Command had assumed that boredom and isolation were the reason, but the old hands at the station had suggested other reasons. They would grow quiet when Sam or the other seamen had pressed them for details.

The light was then automated in 1962 and deactivated in 1978 as improvements in navigation had rendered it obsolete. Still, active or not, the station was Coast Guard property. Which means poor saps like me have to go check on it.

Making his way through the green stalks of the dune grass as they bobbed in the wind, Sam found himself in the shadow of the iron tower. The booming of the waves and the whistle of the breeze seemed to quiet the closer he came to its base. Or maybe I’m just holding my breath, he thought as he fumbled for the key to undo the padlock on the door.

The door swung away from him, and Sam stepped inside. Each footstep echoed up the empty tower, and dust scattered beneath his shoes, leaving clear footprints in the white film. Mildew and diesel fuel mingled in the air, and Sam’s eyes moved to the generator on the other side of the circular room. Gas cans stood in formation beside it, still waiting to be emptied.

To his surprise, the generator appeared workable. But even good engineering could not stand up to years of salt air, and white corrosion lined every exposed component.

Sam turned his attention to the staircase circling the interior, praying that it would not support his weight so he could conclude his inspection. But the black iron did not even creak beneath him, and he sighed. As he climbed, he noticed that the windows in the wall had held up without losing a single pane of glass. They even looked clean.

At the top of the stairs, Sam found the service room, which included a writing desk in addition to the usual tools for repairing the beacon. Above the desk, two black eyes watched him.

Sam read the plaque on the portrait: Jamison Deen, 1945. Sam found his eyes ensnared with Deen’s. His expression was piercing, as if he was looking through him at something else in the room, and Sam turned. After a moment, he spotted a flap of paper sticking out from a navigational chart that covered the wall.

The sheet was jagged on one side, like it had been torn out of a book. Sam found it was a log with handwritten entries that read:

July 7, 1958: Weather is fair, winds out of the southwest at 10 knots. I took advantage of the cooler temperatures to make repairs to the generator. The salt air turns the oil to sludge in days.

Another restless night. The visions are becoming harder to ignore. More than once today I felt the heat of an explosion and dived to the ground. I know it’s all in my head, though. There were a lot more screaming sailors after the real thing.

July 8, 1958: I have been keeping myself busy all day with more generator work. Every time it’s quiet, I hear the scream of the planes plunging toward our ship. My finger twitches, attempting to shoot them down. But there are no planes, no ship, no anti-aircraft gun.

The Kamikaze pilots were given sake before they took off to blow us to Hell. Can’t say I agree with a lot of what they did, but my own nerves could use a stiff drink or two.

July 9, 1958: My God, what has happened? What have I done?

I have failed again. I could not shoot down the Kamikazes, and now I have failed even in this duty. More blood on my hands.

The air had grown thicker as Sam read. It must be the dust, he decided, folding the page and sticking it in his jacket. I will show this to the commander when I get back, but I can’t dwell on it now.

The wind had started to howl as it circled the service room, and Sam had to hold the railing for balance as he inspected the catwalk. Like the stairs, it gave no complaint under his weight. He fought against the wind to close the door leading back inside. All that remained to inspect was the beacon itself.

Climbing the ship’s ladder to the top room, Sam blinked once again. The Fresnel lens, notorious for its constant need for polishing, had barely a speck of dust. Turning, he found the windows sheltering the beacon from the outside almost as spotless. He could see individual whitecaps on the Atlantic to the east and the tidal pool among the dunes to the north. It’s like this place was abandoned yesterday.

Then the room darkened. The sun had slipped behind the black band of clouds as the storm closed in on Dash Point. Fuck, I’m running out of time.

Before he left, Sam pulled out a clipboard from his jacket. Beneath his notes condemning the other buildings, he added "Lighthouse: salvageable."

Sam scrambled down the stairs. The wind was kicking up the sand outside the tower, forcing him to shield his eyes as he resecured the padlock on the door. The gale, combined with the sudden drop in temperature, sliced through his leather jacket and sent goosebumps up his arms.

When did it grow so dark? Sam wondered as he slid behind the wheel of the Jeep. It was hours until sundown, yet he had to switch on the car’s headlights as he followed the leaning telegraph poles that marked the remains of the road.

Then the sky let loose. Sam held his arm up against the rain, blinking away water. Can’t wait to tell Liz about this one when I see her next, he thought with a chuckle.

As he rounded a curve, he saw something distinct from the uneven white sand at the edge of his headlights. Legs.

“Fuck!”

He swerved to the right to avoid the person. In the moment of pure adrenaline, he hadn’t taken his foot off the accelerator, and now a dune reared out of the darkness. The Jeep jerked to a halt, and Sam flew forward.

***

Sam blinked awake, shivering as his soaked limbs revived. Despite the cold, his forehead pounded from hitting the steering wheel. A quick walk around the Jeep half submerged in the dune confirmed his first impression. This isn’t going anywhere without a dozen shovels and a tow line.

The storm showed no signs of letting up, and Sam knew that he needed shelter before he died of hypothermia. That left one choice: the lighthouse.

After another moment shivering in the rain, Sam started walking. As he reached the curve where he had swerved off the road, he paused. Something wasn’t right. He had seen a pair of legs in his headlights. So who was it? And where are the footprints?

Maybe the rain washed them away, he thought, feeling the pricking on the back of his neck subsiding. It returned with his next thought: but my tire tracks are still here.

Sam shook his head as he resumed his march down the sand lane. Still, the question of who – or what – he had seen in those final moments before the crash stuck with him. Until the dunes lowered and he caught sight of a light in the distance.

The rhythmic pulses left no doubt: Dash Point’s beacon was lit. A dozen more questions swirled through his head centering on one central theme: How? His headache intensified at the lack of answers.

Finally, he reached the lighthouse. The padlock was still in place, and all the windows were intact. Unlocking the door, Sam stepped inside and was greeted with a rush of warmth that made his soaked jacket steam. The momentary relief retreated as the harsh note of diesel exhaust hit his nose. In front of him, the generator thrummed.

Somehow, someone got in here, started the generator, and lit the beacon.

“Who’s there?” Sam called out. His voice echoed up the empty tower interior. “I’m not sure how you got this generator working, but I’m impressed. Still, this is an unauthorized beacon, so it is my duty to shut it down.”

Sam felt a charge in the air at his words. Perhaps it was the static energy from the constant churning of the belt and gears inside the generator. He walked to it and found the ignition control. Several yanks to move the dial to the Off position yielded no success. It was stuck.

Goddamn it, I have to go up there.

The uneasiness that Sam had felt in the daytime magnified itself in the darkness. He climbed the spiraling stairs, his shoulders tensing more with each step. He neared the top as the beacon’s light passed above, shining down the ladder and onto the staircase. Sam spotted something that had been obscured in the dim lighting during the day. The railing’s shadow had an irregular shape. Placing his hand on it, Sam found rope coiled around the metal.

The rope continued into the ceiling. Sam pulled on it, surprised at how little resistance it gave as the rest tumbled out. The beacon passed overhead again, and Sam saw a noose at the end of the rope as it fell into the center of the tower.

“What the fuck…” he breathed.

He could not recall any reports of suicide in the Coast Guard records for Dash Point. Still, their archive might be incomplete. But why leave the noose after they found the body? And why hide it?

The beacon flashed again, and Sam shook his head. The note, the noose: there would be time for all that later. He had to deactivate the beacon first.

The service room felt suffocating, which Sam blamed on the dust. As he looked around for a way to turn off the light, he found himself staring at the portrait of Keeper Deen. The light flashed overhead, and in the sudden contrast, Sam thought the black and white eyes narrowed at him. Blinking, he found the portrait unchanged in the returning darkness.

There was nothing in the service room to help him. He scrambled up the ladder into the beacon room, shielding his eyes from the brilliant Fresnel lens. Once again, nothing except for the sound of raindrops crashing against the windowpanes surrounding him.

Damn, I’m going to have to break something to turn this off.

Sam decided that the lens was far more valuable than the generator and descended to the service room to find a tool to jam into the gears. As he rooted around, the door to the catwalk blew open. Sam raised his arm to block the shower of rain, but none reached him. Something was blocking the doorway.

Sam stumbled backward as a figure stepped toward him. The beacon flashed, illuminating the side of a man’s face.

"So, you’re the one who lit the beacon," Sam said, the shake in his words hard to hide.

"That’s right," the man answered. There was a strain to his voice.

"I’m here to deactivate it."

"You cannot." There was no malice in the man’s words. They were a statement.

"This beacon has been deactivated by the Coast Guard. It is illegal to operate it."

"How else can I atone for what I have done?"

Sam’s eyes narrowed at the words, and he realized there was something familiar about the man as the beacon flashed. His eyes shot to the portrait on the wall. "Mr. Deen?"

Covered in shadow again, the man nodded.

"But you’ve been missing for years. Presumed dead."

Deen stepped toward Sam, turning as he did. The beacon flashed, catching his full profile this time. A jagged red scar ran across his throat.

"Who said I’m not?"

"That’s impossible…"

"You know what happened, Sam." The rasp in his voice had intensified.

"You passed out drunk, and the Indifference ran aground while the light was dark. The next day, the villagers found you, and…"

Deen nodded. "They avenged those poor souls. I turned to alcohol to try to escape the horror and death. In the end, my weakness only caused more."

A moment of silence passed between them.

Deen spoke again. "You wrote ‘salvageable’ in your report. What does it mean?"

"The Coast Guard will repurpose the beacon and other machinery here for use in other active light stations," Sam answered.

The charge returned to the room. “This station is active. I am its keeper.” Deen said, stepping toward Sam. “You cannot have it.”

Sam sidestepped the figure. "It’s my duty to report this." With a chill, he realized the dead keeper was now between him and the staircase. "I’m sorry."

"I was in the Navy in the war. You serve in the Coast Guard. I’m asking you, one sailor to another, to change your report and leave this place be. I am sworn to keep the light." Deen shook his head. "I do not want to punish men for doing their duty."

Sam felt the static energy growing around him. "But how can you stop us?"

"Let me show you."

In a second, the shadow had crossed the room. Sam felt himself hurtling backward, as much shocked at the force as the fact that the dead man could touch him. He crashed against the railing ringing the catwalk.

Rain ran down his cheeks as Sam pulled himself to his feet. Deen stood in the doorway, blocking any chance of escape.

"One more chance, Sam."

Sam shook his head, despite his pounding heart. "I can change it. But others will come after I leave." His fists clenched. "This is the Coast Guard’s station, not yours."

The beacon passed over their heads, showing Deen’s face. His eyes had turned black. The wind reached a crescendo around the top of the light, and his words swelled with the wail.

"Then they will die."

The dead keeper’s hands closed around Sam’s throat. Sam tried to pull them off, but his hands passed through Deen’s arms, only grabbing air. Deen’s grip tightened, and Sam felt himself tipping over the railing.

***

Chief Petty Officer Malcom Wyler climbed back into his Jeep, wiping sweat from his brow as the sun beamed down. It was unusually warm for autumn, illuminating the scars of the storm across the dunes.

Figures the moron would crash, he thought with a snort as he drove away from the wreck. The footprints in the sand pointed to the lighthouse.

Pulling next to the white tower, Malcom noticed the unlocked door swaying in the sea breeze with another shake of his head. He was about to call Sam’s name when a flash of white wings made him duck.

"Fucking gulls," he swore.

Malcom noticed the seabird had flown behind the tower and that more were wheeling overhead. Climbing out of the Jeep, he circled the lighthouse and found a mob of gray and white pecking at something. Curious now, Malcom pulled his Colt .45 and shot over his head, scattering the seagulls in a chorus of protest.

Holding his nose at the smell of sun-baked flesh, Malcom turned over the savaged form. Sam’s face gaped at him, a scrap of paper fluttering from between his lips. Malcom unrolled it.

More blood on my hands.

Author’s Note: The setting alluded to in the subtitle for this story is the Race Point Lighthouse* on the tip of Cape Cod in Massachusetts. I had the good fortune of spending one summer vacation amid the rolling dunes when I was a child, and I have attempted to capture the unique feeling of the place here. Unlike our protagonist, I did not experience anything paranormal during my stay, but living among the waves and sand left its own lasting impression.

*The lighthouse pictured at the start of the story is located in Denmark. Unfortunately, there were no suitable images of Race Point on Unsplash.