I’LL BE DEAD FOR CHRISTMAS
KRISTI AHLERS
“I’ll be home for Christmas” warbled from the speakers. Ainsley rolled her eyes and switched off the radio. The first carol of the season seemed to happen earlier and earlier each year. It meant Christmas was close, and Ainsley Bettencourt loathed this holiday above all else.
Sleet pelted the windshield. The wipers struggled to remove the ice. With the exception of the lighthouse in the distance, the island was totally dark. Ainsley’s palms, slick with sweat, gripped the steering wheel as she nosed the car off the ferry and onto the road. The wind buffeted the small compact she’d rented. Ainsley white-knuckled her already tightened grip on the steering wheel, as the car bumped along the small blacktop road.
Christmas. Always a time of sadness. Always a time of terror. Her parents were killed on Christmas Eve. Her aunt died when Ainsley was fourteen, on Christmas Day. They found her body, broken and bleeding, at the base of the lighthouse stairs. Ainsley left Bettencourt Island the minute she turned eighteen, promising herself to never return.
But things change.
And she was back on Bettencourt Island.
On the eve of Christmas.
The headlights shone on the drifting snow, barely cutting through the thick sheet of white. Another gust of wind slammed into the car and it fishtailed for a moment, further heightening her unease.
“Screw this Goddamn island! I’m only fucking here to spend it with Nanna in the first place, and now she won’t even answer her stupid phone!” Ainsley picked up her cell phone and pushed the call icon. The soft glow illuminated the inside of the car, making the road even that much more difficult to see.
Ring.
“Come on, Nanna.”
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Ainsley tossed the phone on the passenger seat and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her gut. After months of doctor's visits and tests, her gram had finally gotten the dreaded diagnosis… cancer. The only reason she’d returned to the miserable island was to spend the holiday with her dying grandmother. Ainsley adored her and vowed she wouldn’t let this holiday pass without spending it with the elderly woman who raised her and supported her dreams.
Even when Ainsley left Maine for the bright lights of New York, her grandmother encouraged her, knowing it would take Ainsley away from the home she’d grown up in and the traditions of family.
And the family secrets.
Finally, she crested the hill. On the edge of land, jutting out over the stormy Atlantic, stood the clapboard house and lighthouse. Although fully automated years ago, a Bettencourt had stood sentinel over the coast since the seventeen-hundreds. Ainsley had begged her grandmother to come away with her when she’d left. However, Marie was steadfast in her refusal. This was her home. This is where she’d grown up. This was the place she loved. A place she’d vowed she would be safe.
The light from above flashed its warning to any sailor out on those tempestuous waters. Although the light no longer required the same care and physical effort to keep it illuminating the treacherous waters surrounding the island, it still needed maintenance. Her grandmother had a person do all the heavy upkeep once a week. Ainsley was pleased about this, as she didn’t want her seventy-year-old grandmother climbing the spiraling iron stairs to the top of the tower.
The moment Ainsley reached the house, she threw the car door open and stood. Her heart kicked in her chest at the sight of the imposing house from her childhood. To an outsider, the building was a charming white clapboard house, with two stories and a wide wrap-around porch. To Ainsley, the house had always seemed… unwelcoming. A heaviness always seemed present—more so during the week before Christmas.
Swallowing the knot of fear forming in her throat, Ainsley shoved her smartphone into her pocket and slammed the car door. The wind cut jagged currents left and right, almost propelling her forward, like hands on her back pushing her toward the house. Ainsley worked the already drenched hood of her jacket over her head and ran for the door.
A large evergreen wreath, festooned with colorful glass bulbs and a large red velvet ribbon, adorned the door. A door that was unlocked. She hesitated for the space of half a heartbeat and pushed it open with trembling hands. The warmth of the interior smacked her in face after the brutal cold and wind of the storm.
Warm gingerbread, mulled apple cider and peppermint filled the old house, scents that for most would be warm and welcoming. For Ainsley, they reminded her of loss and terror.
Christmas meant evil. She’d never celebrated the Yule season once she’d moved to New York. She never understood the joy of the season; why people cheered when they saw the huge Christmas tree go up in Rockefeller Center; the smiles on the faces of ice skaters on the rink holding hands; or the excitement pouring off the little kids about the coming of the Jolly Old Elf.
