Voices linger when silence hides.
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October–the month of cold and fog.
Fogton lived up to its name– an old, coastal town shrouded in thick mists of smoky grey.
They hugged the town like untold secrets.
An old lighthouse stood quiet, sentient–
Bougainvillaea–covered, once pristine, now sullied by a decade of neglect.
But rumours soaked the cobblestone steps.
Of murder and mayhem.
16-year-old Iris Moss was like the walls–overshadowed and overlooked.
But she saw more–and acknowledged what others pretended wasn’t there.
Her classmates at the town’s only High School were teenagers on edge– they wanted more than what the old, decrepit city could offer.
Among them was Thomas King, who never shied away from trouble.
And was too familiar to the police.
“Hey, guys.” He pointed to the lighthouse while cruising by with his ragtag group on a languid afternoon. ” We’ve never been in there. How’s this? Those who manage one night in the place get $50 from moi.”
To Thomas, from a family made of money, the amount was superficial.
And attractive. Thomas’s motley group of youths stepped into the home, excited by the prospect of the extra cash their parents wouldn’t give.
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Fog hung over the lighthouse, a dense, permanent shroud.
The property spoke of neglect.
Vines crept over the walls, and dirt caked the windows in darkness. The fog that hugged Fogtown seemed to grip it with extra intensity. Whispers rose through the walls–not loud. Just–
Persistent.
Present.
Brushing the nerves like fingertips that were over-chilled.
Some of the group’s known cynics laughed it off like the mock heroes they were. Pure terror gnawed at the nerves of others.
Their fingers wrapped tightly around their torchlights.
A faded journal lay, its pages open, on a side table.
A familiar name.
“Hey,” Thomas, ever the cynic, thumbed the pages, still chuckling. “Isn’t Bert one of those who went missing without a trace last year? Maybe they’re still–
Here! Ha!”
A stamp.
And a menacing, childish boo.
The skittish group members gasped in anguished surprise.
Iris included.
Her mouth hung open, then shut again.
She knew her silence would spell mayhem.
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Then, the door to the room bolted.
Itself.
Trapping the trespassing teens within the room.
Then deep, heaving breaths–it breathed with them.
The air throbbed with their heartbeats.
To face the truths about themselves, they hadn’t–for too long.
Compelling Iris to speak for herself–and her friend.
Her voice–uncontained by the dark.
She eyed Thomas squarely–and the self-named sceptic took a step back.
“Stop the mock bravado. You’re as scared as the rest of us.”
She took another step towards him–he took another backwards, and faltered.
“We laugh. YOU laugh.” She eyed him up and down. “But laughter doesn’t change the fact that they remember us.
She finally pressed him against a wall.
He couldn’t move.
“Remember you.”
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The group left the lighthouse, Iris in front.
Thomas, hanging his head in respectful tow.
Daylight broke through the clouds and streamed past the vine-covered walls, making the green more–
Lush.
The silence was broken, and with it, the voices appeased.
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Iris’ eyes lingered on the lighthouse as the group trod across white sand and cobblestone.
The fog cleared slightly–the lights within flickered.
Thanking her for speaking–for voices unheard.
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