Chapter 11
eleven
The newspaper morgue reeked of decaying paper and forgotten secrets. Lily hunched over stacks of microfilm boxes, her eyes burning from hours of staring at the projection screen. Research into Catherine Hartwell’s death had become something far darker.
She’d uncovered the pattern.
All had researched the lighthouse.
Lily’s notebook sprawled open beside her, crammed with dates, names, and circumstances. Red ink marked suspicious deaths, blue tracked their research, and black recorded official explanations. The evidence emerged with photographic clarity.
Every ten to fifteen years, someone arrived in Westerly Cove asking questions about the lighthouse’s history. They visited the library, examined old records, and interviewed local residents. They discovered something important.
Then they died.
Methods varied. Drowning, heart attack, suicide, disappearance. But timing remained constant—within weeks of their discoveries, when their research threatened someone. Investigations stayed cursory, conducted by local officials who found exactly what they expected.
Lily loaded another microfilm reel, hands trembling. The Westerly Cove Herald from March 1923 scrolled past in black and white. She slowed when she reached Catherine Hartwell’s death date.
LOCAL WOMAN DIES IN LIGHTHOUSE TRAGEDY Catherine Hartwell, 28, of Boston, died at the base of Westerly Cove Light yesterday morning.
Police Chief Samuel Morrison ruled the death a suicide, noting that Miss Hartwell had been despondent over recent personal difficulties.
She had been staying at the Seaside Inn while conducting research for her doctoral thesis on New England maritime history.
“It’s a terrible tragedy,” said inn proprietor Margaret Whitman. “She appeared to be such a bright young woman. But she’d been acting strangely the past few days, talking about conspiracies and cover-ups. I think the isolation and pressure of her research had affected her mind.”
Winston Aldrich, lighthouse supervisor, discovered the body during his morning inspection. “She must have climbed the fence sometime during the night,” he said. “Poor girl. These academic types can get too wrapped up in their work, losing perspective on reality.”
Miss Hartwell will be buried in Boston, where she attended university.
Lily stared at the article, her pulse hammering against her throat. Winston Aldrich—that family name from the current lighthouse administration. Her father mentioned a Gerald Aldrich, the current keeper. How many generations of Aldriches had controlled lighthouse operations?
Where were Catherine’s research materials?
The microfilm advanced to the next day’s edition. A small notice caught her attention:
RESEARCHER’S BELONGINGS DESTROYED IN FIRE A fire at the Seaside Inn last night destroyed the personal effects of Catherine Hartwell, the Boston researcher who died earlier this week.
Inn proprietor Margaret Whitman said the blaze appeared to start in Miss Hartwell’s room, possibly from an overturned lamp.
No other guests were injured, but Miss Hartwell’s research materials and personal papers were completely destroyed.
“It’s another tragedy,” said Whitman. “First the poor girl takes her own life, now this. Almost like someone doesn’t want her work to continue.”
Police Chief Morrison dismissed suggestions of foul play. “Sometimes bad things happen in clusters,” he said. “But there’s no evidence of criminal activity. The girl was clearly disturbed, and accidents happen.”
Acid burned through Lily’s stomach. The fire had happened the night after Catherine’s death, erasing everything that might reveal her discoveries. Those same officials who’d ruled her death a suicide dismissed the fire as a coincidence.
Catherine’s research materials were conveniently destroyed. Just like Dr. Whitmore’s notes when his boat sank. Just like Margaret Thornton’s work when she vanished.
She scrolled through more newspapers, hunting for earlier incidents.
Everything was held together. Every researcher who’d approached the lighthouse’s secrets had died under mysterious circumstances.
Every death received quick explanations from local authorities.
Every piece of evidence vanished or faced destruction.
Names blurred as she read. Academic researchers, freelance historians, even curious tourists who’d asked dangerous questions. All were eliminated before they could share their discoveries.
The next newspaper made her gasp.
LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER DIES IN STORM Edmund Hawthorne, 45, principal keeper of Westerly Cove Lighthouse, died yesterday evening when he fell from the lighthouse gallery during a severe storm.
Police Chief Morrison said the death appeared accidental, noting that the storm had created dangerous conditions throughout the area.