Christmas meant death and fear.
She flipped the light switch beside the door, looked around. The hallway was empty. The only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the massive grandfather clock against the wall.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
“Grandma!” she called, tossing her hood back.
No answer.
Ainsley poked her head into the front parlor. A Christmas tree stood in the corner. A large fir, the colorful lights illuminated and cast their cheery glow over the room. Under the tree sat one small present wrapped in scarlet paper and gold ribbon. The fireplace, where her stocking hung beside her grandmothers, was cold. No fire. Her grandma’s favorite rocking chair stood still. No brandy snifter or opened book on the end table.
“Grandma, I’m home.”
At the silence in reply, panic ran through her bloodstream. Tossing her coat on the nearby rocker, she quickly searched the downstairs. The old wooden floor creaked when Ainsley’s weight touched down in strategic places.
The sound of the storm grew louder, as she made her way up the old stairs to the upper landing. The faint scent of lilacs, a fragrance her grandmother couldn’t abide, lingered on the air. Ainsley had also learned to hate the smell of lilacs. Their cloyingly sweet aroma heralded the darkness. The heavy and frightening mantel of oppression Ainsley always experienced in this house.
A chill literally wrapped around her and she rubbed her arms, uncertain where the draft came from. The lilac scent, pungent now, overwhelmed Ainsley to the point where she covered her mouth and gagged. She ran the rest of the way up the stairs until she reached the landing. The light from below did nothing to alleviate the darkness up here. Ainsley reached out and flipped the switch on the wall. The bulb overhead flickered and dimmed before settling on illuminating the space with a dim, yet buttery luminosity.
She took a step toward her grandmother’s room and stopped promptly. The distant sound of Silent Night drifted on the air.
“Grandma?”
The music grew louder the closer she drew to the partially open room.
Ainsley swallowed, her mouth and throat dry as the Sahara, while she walked down the short hallway—which seemed to grow longer and longer as she approached the door.
“Hello?”
She pushed the door open further and stepped into the room. Heart hammering in her rib cage, she held her breath and flipped on the switch.
The room sat in perfect order.
And empty.
And now silent.
The silence after the sound of the Christmas carol unnerved her, and the sensation of being watched crawled over her skin. She looked around out of the corner of her eye, fearful of what she’d see, and more fearful of what she wouldn’t.
She was about to back out of the room and she caught a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye. She stopped and walked back into the space.
“Who’s there? Grandma?”
The only sound in the room was that of the storm.
No. She shook her head.
The panic she’d barely managed to keep at bay began to bubble and flow through Ainsley’s veins like carbonated water under pressure. It threatened to explode from her and she knew she needed to gain control before all was lost.
She took a moment and pulled out her smartphone. Her grip was tight and she swiped the screen, waking it so she could place a call. She knew she was alone—and yet wasn’t.
It’s happening again.
Fear left a knot in her throat as she retraced her steps back to the hall. The sensation of being watched overwhelmed her. Ainsley stopped. An icy breath tickled the back of her neck. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath.
“Ainsley.”
The whisper of her name a tremble jolted through her entire body, propelling her toward the staircase. Gripping the wooden railing, Ainsley ran down the stairs.
It was happening again. Fear and panic lashed at Ainsley’s heels. She had to find her grandmother.
Logically, Ainsley knew her grandmother hadn’t been in the house for quite some time. She wouldn’t have let the fire burn low. Never on a stormy Atlantic night like tonight. And especially not when she knew to expect Ainsley.
The lighthouse.
Her grandmother couldn’t be out there. Not in this storm.
But it was Christmas Eve. When things that went bump in the night came alive. When the sound reverberating through the house wasn’t that of Santa and his reindeer on the roof.
“I’m too late,” Ainsley whispered.
She stumbled into the kitchen, the last place she hadn’t looked.
Empty.
Ainsley sighed and placed her palm on the table. Bowing her head, she gritted her teeth and fought back the forming tears.
Why?
Why this place?
Why this lighthouse.
Why this damned holiday?
The nightmare of finding her parents on Christmas morning, replayed in her mind. That was the day Christmas stopped being a magical time, and instead, became a time of horror.
A horror she couldn’t bear to repeat. Not with Nanna.
Blinking, Ainsley sucked in a fortifying breath and looked up.
