Thinking about fisherman Johnny dragging you into his cabin and shutting the doors behind — his big dog nowhere to be found, his eyes electric blue of fluorescent lamps when he loads his rifle and tells you to ‘sit your arse down’.
You should not be here after dark, he says. You should be up in your lighthouse, locked in your princess tower, your hair swaying with the wind, shining light behind your back like God’s merciful hand to every lost and forsaken, to every soul needing your light.
“I’m sorry”, you say, “I met Kyle. I just…just want to ask a few questions.”
You don’t add anything else but you don’t really need to, not when Johnny looks at you with haunted eyes and curses, now barricading the windows too, his hands trembling.
Kyle can’t he here, he rambles, Kyle is not here, you have not met Kyle, you are gravely mistaken.
There is a heavy presence settling behind your back — wet fur and salt, heat and silence.
Ghost, you think to yourself and don’t turn back, still watching the way Johnny locks the whole cabin down.
Your throat tightens because he is erratic and clearly unwell, his rambling unintelligible when he laughs — hoarse mirthless sound as he makes sure that windows are covered, as he checks the rifle again, as he dims the lights and hisses you to get on the floor.
So no one can see you through the window or cracks in his barricade.
“I’m sorry”, you say again, not sure what you even apologise for but Johnny looks like he might kill someone today and his hands are still trembling. “I didn’t know anyone else other than you and Ghost.”
Johnny watches you for a moment too long, his eyes slip behind your back on his big dark-eyed dog and some tension bleeds out of his shoulders.
He opens his mouth, but no sound makes it out of his throat, because the springs on his bed creak when Ghost shifts his weight and in the ringing silence you can hear it.
Light and careful, almost dancing around the house, prowling to find a crack or a glimpse.
You carefully slide down on the floors and despite the darkness and the fear and the tension you can see Johnny’s hands finally settle down. The remaining anxious tension replaced by grim determination.
You sit under the windowsill, tucked in the shadow and there is this moment where you can see all the colour melt off his face, his eyes glued to something he could see in the window. Just for a moment, but his face turns to stone and you can’t but really want to whimper.
Only Ghost huffs out air — sharp and sudden, he snaps you both out of it, big outline of him moving on the floor to you. Tucks himself to your side — warm and real, his heartbeat thumping right under yours.
The night stretches out in a million years, slow and tense, something walking around Johnny’s house.
Looking for a way in, you realise at some point and squeeze yourself closer to Ghost, his quiet slow breathing almost soothing.
You don’t look at Johnny anymore though, fearing you will see another moment of him seeing something right above you.
The two of you don’t move even when the sunlight stretches out the first rays of warmth through the cracks of his barricaded windows. For an hour or two you two sit still, hoping not to hear any more steps outside.
Hoping not to see anyone when you will inevitably need to leave.
“What was that?” You ask deep in a new afternoon, your voice bordering on whisper when you finally look at Johnny and he drags fingers through outgrown hair, pulls on it with a groan before looking at you again.
“Kyle.” He says, voice as low as yours is when he tries to smile and fails, rifle lying in his lap now.
You don’t ask what it means. You don’t ask why Kyle was here or what did he want.
“He’s following ye.” It’s not a question but a statement, making you hate him a little bit. You don’t want anyone to follow you, even if they are as beautiful as Kyle is.
“Why did you say I couldn’t have met him?” You ask suddenly, already knowing that you do not want to hear answer to that either. “When I said that I met him, you told me that it was impossible. Why?”
Johnny squeezes his jaws together, eyes tired and endlessly-blue. He doesn’t want to tell you either.
“Kyle’s been dead for eight years, luv.” The quiet heavy voice wraps around your throat like a noose to pull you out of this hole you found yourself in.
Wet fur and salt, heat and heavy presence.
You slowly turn your head, swallowing panic and screaming and slimy suffocating terror and ‘what the fuck’ and urge to flinch into a third corner of the house.
He still sits next to you — massive man with heavy jaws and dark too-human eyes. His heartbeat thumps through you when you squeeze his hand, finding it instead of paws and blink slowly.
“And I reckon there is a reason he’s back.” Ghost continues, content to let you play with his fingers as long as it pushes back your nervous breakdown. “Anythin’ happening at your lighthouse that you wanna share with us?”
You stare at his hand — wide and scarred, with the absent trigger finger and surprisingly soft scars crossing his wrist — and try not to think about the lighthouse.
About your job. About the music still playing there.
“Kyle said something.” You finally say, swallowing the steadily uncurling tornado of panic inside of you, “When I…when we…” you correct yourself, glancing up at Ghost who stares at you like he has no idea what you’re talking about. “…met him.”
“And what did he say?” Johnny asks, bracing his forearms on his knees, his legs crossed on the hard wooden floors of his cabin.
He doesn’t mention why his dog is suddenly a man.
“He said I met someone else already.” You murmur and squeeze Ghost’s paw of a hand, blinking through the urge to curl into his side and cry until you are numb. “That I’ve seen John.”
Johnny doesn’t say anything and you get an awful feeling that he knows what this is about.
But maybe there are two of you — scared and really hoping not to hear the answer to their questions.
“Where?” He forces out and for a moment you think that he just might put you down.
As a safety precaution. Too much trouble to deal with otherwise.
“Kyle said he lives in the basement.” You say and hate that you need to clarify. “Under the lighthouse.”
