The Brittingham Boathouse

                   The Brittingham Boathouse


         
         The sun seemed powerless in any effect to warm the crisp morning air, and reflected harmlessly off the snow covered Lake Winnebago.  Brandon Groeschel squinted at the frozen lake as he heard two snowmobiles in the distance.  Not able to see anyone in the sun glare, he returned to the happy task of running Christmas lights through the evergreen bushes along the front of his cottage. 
         “Here you are,” his wife Lisa interrupted, and handed him a cup of coffee which steamed incessantly in the crisp, frigid late morning.  “I thought you might need a little warm up.”  She smiled and brushed his red, chilled cheek with a gloved hand.
         “Thank you my dear,” Brandon replied as he dropped the lights and accepted the coffee.  “I’ll be done in a bit.  I just have one more row to run.” 
         The coffee was scalding hot and surprised Brandon, forcing him to follow his sip by sucking in the cold December air through pursed lips to cool his tongue.  He wrapped his arm around Lisa’s waist and pulled her along his side.
         “I can’t believe we’re here,” she said as she carefully rested the cap covered portion of her head on the cold shoulder of Brandon’s parka.
         “I know,” Brandon replied and reflected momentarily on the events which brought him to ownership of the family cottage. 
         Brandon had been coming to the cottage ever since he could remember.  The memories of playful, happy vacations there were plentiful.  Not all of the memories were happy, however.  Brandon shuddered at the memory of the winter of 1986.  He was fifteen years old then.  And after a morning of ice fishing with his uncle, Brandon was walking back to the cottage and fell through a whole in the ice.  He was lucky to catch himself on the ice at his armpits and fueled by an instinctive, absolute terror, he managed to find the strength to pull himself out. 
              Frightening as that had been, the following summer provided another horror for him.  He and the neighbor girl were going to go for a swim and discovered a dead man washed up on shore.  The body was waterlogged and tinged green and reeked like rotten fish.  The whole thing frightened him so that he never went in the lake again.  In fact, to this day he suffers a particular anxiety even when getting in a tub or pool.  Still, even though he had developed that fear of being submerged in water, he was always glad to come to the cottage. 
              After his grandmother died several months before, his mother and aunt inherited the cottage.  However, neither one of them wanted anything to do with the property and began plans for selling it off.  Brandon did not understand why they would let it go.  Certainly it needed some updating, but the tax burden was not that great.  It seemed foolish to him that they would so readily rid themselves of a property that had been with the family for over three generations.  Motivated out of respect for his late grandmother Brandon informed his mother and his aunt that he would buy it if they insisted on selling the cottage.  To his surprise, they were glad to hear he wanted the aging structure and eagerly signed it over to him.
                Over the past couple of months Brandon went about his labor of love for the family cottage, meticulously updating the building.  A deep sense of satisfaction drew a smile from him as now he and Lisa were spending a two week vacation there, readying the cottage to host the family’s Christmas celebration.
              “It’s so beautiful out here,” Lisa said nearly whispering.  “It’s so peaceful and quiet.” 
                No sooner had the words left her lips, as if on cue, a single file row of five snowmobiles raced down the road to boat launch by the fishing club, their shrill buzz penetrating the crisp air, as they sped off along the pine tree lined path which had been plowed across the frozen lake.
                Brandon laughed as Lisa threw her head back and groaned.
                “They heard you say that,” Brandon joked before he leaned over Lisa and kissed her while holding the coffee cup away from his body so as not to spill. 
                “That’s a fun way to keep warm,” a familiar voice said.
Brandon snapped up to see his neighbor, Johnny Ludwig, approaching with a broad grin.  Brandon had known Johnny ever since he was a child visiting the lake.  Johnny was twice Brandon’s age and had retired the year before last.  He and his wife, Rose, now lived at their cottage year round.  Brandon had always felt a warm sense of kinship with Johnny and had always enjoyed the time they spent together whether it was fishing, playing cards, or just sitting out in Johnny’s front yard watching a lazy summer afternoon drift by as they drank beer and listened to the Brewers game on the radio.  To Brandon, Johnny had a quiet wisdom, a true common sense.  Brandon made it a habit to always listen intently when Johnny spoke seriously.
                “Good morning Johnny,” Lisa greeted while breaking Brandon’s grip on her.  “Would you like some coffee?”
