THE LIGHTHOUSE

Life had not been sweet for Rosie Sinclair. She was intelligent and her early academic skills hinted at a brilliant future for the girl. The University lecturers who gloated over her to strive for the ultimate achievement had prompted her in her advancement. She could have anything she wanted they had relayed to her, but Rosie did not want anything. All she ever wanted was to be an ordinary woman, with an ordinary husband, with ordinary children living an ordinary life.

What Mother Nature had so generously bestowed on her, was negated by her unnatural and uninvited gift. The gift, as it had been portrayed by countless qualified psychologists, psychoanalysts and psycho anything else you can care to name was like an albatross around her neck.

Psychometry they called it, the ability to see things through given objects. As a child Rosie was ignorant of her powers. Weren’t all children like this she used to ask herself? Occasionally she would pick up a child’s ball for instance and be able to relate to that child’s occurrences from the past. She was mocked by other children rather than acclaimed, branded a freak.

After word had gotten around the media circus and the so-called therapists moved in and she became a celebrity overnight. The police took the opportunity to exploit her talents and recruited her remarkable gift to help solve numerous crimes. She had become the human bloodhound. Rosie one day decided she wanted out of London. She wanted to blend into society, melt away from the prying hypocrites and glory-seeking specialists.

Her parents though distraught at her decision understood her reasons for leaving. Her new life would begin shortly after her twenty-second birthday. She had an aunt in Cornwall, recently widowed. What better place to secrete than the wide expanses of Cornwall?

Her aunt welcomed her and promised never to mention the gift. In Trewithian, Rosie was just another ordinary girl, a welcome addition to the ordinary everyday life in this small town. Rosie was now happier than she had ever been. She had met a local lad and she cherished every spare moment she had with Ronnie. True, she still had the visions, but the lives of these gentle cultivated people offered her no threat as the apparitions were of trips to the seaside and jaunts in the countryside.

Rosie had found work, not as a doctor or a scientist as her lecturers had hoped, but as a barmaid. She soon established herself in this tranquil community and for the first time in her life she was glad to be alive. Rosie’s popularity was expanding with everyday, as she had become a sort of agony aunt of the Golden Pheasant. The punters would bring over their uncompleted crosswords to the bar, or perhaps their tax returns for Rosie to fill in for them. “You be too clever for this job missie,” they would say.

Rosie was plain looking in every way. Some say her hazel eyes were too close together and her nose was too wide. Rosie had promised that one day she would have her crooked teeth straightened. One feature she was proud of was her long straight auburn hair. Before going to bed she would make a point of passing the hairbrush through it one hundred times.

Yes Rosie was at long last content, she had acquired her obscurity from the inquisitive uncaring society. It did not last for long; a chance encounter with a customer was about to change her life forever. It was a glorious Summer evening, and Ronnie, this strapping long dark-haired farmhand who had captured her heart was sprawled across the bar in deep conversation with Rosie. A scruffy looking man entered the Golden Pheasant and stood looking around the bar as people turned their heads away from him. He was an odd looking chubby character, cock-eyed and with protruding teeth. His pale face was riddled with so many freckles. He was wearing an old combat jacket, a soiled white tee shirt and tattered jeans.

“Oh no,” exclaimed Ronnie as he saw the reflection of the character through the mirror behind the bar.

Rosie frowned as she watched the forlorn stranger shuffle towards her.
“And what can I do for you sir?”

The stranger wiped his runny nose with his sleeve and smiled, not the smile of someone with an ounce of acumen.
“A glass of cider.”

It was more a demand than a request.
Rosie poured the cider and placed the glass on the bar.
“That will be one pound and ninety-five pence please.”

The bemused looking man picked up the glass and emptied the glass in one swallow. Ronnie tried hard to hide his amusement as he faced Rosie. She wondered what was so amusing and frowned at her boyfriend. The stranger turned away and shuffled towards the exit.

“Excuse me please. Excuse me!”

The odd looking man turned to her.
“One pound and ninety-five pence please?”

He smiled at her, a pathetic smile. “Oh, oh, I’m so sorry.” He removed his wallet and fumbled inside for the money. A multitude of coins fell to the floor and Ronnie giggled loudly as Rosie tried to contain herself realising the joke. This must have been the village idiot. He scrambled on all fours as he collected the coins, mumbling to himself. Eventually he stood up and looked at Rosie, a blank stare on his face.

“Here, let me help you,” she said holding out her hand for the wallet.
A surge of power ran through her body as she grasped the wallet. She gasped and stepped back knocking some of the bottles over.

“Rosie, are you alright?” Asked Ronnie rushing to her aid.

