Young Writers Society

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bookaddict wrote:The Lighthouse
Preface

Of course it’s not actually a lighthouse. The real thing is much more common, a simple box of wood and brick, nothing fancy or overly exciting. Except to me. It was a student’s house, big and drafty, holes, mice in drawers, and a general air of romantic poverty.

I loved it. From the creaking wooden floors to the derelict old attic, the house, with its peeling pale blue paint and wrought iron archway was a perfect blend of dream and reality. Somehow no matter where you went in that house, and no matter what time of year, it was always full of light. That was my first impression. Natalie held the door open for me as I stepped tentatively over the threshold of the lighthouse.

“I knew you’d like it, ” she said, turning to me and beaming; I couldn’t help but smile back. She was right, I thought before I could help it, but I didn’t want to get too attached.

Out loud I said, “There’s no way we can afford this-“ stopping mid sentence at the look on my friend’s face. “What?”

Natalie sighed. As usual I was being particularly dense. “Don’t worry,” she coaxed, taking my arm and looking earnestly up into my face “it’s all taken care of!”

At which point she smiled, and there was such warmth, such teasing comfort and affection in that smile that I couldn’t help but smile back. It was reassuring. And then, suddenly, in a whirl of scarves, oversized bags, and whirling skirts she was bustling out the door, muttering last minute instructions, and begging me to feel at home

And with a hurried” The others’ll be over later!” she had blown out the door. I stood looking after her, turning quietly to view my new home. Without Natalie, silence had fallen over the place with startling efficiency. I suddenly got the inexplicable feeling I was trespassing and wrapped my arms around myself for comfort as goose bumps pricked along my skin.

“Welcome home,” I muttered aloud to no one in particular.

Ch. 1- “The Haven”

The feeling of the street was melancholy but comforting. Mysteriously windy, it had a touch of eternal autumn with its old-fashioned cobbled streets and creaky houses. Altogether it was agreed by the residents of 27 and Crescent that theirs was a particularly peaceful street and that the pale blue mansion at the end was largely the cause.

Somehow that strange, centuries-old house exuded protection and warmth over the rest of the neighbourhood. It stood there in its rightful place at the end of the street, like the guest of honour at a dinner party. And that was why the old man who owned the house wanted to make sure not just anyone stayed there. He had been renting it out for years now. However, this year the winter had been particularly bitter, and the cold seeped into his bones, warning him softly that it was time to find a more permanent arrangement.

Of course there had been the expected stream of rich old ladies with bunt cakes, eager newly-weds, eccentric writers drawn to the “atmosphere” of the place, etc. There were perspective buyers galore, and although he turned down many of them he finally settled on a nice young couple, kind people who he felt sure would take good care of the place.

That night he slept soundly, his heart at peace after so many months of uncertainty. Secure in the knowledge that the last, and most important, of his affairs were taken care of Ben passed away in his sleep. He never bothered to check the weather that night, never saw the sudden snowstorm that whirled through the dark streets of the little Minnesota suburb. Overnight the streets froze solid, and the lane was covered in a blanket of white; silence descended over everything as all sound was snuffed out like a candle by quick fingers.

Perhaps if he had seen the weather report Tom might have thought to warn the Joneses. That could have made all the difference. As it were, three lives were lost that night, and the little girl who survived the crash was to grow up never knowing the house she was meant to inherit. It was truly miraculous that the little girl survived, and of course, given the circumstances, it was decided by her foster parents that the less Natalie knew about the tragic circumstances of her parent’s death the better. So the old house stayed empty, and somehow after that night people didn’t feel quite the same about it. When old Ben had lived there it had been filled with warmth and light, but now it stood at the end of lane, silent and slowly falling into disrepair.

Natalie woke with a start. The room was filled with the mature glow of evening and she realized she had slept too late again. Settling back against the couch she raised her hand to shield here eyes from the light of the setting sun. Squinting her eyes shut she saw blurry images against the backs of her lids, already losing the clarity and sharpness of the dream. She sighed, unnerved. As always, it had felt so real! An old house, a sweet voice- her mother’s? She thought it must have been…And an old man, so tall in her dream, crouching down to smile at her as she took in everything with wide, solemn grey eyes. The inside of the house was always maddeningly detailed; she could recall the exact wooden carvings on the handle of the man’s cane, the rich pattern of the carpet in the hallway…but no address. Chilled through her bones, she snuggled deeper under her blanket turning to stare blankly at the ceiling. How long, she wondered, would she have to search until she found it?