                “Oh, no thanks,” he replied still grinning.  “Actually I came over to borrow your husband for a few minutes.”
                “What’s up?” Brandon asked and took a sip of coffee.  The rich, earthy aroma of the steam obscured his vision and rushed up his nose.
                “I need some help over at Millie’s.  Her drains are stopped up.”
                “Pour some Liquid Plumber down the drain,” Brandon tritely replied and took another sip of coffee.
                “Nah,” Johnny shook his head.  “I did that already.  And after that didn’t work, I snaked it.  Now the snake is stuck ‘bout ten foot in and I can’t get it back out.  The pipes may be froze up.”
         Brandon shook his head and grinned, understanding completely what Johnny was asking of him.  He knew he would have to crawl into the freezing crawl space below Millie’s cottage and slowly run a torch along the pipe to thaw it out, all the while praying that for some strange reason the septic tank did not back up on him and burst the pipes, flooding the crawlspace with composting waste.
                “Okay,” Brandon reluctantly agreed.  “But I’m only doing this because I can’t stand to see a man of your reputation and old age crawl into such a situation.”
                “Oh-ho, don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”
                “I’ll be back in a bit hon,” Brandon said to Lisa as he handed her the coffee cup.  He peered into her deep, sparkling blue eyes and stroked at the short blonde curls that hung down beneath her Packers cap.
                “Take your time,” she replied.  “I’ll finish up with the lights.”
                “Thanks hon,” Brandon said and gave her a quick kiss.  He then followed Johnny through ankle deep snow until they reached the drive where Brandon moved up along side Johnny.
                  Millie was a strange old lady.  Brandon could remember her since he was a little boy.  Millie seemed to have been at the lake ever since it was formed as the glaciers receded at the end of the ice age.  As a child, his grandmother always warned him to never upset Millie.  Brandon and the other children would tell one another stories of her practicing witchcraft and voodoo.  And on playful nights they would dare one another to run into Millie’s yard.  Brandon grinned at the memories of childish romance and wonders of dares and pranks.  Yet, in all the years he has been associated with the lake, he has never been in Millie’s cottage.  This seemed odd to Brandon as Brittingham is a small, close community and he has at some point been in every other cottage there. 
                Brandon had on several occasions over the years spoken with Millie.  She was an odd old lady, thin and frail, with a slightly hunched back and a cloudy right eye.  She always made grand gestures and spoke in dramatic tone.  She seemed aloof and distant and would often times just stare off into space.  Brandon shrugged and was curious to see the inside of her home to see just how well it reflected what he knew of her.
                Once out of the drive the two men walked along the bare-limbed tree lined snow covered gravel road that connects the row of cottages.  This gravel road intersected with a blacktopped road which led down to the boat ramp along side the boathouse.  As they walked along in silence, Brandon looked up at the old limestone silo on the south side of the boathouse which supported the light which flashed faithfully out over the lake once every six seconds. 
                “So, you ready for the big storm tonight?” Johnny asked as a stiff breeze ushered wisps of snow across the top of the frozen ground. 
                “What’s that?” Brandon looked up at the sun drenched blue sky and saw no clouds at all.
                  “Yeah, an Alberta Clipper is moving in this afternoon.  We’re supposed to get quite a blast of arctic air from it.  They’re sayin’ we’ll get another six to eight inches of snow to boot.”
                  “That’ll be okay by me,” Brandon smiled.  “I’m looking forward to a white Christmas.”
                  “Well, we’ll have plenty of it this year,” Johnny chuckled as they reached Millie’s driveway and followed a trampled path from the roadside mailbox to the back door.
                    Without knocking, Johnny entered the cottage.  Brandon followed, his senses keen with anticipation as the realization of childhood fears and wonders swelled within him.  Shutting the door quietly, Brandon first noticed the aromas of vanilla and cinnamon in the dry heat of the cottage.  He saw the closet door of the entrance area with the floor panel removed, exposing the crawl space.  Brandon followed Johnny through a tiny, but tidy kitchen and into the living room of the cottage.  There they found a short, frail lady with white hair seated a desk, pouring over volumes of folklore and ancient cultures and what appeared to be different kinds of calendars, the likes of which Brandon had never seen before. 
                “Okay Millie,” Johnny interrupted her causing her a slight start.  “Brandon’s gonna help me thaw the pipes.”
                “Oh,” Millie turned exposing her weathered and deep wrinkled face.