Vivid coloured flashing lights had invaded her peaceful sanctuary, she saw children’s faces intermittently paraded in her thoughts. She slumped to the ground holding her head as she was now in a large circular room, a room with a red light projecting sporadically on the white walls. She moved around the room, her eyes fixed on several shapes set out on the rickety shelf. She edged closer towards the shapes and saw they were bowls, tiny bowls with lighted candles inside them. The flickering flames blended with the red light giving off an aura not unlike Santa’s grotto, only this was not Santa’s grotto.

She now stood inches from the bowls and the horror crept in uninvited like a stab in the heart. She made out the tiny faces adorning the bowls and screamed. When she came round several bodies stood over her.

“Rosie, are you okay?” Asked Ronnie.

She was passed a glass of water and drank thirstily. She looked at the wallet in her hand and knew it had begun once more.


Rosie was unusually quiet that night as she sat by the fireside sipping her cocoa. Her Aunt Helen left her gazing at the television as she made her way to bed, content in the fact Rosie had recovered from her blackout.

Rosie’s eyes were attracted to the dancing flames of the coal fire and she shuddered at the afterthought of the image. The strange man had left the Golden Pheasant unnoticed and without his wallet.

Her attention was distracted by the reporter on the television telling of yet another child abduction in Cornwall. The photograph of a ten-year old boy was projected onto the screen and Rosie gasped and cried loudly. It was one of the children she had seen in her vision. Eight children had now vanished from Cornwall in the last two years.

Rosie closed her eyes and tried to envisage the gruesome scene again, but without the wallet she was helpless. Ben, the landlord of the Golden Pheasant had put the wallet in his safe until the man returned for it. Rosie did not get much sleep that night, she knew she could not overlook her ordeal.


Rosie reported for work that next afternoon, insisting she was okay. Her thoughts were divided as she was in conflict with her emotions. Should she go to the police and report her findings and open up another can of worms, or should she ignore it and cringe as another young victim was added to the macabre shelf? Rosie decided on the third option, she would find this house of horror herself.

“Are you sure you be okay Rosie?” Asked Ben cleaning a glass.

“I’m fine Ben. Tell me, that man last night, the one who left his wallet. Who is he?”

“You mean Barney Chapman? Oh he’s harmless enough, not all there though. Not firing on all cylinders if you get my meaning.”

“Where does he live Ben?”

“Oh he lives with his brother George; they have a small farmhouse in St Austell.”

“So why does he come in here?”

“He be an attendant at St Anthony’s.”

“St Anthony’s?”

“Yeah, the lighthouse, you know. You must pass it everyday on the way to your aunt’s cottage.”

“A lighthouse!” She saw in her mind the rotating red light. “Ben, give the wallet to me; I’ll drop it off on the way home this evening.”

“It be closed to the public Rosie. It’s been closed for many a year now.”

“Is there access to the lighthouse from the land?”

“Aye! There’s a footpath leading up to the lighthouse, but there’s a restriction on it due to foot and mouth. Besides, Barney is only in the lighthouse occasionally. It‘s automatic you know.”

“I’ll drop the wallet off Ben. If he’s not there I’ll give it back to you in the morning.”

“Well if you be sure Rosie?”

“I’ve never been so sure in my life Ben.”


The sun was low in the sky as Rosie struggled against the strong sea breeze, as if it was trying to prevent her making progress along the long rocky footpath leading towards the lighthouse. She tasted the saltwater on her lips as she ducked beneath the foot and mouth warning sign. The shrill scream of the pristine white seagulls and the breaking of the tide on the rocks accompanied her on her way.

She stopped at another sign warning of no access to the public and looked up at the giant white structure, protruding from the rocks like an enormous phallic symbol. As she saw the waves crashing against the lighthouse, she wished she had checked the tide times, as this was the last place on earth she would wish to be stranded.

She gripped the cold iron railing and looked up towards her destination before advancing cautiously. Rosie climbed the steps trying not to look down as her fear of heights merged with the other warning signs telling her to turn back. Her legs ached with the long climb and at last she stood facing the door to the lighthouse. She fumbled in her shoulder bag for the can of mace and for some reason only known to herself she shouted. “Hello, is anyone at home?”

She waited for a reply that was not forthcoming. Her upbringing and polite nature compelled her to shout again. “Hello, anybody?”

She tried the door half expecting and hoping it would be locked but once again fate had dealt her a bum card. The coldness of the interior of the lighthouse was the first thing she noticed, and then the rotating red light being reflected around the room. She closed the door and advanced cautiously experiencing a feeling of deja vous.

The musty and putrid odour of the white room was not pleasant to her as she covered her nostrils with one hand and held the mace at the ready with the other. Her eyes traced where she had looked the day before and knew what was to come. The room was dimly lit but there was no mistaking, the rickety shelf with the candlelit bowls would not go away. She smiled slightly as if to reassure herself. Perhaps they were novelty candleholders, that’s it. She would have a closer look and break into laughter as she realised her mistake.

