Chapter 3 #2
The first frame showed the lighthouse from her shooting position, the telephoto lens compressing perspective and bringing distant rocks into sharp focus. The second frame, taken moments later, showed the same view with slightly different lighting.
Both images showed empty rocks.
Lily examined the negatives under red light, searching for any trace of the figure she’d seen so clearly. The rocks were there, seaweed, patterns of light and shadow—but no woman in white. No human figure at all.
She made contact prints of both frames, then enlarged them to 8x10 for detailed examination. The detail was sharp, the exposure perfect. If someone had been standing among those rocks, the camera would have recorded them.
The photographs showed nothing.
Lily stared at the prints, her mind reeling. She’d been certain, absolutely convinced of what she’d seen. She had been there, clear and detailed through the telephoto lens. Her clothing, her posture, the way she’d stood watching—none of it had felt like imagination.
Yet the camera had recorded only empty rocks and morning shadows.
She developed the remaining rolls, documenting her lighthouse photography with methodical precision. Foundation work, structural details, various angles and perspectives—all captured exactly as she’d seen them. The camera had functioned perfectly.
Only the lady in white had failed to appear on film.
Lily gathered her prints and negatives, struggling to process the implications. Either she’d experienced hallucinations, or she’d seen something that existed outside normal photographic rules.
Neither possibility offered comfort.
Two hours later, she stood outside the historical society, her camera bag slung over her shoulder and a new determination hardening in her chest. The society occupied a converted Victorian house two blocks from the library, its rooms crammed with documents, photographs, and artifacts from Westerly Cove’s past. She had visited several times for research, but had never requested restricted archive access.
Mrs. Eleanor Whitman, the society’s director, was a woman in her seventies with steel-gray hair and sharp intelligence earned through decades of historical research. She looked up from her desk as Lily entered, expression polite but wary.
“Miss Morgan. Back for your lighthouse project?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve exhausted your general collection and need access to more detailed records. Specifically, anything about deaths or unusual incidents at the lighthouse during the 1920s.”
Mrs. Whitman’s expression tightened. “What kind of unusual incidents?”
“I’m particularly interested in Catherine Hartwell. I understand she passed away under mysterious circumstances sometime in the 1920s.”
“Where did you hear about Catherine Hartwell?”
“Tourists mentioned her. They said she was part of local folklore connected to the lighthouse.”
Mrs. Whitman drummed her fingers against her desk. “The restricted archives require special permission, Miss Morgan. They contain materials considered too sensitive for general research.”
“Sensitive how?”
“Personal family records, unsubstantiated accounts, materials that casual researchers might misinterpret.” The woman’s tone suggested the conversation was ending. “I can’t grant access without proper credentials and a compelling research justification.”
Heat climbed Lily’s neck. “This is serious historical research, Mrs. Whitman. I’m documenting architectural discrepancies that prove the lighthouse’s official construction history is incomplete. Catherine Hartwell’s story might be connected to those discrepancies.”
“Architectural discrepancies?”
“Foundation work includes limestone sections that predate the lighthouse’s official construction by decades. Someone built around an existing structure and then concealed that fact from official records.”
Mrs. Whitman’s face paled. “Where exactly did you observe these discrepancies?”
“The northeastern corner. The limestone blocks are clearly pre-dating the granite work, and the construction techniques are completely different.”
“You’ve documented this?”
“Extensively. Photographs and detailed notes comparing the actual structure to the 1847 blueprints.”
Mrs. Whitman stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “You should discontinue this research, Miss Morgan. Some historical questions are better left unexamined.”
“Why? What are you afraid I’ll discover?”
“I’m not afraid of anything. I’m concerned about a young woman becoming obsessed with local legends and unfounded speculation.”
Lily’s jaw clenched. “Then give me access to the restricted archives. Let me see the actual records about Catherine Hartwell and other unusual incidents at the lighthouse. If there’s nothing to hide, the documentation will speak for itself.”
Mrs. Whitman’s mouth formed a thin line. “I’ll need to discuss your request with the board of directors. The historical society policy requires unanimous approval for restricted archive access.”
“How long will that take?”
“Two weeks minimum. Possibly longer.”
“I’ll submit a formal written request today.”
“As you wish.” Mrs. Whitman’s tone suggested distaste for the entire conversation. “But I strongly advise focusing your research on less controversial aspects of local history.”
Lily left the historical society more convinced than ever that she’d stumbled onto something significant. The defensive reactions, restricted access, warnings about controversial research—all pointed toward secrets people were actively protecting.
Walking back toward school, her mind returned to the woman. The photographs showed empty rocks, but Lily’s memory of the encounter remained vivid and detailed. She’d seen something at the lighthouse, something that didn’t register on film but felt completely real.
Maybe cameras couldn’t capture everything. Maybe some truths existed beyond conventional documentation.
The thought both thrilled and terrified her.
Whatever people were hiding about the lighthouse’s history, Lily would find it. Even if it meant challenging every assumption about reality, she’d ever held.
The restricted archives would have to wait two weeks, but her research could continue in other directions. Newspaper microfilm, death records, census data—multiple ways existed to investigate Catherine Hartwell’s story.
If Mrs. Whitman thought a two-week delay would discourage her, the woman clearly didn’t understand the depth of Lily’s determination.
Some secrets were worth fighting for, even if the fight meant questioning everything she thought she knew about the world.