                  Brandon was shocked to see her left eye was completely clouded behind the thick glasses perched on her nose.  “The drains started working again,” she laughed softly.  “If that don’t beat all.  I guess whatever you did before finally took hold.”
                “Well that’s okay by me,” Johnny replied.  “I don’t mind not having to crawl down under the cottage this time of year.”
                “Interesting, isn’t it?” Millie asked Brandon as she noticed him staring in wonder at the calendar pinned up on the wall next to her desk.
                “What is it?” Brandon asked shoving aside his memory of boyhood self consciousness.
              “That,” she said slowly and pointed with a crooked finger at the handmade calendar, “is the Metonic calendar.  It is an ancient calendar developed in Babylonia and later perfected by the Greek mathematician Mentos.  It carries forgotten antiquated knowledge and wisdom.”
                “Like what?” Brandon asked softly as he leaned forward and studied the thirteen month year of the calendar.
                  “Like the story that repeats itself in the thirteenth month every nineteen years,” she replied with a raised brow.  “The cycle that has been repeating itself since before man began recording his own history.”
                  “Oh Christ!” Johnny spat.  “Not this shit again.”
                  “You may not believe,” Millie said to Johnny in a calm tone laced with the suggestion of bitterness.  “But that does not mean it does not hold truth.”
                  “What is this about?” Brandon asked, unable to pry his attention from the strange calendar.
                  “On the full moon of the thirteenth month of the nineteenth year of the Metonic cycle, the dead, the lost souls that have missed The Light which would lead them to Heaven or Hell and continue to wander the earth with us, are drawn to particular points where they believe they can gain entrance to the The Light again.  Those who missed the light or refused the light and walk among us to this day still have the desire to find and enter the light.”
                “Okay, Millie,” Johnny interrupted with a tone of impatience, “I’m gonna close up the crawl space and head out.  You comin’ Brandon?”
Brandon instinctively broke away from staring at the calendar.  “No, I think I’m gonna stay for a bit.  You gonna be home later?”
                  Johnny sighed deeply, rolled his eyes and nodded.
                  “I might swing by later,” Brandon said as he turned back to the calendar and reached out to it, gently stroking the panel of the day with his fingertip.
                  “Okay,” Johnny said.  “Millie, you give me a call if anything else happens.”
                  “Thank you John,” Millie called in a cackling voice as he walked out of the living room.  “I’ll see you later.”
                    Brandon stood transfixed by the calendar.  “So what was this about the thirteenth month in the nineteenth year?” he asked softly.
                  “Tonight,” Millie said with a voice of authority, “the full moon will rise.  It is on this night, on the full moon of the thirteenth month of the nineteenth year, the last year of the Metonic cycle, that those spirits who still wander the earth will be drawn to points of light.  They are confused into thinking they have another chance to enter the light they missed before.  But there is great chaos caused by dark spirits.  Some refer to them as shadow people.  These dark spirits gather in the shadows of the night and prey upon the spirits trying to get to the light, stealing their energy.  The appetite of evil knows no satiation.  This has been a repeating cycle since the dawn of time here on earth.”
                    A sudden twinge of discomfort and self-consciousness fluttered through Brandon’s chest and pulled his attention from the calendar as he felt the weight of the old lady’s cloudy eyes upon him.  He turned and saw the seriousness of her aged face.
                    “This will be the fourth, and last, time I will have witnessed the end of the Metonic cycle.  I was fifteen years old the first time I saw what happens on this night.  And over the years I’ve learned that this village is cursed by the lighthouse.”
                    “Cursed?”  Brandon nearly choked and blurted out as his eyes drew him to far wall where pictures of Mayan pyramids and Stonehenge were hung.
                  “Yes,” Millie said with a hiss as fresh excitement filled her voice.  With a petite grunt she pushed out of her chair and stiffly walked over to the bookcase.  Without much of a search she pulled out the book she sought and walked it over to Brandon.  She handed Brandon the worn leather hard cover which was simply titled, A History of Lighthouses on Lake Winnebago.
                “All of the ancient cultures had a way of predicting the dark end of ‘The Great Year’, Millie continued and waved a finger at the pictures on the wall.  “The ancient Celts had Stonehenge, the Maya had their pyramids, the Babylonians, Greeks, Egyptians and Chinese had astronomers and mathematicians.  And I use their calendars to understand the events that take place around us.  And this book tells the history of our lighthouse which helps to explain why it is a gathering place for dark forces on this night.”