“Ed was a good man and a dedicated keeper,” said Winston Aldrich, lighthouse supervisor. “He’d been acting strangely lately, asking a lot of questions about the lighthouse’s history and operations. I think he was under a lot of pressure.”
Hawthorne’s wife, Mathilde, was unavailable for comment. The family is said to be making arrangements to leave Westerly Cove.
Lily’s hands shook as she read the date: October 13, 1923. Seven months after Catherine Hartwell’s death. Edmund Hawthorne wasn’t a visiting researcher—he’d been the lighthouse keeper. He’d lived and worked in the building, accessing areas others couldn’t reach.
And he’d died asking questions about lighthouse history.
This went beyond eliminating outside researchers. They killed anyone within their operation who grew too curious.
She thought about her father, Robert Morgan, who’d worked in lighthouse maintenance for twenty years. How many questions had he asked? How many unusual things had he noticed and dismissed?
The microfilm revealed more incidents. A harbormaster who’d questioned shipping records in 1934. A Coast Guard inspector who’d investigated structural modifications in 1952. A town historian who’d examined lighthouse finances in 1961.
All dead. All within weeks of their investigations.
Lily ejected the microfilm and loaded another reel from the 1960s. She needed to understand the full scope. How many people had died protecting these secrets?
Margaret Thornton’s file provided answers.
GRADUATE STUDENT MISSING Margaret Thornton, 24, a graduate student from Harvard University, has been missing for five days.
Miss Thornton disappeared after leaving the Westerly Cove Public Library on Tuesday afternoon.
She had been researching local maritime history for her thesis on New England lighthouse operations.
“She was very dedicated to her work,” said librarian Mrs. Warren. “She’d been coming in everyday for two weeks, studying old shipping records and lighthouse logs. She appeared excited about something she’d discovered.”
Police Chief Kenneth Morrison said the search would continue, but noted that Miss Thornton had been asking unusual questions about local families and their connections to lighthouse operations. “She may have gotten herself into a situation she couldn’t handle,” he said.
Winston Aldrich, lighthouse supervisor, expressed concern for the missing student. “These academic types sometimes get obsessed with conspiracy theories,” he said. “They see patterns where none exist. I hope she’s safe, but I worry she may have let her imagination run away with her.”
Follow-up articles remained sparse. The search ended after a week. Margaret Thornton was presumed dead, though her body never surfaced. Police confiscated her materials, later destroying them due to “space constraints.”
Lily stared at the screen, her mind spinning.
Three generations of Winston Aldriches had managed lighthouse operations.
Three generations had been present when the researcher died under mysterious circumstances.
Three generations had offered identical explanations about academic obsession and conspiracy theories.
She loaded the most recent microfilm from the 1970s. Dr. James Whitmore’s death received thorough documentation.
HISTORIAN DROWNS IN BOATING ACCIDENT Dr. James Whitmore, 52, a respected maritime historian from Boston University, drowned yesterday when his sailboat capsized during a sudden storm. The Coast Guard recovered his body this morning near the lighthouse rocks.
“It’s a tragic accident,” said Police Chief David Morrison. “Dr. Whitmore was an experienced sailor, but weather conditions can change quickly here. He was probably caught off guard.”
Winston Aldrich, lighthouse supervisor, said Dr. Whitmore had been researching lighthouse operations for several weeks.
“He was very thorough, maybe too thorough. He’d been asking questions about things that had happened decades ago, digging through old records.
I think he was trying to prove a theory about historical irregularities. ”
Dr. Whitmore’s research notes drowned when his boat sank. The university said that his work would be impossible to reconstruct without his original materials.
Lily shut off the microfilm reader and sat in darkness, her mind racing. This truth was clear, but terrifying. She wasn’t just researching local history—she walked in the footsteps of murdered researchers.
And she displayed identical behavior that had gotten them killed.
The questions she’d asked, the records she’d examined, connections she’d made—all fit the profile of previous victims. She’d visited the library regularly, studied old documents, and interviewed local residents about lighthouse history.
She’d even encountered Catherine Hartwell’s spirit, just as Catherine had probably met the spirits of researchers who’d died before her.
Everything suggested she was next.
Lily gathered her materials, hands shaking. She needed to get home, needed to process what she’d discovered. But walking through the library’s empty corridors, she couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched.