Chapter 1
one
Lily Morgan traced the lighthouse outline she’d drawn in her notebook margin, her pen following the same white tower she could see through the classroom window.
Mr. Davidson droned on about the Salem Witch Trials, his overhead projector fan humming, but her attention kept drifting to Hawthorne Point.
The tower stood against the gray October sky, its beacon dark now but ready for nightfall. Seagulls wheeled around its peak, and she could just make out her father’s pickup truck parked at the base—another maintenance call, another afternoon of him wrestling with equipment while she waited at home.
“Senior research projects,” Mr. Davidson announced, clicking off the projector. “Forty percent of your final grade. Due December fifteenth.”
Lily straightened, her pen poised over the spiral notebook. Brown University’s journalism program accepted only the best students. Every grade counted now.
“I want college-level work,” he continued, perching on the edge of his desk. “Primary sources. Original analysis. If I see one citation from an encyclopedia, you’ll rewrite the entire paper.”
Her classmates groaned in unison. Lily’s mouth curled upward. The hunt for truth beneath surface facts, the puzzle of fitting scattered pieces into a coherent story—this was what real journalists did.
“Local history projects work well,” he said, distributing photocopied sheets. “We live in one of New England’s most historically rich areas. Use that advantage.”
Lily scanned the approved topics: Maritime Commerce in 19th Century Salem, The Witch Trials: Separating Fact from Fiction, Industrial Revolution’s Impact on the Local Fishing Industry. Standard fare that would send her to the library’s dusty microfiche machine for hours of eye-straining research.
Her gaze drifted back to the window. The keeper’s house sat empty at the tower’s base, its windows dark, but chimney smoke had once curled from that roof.
Families had lived there, children had played beneath its towering presence, and someone had climbed those stairs every evening to tend the light.
“You may also propose your own topic,” he added, “provided it meets academic standards and focuses on pre-1950 history.”
“The Hawthorne Point Lighthouse.” The words escaped before Lily could catch them.
His eyebrows rose. “Interesting choice, Miss Morgan. Built in 1847, it has a rich maritime history. Your father works there now, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, sir. He maintains the automated systems.”
“Excellent primary source access.” A note went into his grade book. “I’d suggest focusing on a specific aspect. The construction period, perhaps, or the keeper families who lived there.”
Lily nodded, but her mind raced beyond his suggestions.
She’d sat in Robert’s truck countless times while he fixed broken equipment, never really examining the structure as a historical artifact.
She’d never considered the families who had called that small house home, who had tended the light through decades of storms and fog.
The bell rang. Students shuffled toward the door, already complaining about research deadlines. Lily collected her books, organizing research strategies. She’d start with the town library’s local history section, interviewing residents who might remember stories.
“Lily, wait up!” Sarah Whitfield caught up with her in the hallway, blonde hair bouncing as she navigated through the crowd. “Please tell me you won’t actually write about that creepy lighthouse.”
“It’s not creepy. It’s historical.”
“My grandmother says weird things happen out there. Lights in the windows when no one’s supposed to be inside, voices carrying on the wind.”
“Your grandmother also claims the moon landing was faked, and that fluoride is a government conspiracy.”
Sarah laughed. “Fair point. But seriously, why not pick an easier topic? The witch trials—half the research already exists.”
They paused at Sarah’s locker, where pictures of Leonardo DiCaprio and Jonathan Taylor Thomas shared space with class schedules and phone numbers.
Sarah had been Lily’s best friend since third grade, and while they’d grown in different directions—Sarah toward fashion magazines and boy bands, Lily toward newspaper deadlines and college prep—they still understood each other’s rhythms.
“Easy doesn’t get you into Brown,” Lily said, leaning against the neighboring locker. “Besides, it has stood there for over 150 years. Think about all the ships it guided to safety.”
“All the ships that wrecked anyway,” Sarah added with a grin. “All the keepers who went mysteriously insane.”
“Did any keepers actually go insane?”
“I don’t know, but it sounds good, doesn’t it?” Sarah pulled out her history textbook. “I picked fashion during the Civil War.”
Lily raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“What? It’s historical. And way more interesting than maintenance logs.”
They walked toward the library, their steps echoing in the mostly empty hallway.