                  Brandon felt the weight of the old book.  A musty aroma rose from its mildewed pages as he tentatively flipped through it.
                “Take the book with you,” Millie encouraged.  “You need to know the complete history of this village.  I know others do not want to believe and explain away these things however they can, but you need to know.  You should have been told when you were a boy visiting your grandmother.”
                  Brandon peered into the foggy eyes of the frail old lady.  She smiled weakly and patted the book.  “Why don’t you keep it,” she suggested.  “The calendars and stars might not be able to predict when, but I know I am not long for this earth.  I will be happy knowing this book will stay in the village with the lighthouse.”
                It took a short while as Brandon looked at her and then the book before he was able to muster a simple “Thank you.”
                They stood in silence for long moments until the weight of the quiet room sprouted discomfort through Brandon’s chest and he realized how uncomfortably warm he was.
                “Well,” Brandon began.  “I suppose I should get going.  I have to finish up hanging Christmas decorations.”
                “That’s fine.  Thank you for coming to help.”
                “Yah, sure, anytime.  Thank you again for the book.”  Brandon nodded and began toward the door. 
              “Before you go,” Millie said stopping him in his tracks.  “Would you throw another one of those big logs in the wood stove?  I can manage the smaller ones all right, but I’m afraid my arthritis gives me too much trouble when I try to pick up the bigger ones.” 
                Brandon smiled at her and set the book on the table as he walked over to a neatly stacked log pile next to the woodstove.

                Brandon was happy to return to his cottage.  The wind had picked up significantly and cold gusts out of the north which ushered in the aroma of snow were nearly unbearable on his exposed face.  Once inside he hung his coat on the hook, pried his feet from his boots and quickly walked into the living room carrying the book.  The living room was filled with warm aroma of mulling spices.  A fire snapped and popped in the fireplace as Lisa hung ornaments on the Christmas tree while Christmas music played softly on the stereo.
                    “Hi sweetie,” Lisa smiled over her shoulder.
                    “Hey.”
                    “How are things at Millie’s?”
                    “Every thing is fine.  Whatever problem she had with the drains had resolved by the time we got there.  Everything was fine.”
Brandon set the book on the couch and prowled quietly behind Lisa.  He firmly grabbed her around the waist and snuggled his face in her neck and curly shoulder length blonde hair.
                    “Ah!  You’re cold!” she exclaimed with a giggle and instinctively pulled away.
                    Brandon laughed and watched her as she put the empty ornament box back into a larger brown box and hid it in the living room closet.
                    “Thank you for doing all this,” he said.
                    “My pleasure,” Lisa replied as she returned to his side, kissed him on the cheek and hugged him.  “I know having your family here for Christmas means a lot to you.”
                    “More than I realized,” Brandon concurred.  And that was true.  He felt a deep need to continue a tradition of gathering family at the cottage for Christmas.  A tradition which was carried on for generations and had been interrupted over the past decade as more and more of his family moved from rural Wisconsin to cities like Milwaukee, Madison and Chicago.  And this absence at Christmas time left a fathomless void within Brandon.  What’s more, he knew his Grandmother felt the same and did what she could every Christmas to get as many of the family members as possible for Christmas dinner and gift opening under a warmly lit tree. 
                    Perhaps the satisfaction in the taking of responsibility of reuniting the family for Christmas stemmed from guilt Brandon felt for not being able to attend several of his Grandmother’s last Christmases because of travel and work obligations.  He sighed as another twinge of guilt bounced through him as he could not attend what turned out to be his grandmother’s last Christmas.
                  “Would you like a drink?” Lisa asked, shifting Brandon’s thoughts before his eyes began to water.
                “Sure,” he smiled warmly at her.
                “Are Tom and Jerrys okay?”
                “That would be lovely,” Brandon said as Lisa went to the kitchen.
                  Brandon looked out the front window at the cold gray sky watching thin wisps of snow being blown across the frozen lake.  After stoking the fire, he sat on the couch and picked up the book.  He skimmed through the foreword and skipped around a bit.  He heard the kettle in the kitchen begin to whistle the moment he found the chapter on the Brittingham Boathouse light.
                He was through reading little more than the first paragraph when Lisa entered the room with his steaming mug of brandy mixed with spiced egg whites.
