The Lighthouse Keeper’s Wife
My tent slapped like the sail of a gybing yacht as I pitched up within sight of the North Head lighthouse. There was moisture in the air. It tasted salty, and left a film on my spectacles. Waves hurled themselves against the rocks below the lighthouse with a power that was simultaneously exhilarating and appalling.
The wind and waves were my lullaby that night.
I awoke at about one o’clock.
Somebody was sobbing, gasping sobs of desperate distress. I pulled on waterproofs, seized my torch and went out into the gale. There was a wail up ahead, and I saw her, running pell-mell towards the cliffs.
“Stop,” I yelled.
She turned, saw me and shrieked with terror. Panic-stricken, she turned to flee.
“No!” I screamed.
Too late. She plunged over the cliff, plummeting out of sight.
I called 911, but the police found nothing.
“Mary Pesonen’s ghost,” they told me.