Most students avoided the library unless absolutely necessary, but Lily had always found comfort in the smell of old books, the quiet hum of the card catalog drawers, the sense that any question could find an answer if you knew where to look.
“Want to come over tonight?” Sarah asked as they reached the doors. “My mom rented 10 Things I Hate About You, and we could order pizza.”
“Can’t. I want to start research while I’m still excited about it.”
Sarah shook her head. “You know what your problem is? You need to learn the difference between school and life.”
“School is life. At least until I graduate.”
“That’s exactly what I mean.” Sarah headed toward the main hallway. “Call me if you change your mind. And try not to get possessed by any ghosts.”
Lily pushed through the doors, breathing in the scent of aging paper and dust. Mrs. Warren, the librarian, looked up from her desk with recognition.
“Lily! Starting your senior project already?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m researching the Hawthorne Point Lighthouse.”
“Excellent choice. We have quite a bit of material on local maritime history.” Mrs. Warren stood and gestured toward the back corner.
“The local history section is over there, and I believe we have several boxes of photographs and documents that the town’s Historical Society donated.
We haven’t catalogued them yet, but you’re welcome to look through them. ”
Lily worked for the next hour, pulling books from the shelves, creating a stack of resources on the table.
Maritime New England: A Comprehensive History.
Lighthouses of the Atlantic Coast. Westerly Cove: From Settlement to Seaport.
The thrill of discovery built as she flipped through pages, taking notes on construction dates, shipping records, and storm chronicles.
The microfiche machine in the corner held copies of the local newspaper dating back to the 1800s. Lily loaded the first reel and began scrolling through decades of headlines, squinting at the blurry text.
LIGHTHOUSE CONSTRUCTION BEGINS. FIRST LIGHT ILLUMINATED. KEEPER WILLIAM ALDRICH APPOINTED.
Aldrich. She wrote the name in her notebook. The first keeper bore the same last name as the current mayor. A family connection might open interesting research angles.
More scrolling revealed storm reports, shipping news, and the occasional human-interest story.
KEEPER’S DAUGHTER BORN. LIGHTHOUSE STANDS FIRM AGAINST HURRICANE. ALDRICH FAMILY CELEbrATES TWENTY YEARS OF SERVICE.
The Aldriches had maintained the structure for generations. But when had that changed? When had automation replaced the keeper’s position?
By the time Mrs. Warren announced closing in fifteen minutes, Lily had filled six pages of her notebook with dates, names, and potential research leads.
“Find anything interesting?” Mrs. Warren asked as Lily returned the microfiche reels.
“Lots. Did you know the same family maintained the structure for over a hundred years? I never realized it until now.” Lily shrugged. Until now, she hadn’t really paid much attention to her dad’s job or employer. Likely because she was caught up in being a teenager.
Mrs. Warren laughed softly. “The Aldriches, yes. Gerald’s still the keeper there, has been for decades through all the changes.” Her expression grew thoughtful. “Though I think there might have been some transition issues when they automated the light. Gerald had to adapt his methods, you know.”
“What kind of transition issues?”
“Oh, nothing dramatic. Just the usual complications when technology changes how you do a job you’ve done the same way for generations.” She began turning off the reading lamps. “You might want to talk to Gerald himself. He’d remember better than anyone.”
Lily collected her books and notes, her mind churning with possibilities.
Family disputes could make compelling research angles, especially if they involved Gerald adapting to new technology.
And if the current mayor belonged to the keeper family, that added another layer of local political interest.
The October afternoon had grown crisp during her time inside, and the setting sun cast long shadows across the parking lot.
Lily could see the structure from here, its white tower beginning to glow pink in the autumn light.
Soon, the automated beacon would begin its nightly rotation, sweeping across the harbor as it had for the past sixteen years.
But for over a century before that, human hands had tended the light. Generations had made that small house their home, raised their children within sight of the sea, and maintained the beacon that guided ships safely to harbor.
Lily started walking toward home, research materials tucked under her arm.
Tomorrow she’d start making phone calls, maybe visit the town archives if she could get a ride.
But tonight, she wanted to look through whatever old maintenance logs her father might have access to, to see if any remnants of the human era still existed in the building.