She advanced towards the objects carefully putting one foot in front of the other as if she was walking a tightrope. She swore she could hear her heartbeat accelerating as she stood inches away from the bowls, her lips quivering uncontrollably. Her cold hands reached out for one of the candleholders and she felt the fleshy substance as she brought it close to her face.

It was the face of a young child, a girl. The eyes were open and appeared to be pleading for help. Rosie sobbed as she noticed the rough-cut marks where the top of the head had been hacked away. She replaced the skull on the shelf carefully as if not to hurt the child. She stood and sobbed uncontrollably imagining the sad chorus of the lifeless victims joining in. The red light lit up the faces intermittently, as if introducing each child to Rosie.

The shadow on the wall interrupted her mourning and she felt a warm trickle run down her leg. She heard his breathing and her hands shook as she turned to face a grinning Barney Chapman, the saliva hanging from his lips. She shook her head as she was rendered speechless and tried to focus on the cock-eyed drooling monster.
“Why have you come here missy?”

“I’ve bbbrought your wallet back she stuttered. The conversation she knew was pointless, she had ventured into his den of horror and she had to react fast if she wanted to leave there alive.

The obese Barney took a step towards her and she instinctively sprayed the mace into his face as he screamed a childlike scream. He fell to his knees and Rosie ran for the door. She heard Barney whimpering as he got to his feet and made after her, his hands vigorously rubbing at his stinging eyes.

Rosie heard herself breathing heavily as she jerked open the door, the welcome air refreshing her. She slipped on the grimy surface and saw Barney squinting, his red eyes trying hard to focus on her.

“Bad, bad lady. You hurt Barney.”

She scrambled to her feet and kicked out Kung-Fu style, connecting with his midriff. He lost his balance and fell backwards, hard against the railing. Rosie watched in shock as the big man toppled over the railings disappearing from view. She dashed to the railing and peered down at the rocks in time to see Barney’s once menacing frame crash against the rocks below. She gazed at his lifeless body as the sea around him turned red, before he was washed away, to the depths of hell.

Rosie was confused; her options now did not appeal to her. If she reported the incident she would no doubt be asked how she knew of the lighthouse, but she felt she owed it to the children. She pondered as she watched the battered body mingling with the angry sea. She realised she still had the wallet and decided to return it to Ben with the excuse nobody was at the lighthouse. She felt devious and cold-hearted, as she knew that Ben would no doubt have to visit the lighthouse and experience the horror of what she had witnessed. Her mind was made up.


For three days after Rosie had been living on the edge. Her nerves were suffering as every time there was a news flash she expected the worst. Barney’s body had so far not been found and Rosie wondered if that was a good thing or not. She had erased every trace of her being at the lighthouse, carefully wiping the door handle. She had hinted often, hoping she was not making it too obvious, for Ben to return the wallet but his response was always, “I’ll get round to it.”

Ronnie had noticed a change in her as she tried without success to behave in a normal fashion. She had been unable to sleep and the bags beneath her eyes laid testament to this.

It was quiet in the Golden Pheasant that evening as she sat on the barstool her mind in another galaxy. The door opened and she felt the cool breeze against her face, bringing her back to reality.

A large stocky man wearing a flat cap and donkey jacket with soiled trousers entered the bar. His face looked familiar to Rosie as he took off his cap and coat, hanging them carefully on the peg. He approached the bar and Rosie stared into the not so handsome freckled face. His lank greasy hair was combed back Teddy Boy style and looked like it was in serious need of a conditioner. He had a slight turn in his eye and his yellow teeth when he smiled reminded Rosie of a piano.

“I’ll be having a pint of cider missie please?”

The request never registered with the starry-eyed barmaid.
“Excuse me, is anyone at home? A pint of cider please?”

Rosie proceeded to pour the cider and heard a voice behind her. It was Ben.
“George, long time no see. How are you doing?”

“Okay I suppose Ben. Listen, have you seen our Barney recently? The shit hasn’t been home now for three days.”

“Yes, he was here earlier in the week. In fact I was coming out to the lighthouse, you see Barney left his wallet here.”

“The bastard.“

Rosie pretended to ignore the two men as she cleaned a glass.
“Is something wrong George?” Asked Ben.

“The fat bastard, it wasn’t his wallet. I wondered what happened to it. Let me take a look?”

Rosie began to shake violently as she felt her legs turn to jelly.
“Aye, that’s mine alright. Just wait until I get my hands on him.”

As if in slow-motion Rosie dropped the glass and it shattered into a thousand pieces. She looked towards the scowling man and screamed at the top of her voice before collapsing to the floor, her body falling amongst the shards of glass.

George Chapman looked down at the girl and shook his head. “She ought to eat more iron Ben; she’s so skinny.”

He finished his cider and walked to the coat peg as Ben tried to revive Rosie. He wrapped himself up, whistled a nameless tune and exited the Golden Pheasant.