Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“Catherine something. Catherine Hartwell, maybe? The guide said she died under mysterious circumstances, but these stories get embellished.”
Lily thanked them and wrote careful notes. Catherine Hartwell—a name to investigate. She’d check newspaper archives and death records from the 1920s.
Her photography continued, methodical and thorough. She documented the lighthouse from every angle, captured details of the surrounding landscape, and photographed the various plaques and displays. Morning light created dramatic contrasts perfect for black-and-white work.
As she adjusted the settings for a detail shot of the upper windows, movement caught her eye. A figure stood among the rocks below the lighthouse, partially hidden by shadows.
A woman in white.
The figure wore a long, flowing dress that moved in the ocean breeze. Dark hair pulled back in an old-fashioned style suggested an earlier era. She stood motionless, facing the lighthouse.
Lily’s throat tightened. She raised her camera and adjusted the telephoto lens. Through the viewfinder, the woman appeared clearly—definitely wearing 1920s clothing, a white dress with a dropped waist and a flowing skirt that reached her ankles.
Lily pressed the shutter and immediately advanced the film for a second shot. The woman remained perfectly still, her face turned toward the lighthouse.
Without lowering her camera, Lily began moving closer. She picked her way carefully down the rocky slope, keeping the telephoto lens trained on the figure. Each step brought her nearer to the answers.
Fifty feet. Forty. Thirty.
The woman stood on a flat section of rock, close enough now that Lily could see individual folds in her dress fabric. The clothing looked authentic—not a costume, but genuine vintage garments with the weight and drape of quality materials.
Twenty feet away, Lily paused. She could call out, try to engage the woman in conversation. Or she could continue photographing, documenting this encounter before it ended.
She chose documentation. Two more frames, adjusting for the changing light as she moved closer.
The woman turned her head.
Lily’s chest constricted. Dark eyes met hers across the rocky space, and for one moment, the woman’s expression held recognition, urgency, waiting specifically for this encounter.
Then she vanished.
Not fading, not walking away—simply absent. Lily blinked hard and scanned the rocks. Nothing. No footprints in the sand, no disturbance of the seaweed, no sign that anyone had stood there moments before.
Her hands shook as she lowered the camera. The woman had been there. Real. Solid. Close enough to touch. But now the rocks held only scattered gulls and morning shadows.
Lily climbed down to the exact spot where the woman had stood. The flat rock showed no warmth from body heat, no impression of feet, no evidence of human presence. Salt spray from the incoming tide had left everything damp, but she found no footprints leading to or from this location.
She circled the area, searching for explanations. Perhaps the woman had jumped down to water level or found a hidden path among the rocks. But the terrain proved treacherous, and anyone climbing here would leave traces.
Twenty minutes of searching revealed nothing.
Lily returned to her camera position and finished her planned photography, but concentration eluded her. The woman’s direct gaze, her period clothing, the way she’d vanished completely—none of it fit rational explanations.
The film would tell the truth. Cameras captured reality without the bias of human perception. If the woman had been there, her image would appear in the developed photographs. If not, the frames would show only empty rocks.
By lunchtime, Lily couldn’t concentrate on anything else. She found Sarah at their usual table and slid into the seat across from her.
“I need to tell you something strange that happened this morning,” Lily began, keeping her voice low.
“You saw what?” Sarah’s voice carried across the cafeteria despite Lily’s caution.
“Keep it down.” Lily glanced around nervously. “I photographed someone in 1920s clothing near the lighthouse.”
Sarah leaned closer. “Define ‘1920s clothing.’”
“White dress, dropped waist, ankle-length skirt. Hair styled in finger waves. She stood on the rocks, facing the lighthouse.”
“And then?”
“She vanished. I moved closer to get a better shot, and she just disappeared.”
Sarah picked at her sandwich. “Could have been a re-enactor. Art students do period photography projects.”
“I searched the area afterward. No footprints, no signs anyone had been there.”
“Those rocks are dangerous. She might have climbed down to the water, or found a path you missed.”
“I took four photographs. The film will show what was actually there.”
“Good thinking. Are you developing them today?”
“This afternoon. If someone really stood there, the camera caught them.”
Sarah studied her friend’s face. “Your hands are shaking.”
“The timing was strange. That tourist couple had just told me about Catherine Hartwell, a woman in white from the 1920s who died under mysterious circumstances.”
“And you think you saw her ghost?” Sarah’s tone stayed gentle but skeptical.
“I don’t know what I saw. That’s why I need the photographs.”
“Even if the photos show someone, that doesn’t prove anything supernatural. People wear vintage clothing.”
Lily appreciated Sarah’s logic, but the encounter had felt different from a coincidence. The woman’s stillness, her focused attention on the lighthouse, the way she’d disappeared—nothing about it suggested ordinary human behavior.