A gingerbread replica of the lighthouse sat in the center of the table, a tradition her grandmother had each year. Ainsley smiled, feeling her heart tug in her chest. Although they always made the gingerbread house together weeks before the holiday, her grandmother only allowed her to eat the confection on Christmas Eve. Even this game, this one small happiness, was never enough to ease Ainsley’s anxiety when it came to the Yule season.
Turning her back on the memory, Ainsley grabbed her coat and then the flashlight Nanna kept on the counter. Switching it on, she turned toward the door leading to the lighthouse. She reached out, curling her fingers around the ancient brass knob, the mechanism stiff from the North Atlantic cold. She stepped into the breezeway connecting the light to the keeper’s house. They built the houses this way to help prevent any fire from back in the day when oil was used to operate the light.
The sound of the storm was deafening as she stood at the now closed door. The wind, cold and severe, took her breath away. Ducking her head against the oncoming gale, she secured her hood and walked slowly over the slippery ground toward the cliff.
“Please don’t be here. Please don’t be here.”
Nausea, hot and acidic, pooled in Ainsley’s belly when she came to a stop at the old fence. Sand piled up against the weathered boards and the sea grass bent under the onslaught of the unrelenting wind. The sound of the angry ocean crashing against the rocks filled the air, as lightning illuminated the landscape. The sharp and jagged rocks down below glistened under the assault of water and snow.
Memories of the last time she stood at this fence crashed over her, as fierce and violent as the waves below. She’d been seven. The broken and battered bodies of her mama and daddy rested below her. The Atlantic pulling at them with each breaking wave. The excitement of what Santa had brought her forever eclipsed by the loss of her parents. By the realization something was wrong here.
Very wrong.
Even now, the memory of her parent’s death iced her blood. The sense of loss remained to this day.
Ainsley’s jaw began to chatter. She panned her flashlight over the rocks.
“Please don’t be there. Please don’t be there,” she chanted, the mantra ridiculous but better than screaming.
She stepped closer to the edge of the cliff. Her foot slipped and she wind milled her arms to prevent falling to the icy ground. She caught her balance, whimpering as she stepped away from the ledge. Fear stilled her movement. The storm continued to pummel her and the coast. Tipping her head back, she looked to the top of the light where the lantern signal flashed and warned mariners off of the rocky jetty. A light two hundred and seven feet tall. A fall from that height would be deadly.
Or a shove.
Closing her eyes, she sent a prayer heavenward and moved once again closer to the edge of the cliff. With deliberate and slow intent, she focused her gaze where the flashlight cut a path through the darkness.
A scream tore from her throat and she dropped to the wet ground. The sea pulled at her beloved grandmother, battered and broken on the wet rocks below.
“NO!”
She collapsed to her knees on the frozen ground, sealing a palm over her mouth to silence her cries.
The wind tore her words away, as she sobbed her heartbreak. The sleet pelted her now uncovered head, but she hardly felt the pain and sting of the ice. She knew she needed to move, needed to call the police. But she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the body dancing in the water with the ebb and flow of each wave.
A laugh, diabolical and amused, drifted down the beach.
Ainsley scooted back on her backside shaking her head back and forth.
Her stomach dropped to her feet. Her hearing had to be playing tricks on her. She couldn’t have just heard a laugh from down below.
“Ainsley.”
The singsong calling of her name forced her to her feet. She slipped and fell as she tried to scramble away from the icy ledge… the sound of a ghostly voice.
“Ainsley.”
“No! No!” Ainsley spun around, looking through the darkness for the source of the sound. An icy cold fist tightened around her heart. Holding her breath, Ainsley slowly tipped her head back, exhaling relief when she saw the lighthouse railing empty.
“You’re next.” The words were spoken aloud, crisp and clear in her ear.
Gasping, Ainsley spun, letting loose a scream. Floating in front of her was a woman, grotesquely formed. Her hair long and unkempt, string-like—almost like seaweed, danced on the air. Her face was white and skeletal, yet Ainsley could make out dark, dead eyes, and bruised, colored bags beneath the eyes. Jagged tears in the thing’s skin oozed a black gelatinous muck. The clothes were old, a long full skirt of indeterminate color and a shirtwaist served as a top with mutton sleeves.
The thing raised its arm and pointed a bony finger at Ainsley.
“You’re next.”