                “What’s that?” Lisa asked as she sat next to Brandon and pulled her feet up on the couch. 
                  “Millie gave this to me.  It’s an old book about the history of the lighthouses around the lake.”
                  “What does it say about our lighthouse?” Lisa inquired after taking a sip of her drink and leaned over Brandon’s shoulder to better view the text.
                  “Well, it says the light house was built in 1903 by a man named Oscar Lex….”  He fell silent as he continued to skim through the paragraphs.  “Ah, here we go.  The light for the Brittingham boathouse was originally taken from the ruins of the Peshtigo Island lighthouse in Green Bay, which tragically burned down in December of 1853, killing the caretakers Robert and Suzanne Schumacher and their daughter Katrina.  The light keeper and his wife were discovered horribly burned in the ruins of the living quarters but their daughter’s body was inexplicably found in the lighthouse next to the lantern and otherwise appeared unharmed. 
“The lighthouse on Peshtigo Island was never rebuilt as it was determined that a light farther south marking the Peshtigo reef was of greater importance….”  He fell silent again and continued to skim. 
                “Though the light had gone out during the fire, it was later discovered the mechanical aspects of the light were in proper working order.  Still, for reasons which are historically unclear, the light remained on the island and was not used again for another fifty years when Oscar Lex petitioned the Great Lakes Maritime Counsel for permission to purchase the light and transfer it to a lighthouse on Lake Winnebago.  After lengthy debate, a purchase price was agreed upon and Oscar Lex was granted permission to move the light.  The building of the lighthouse was completed in 1903 and it became the first private light to shine over Lake Winnebago….”
                As he flipped to the next page a photo slid out and fluttered to the floor.  Brandon picked it up and curiously studied the wrinkled and torn black and white photo.  A large, plump man wearing a black and white suit and a bowler stood between two young ladies wearing their ankle length bathing suits.  The Brittingham boathouse constituted the background.  Brandon turned the photo over to find hand written names of Mildred Schilling, Oscar Lex and Rose Schumacher dated July 1914.
              “Who is it?”  Lisa inquired after Brandon had been silent for too long.
              “It’s my grandmother with Millie Schilling and, apparently, the owner of the lighthouse.”
              “Wow!  They’re really young there,” Lisa said as if surprised that the ladies were not born grandmothers.  “And this is ‘Crazy Millie’ up the road here?”    She pointed her out in the picture.
              “Yeah,” Brandon grinned.
              Brandon took a deep sip of his drink, the spicy steam momentarily obscuring his vision.  A sudden thought ushered a quick chill through him.  He scanned back up the page to find the year the lighthouse burned down – 1853.  It was now December, 2005.  He mumbled to himself as he mentally subtracted 1853 from 2005.
                “What are you doing?” Lisa asked with slight smile.
                “What do you get when you subtract 1853 form 2005?” he asked Lisa anxiously.
                  She thought for a moment as she pointed her index finger in front of her, bobbing it up and down as if she were working the problem out on a chalk board.  “I get one hundred, fifty-two.  Why?”
                  “Bear with me for a moment,” Brandon turned square to her.  “What do you get when you divide 152 by 19?”
                    Lisa rolled her eyes, scratched her chin and again bobbed her finger.  “Eight,” she said cautiously. 
                    “Right, right,” Brandon said with a particular excitement in his voice.  “I get the same thing, exactly eight.”  He looked back at the book and sipped his drink.
                    “So?” Lisa asked as if pleading to be let in on some secret.
                    “Oh, right,” Brandon’s attention snapped back to Lisa.  “When John and I were at Millie’s I saw she had all of these weird calendars and pictures of Mayan pyramids and Stonehenge and other things from ancient cultures.  And she started telling me about this thing called the Metonic cycle, which repeats every nineteen years.  She said on the full moon of the last month of the nineteenth year, evil creatures, shadow people she called them, try to trick spirits into lights where the shadow people feed on them.”
                  “What?” Lisa exclaimed with a chuckle.
                    Brandon sat back and sheepishly glanced at her.  “I know.  I know how it sounds.  I just find it curious that it is exactly eight Metonic cycles from when the lighthouse burned down.”
                    “Aye sweetie,” Lisa giggled and took another sip of her drink.  “Remember the stories you told about her and how you called her ‘a crazy old lady’?”
                    Brandon leaned back, took a deep breath and held it as he looked at the ceiling.  After a moment his breath burst forth in a fit of laughter.  A timid shame warmed over his cheeks and ears as he realized he had fallen into believing the old lady’s tale.  “Unbelievable,” he said shaking his head.  “I can’t believe I was falling for that.”
                “It’s okay,” Lisa jabbed and rubbed his shoulder.  “I’ll only remind you of this in front of friends and family.”
                “Thanks, babe,” Brandon chuckled.  I knew I could count on you.”
                Suddenly the swift movement of snow whipping about outside caught his attention.  Brandon stood and walked to the window watching the snow swirl to near white out conditions under the grey sky.
                  “Holy cow!  It’s really coming down out there.”
                  “It’ll be all the better for snow shoeing tomorrow,” Lisa added.
                  Brandon returned to his seat next to Lisa.  She smiled coyly at him as he ran his finger through her shoulder length blonde curls and peered into her blue eyes.  “Yeah, but that’s tomorrow.  What shall we do for fun this afternoon?” he asked as he leaned forward, gently kissing her full, moist lips.
Lisa took his cup from him and placed them both on the end table.  “I think I have an idea,” she said with sly smile and met him eagerly with an open mouth.

                Brandon burped as he placed the last of the dishes in the rack to dry.  After toweling his hands dry he took his glass of wine and joined Lisa in the living room.  She sat at the end of the couch with her feet pulled under her, reading a magazine under the lamp.  Christmas carols continued to play softly from the stereo.  Brandon looked out the window into the darkness, but could not see anything except his reflection.  He could still hear the wind whipping ferociously and wondered if it was still snowing.  He looked over at the fireplace and was certain they had enough wood to last them through the evening.  Suddenly he saw the lights on the Christmas tree flicker and then the power went out in the cottage.
                “What happened?” Lisa asked in the warm orange hue of the fire.
                Brandon stood silent for a moment in the eerie glow of the fire as the wind rattled the windows with a dull moan.  “I don’t know,” Brandon finally replied.  “Maybe we blew a fuse.”
                He found a flashlight under the kitchen sink and went back to the closet that housed the electric panel.  Upon inspection, a surge of disappointment washed through him as he found all of the breakers in order.
                Brandon returned to the living room to find Lisa lighting candles. 
                “I think we lost a power line,” he informed her as he picked up the phone.  There was no dial tone.  “We’ve lost the phone too.”
                Lisa picked up her cell phone from where it was charging on the end table and walked it over to Brandon.  In candlelight he found the number for the power company in the phone book and called.
                “It’s just a busy tone,” he informed Lisa.
                “Well, we’re probably not the only ones who lost power.  All of their lines are probably busy.”
                “Busy or out.”
                  A muffled knock thumped at the back door.
                  An inquisitive look wrinkled Brandon’s brow as he carried the flashlight to see who it was.  A rush of cold air burst from the dark outdoors into his cottage sending flakes of snow swirling through the air.  A dark figure pushed past Brandon into the shelter of the dark entrance.
                “Christ its cold!”
                  Brandon recognized John’s voice.
                  “What are you doing here?” Brandon asked.
                  “The village has lost power,” John said as he pulled his fur-lined hood back.  “The light at the fishing club has gone out.  We need to go get it back on.”
                    “Whoa! Wait a minute,” Brandon protested.  “Isn’t that something the fishing club members or the sheriff should be concerned with?”
                  “Normally, yes,” John admitted.
                  “Well, we can call the sheriff.”  Brandon held up the cell phone.
                  “The problem with that,” John replied, “is that they only have land lines.  There’s no cell phone number for us to reach them at. And we need to get the light on in case someone got stuck out on the lake.”
                  Brandon shuddered at the thought of being caught out on the lake in a storm like this.  He knew it happens.  He hears the stories year after year.  Every winter people disappear from the lake.  Just as every summer someone is lost and the lake is dredged in vain.  Only half the bodies are ever found.  Brandon could not stand the thought of someone being stranded on the lake, falling victim to hypothermia as the unfortunate person gets lost in the swirling snow, hoping to find the tree line which would lead him back to shore.  Brandon understood the light was a beacon of safety that must be maintained.
                “Alright, just give me a second,” Brandon responded with serious understanding.
                John shook the melting snow off his fur-lined hood and shoulders as he waited.  He shrugged as the wind whistled softly through the door jamb.  Brandon returned in the dark and stepped into his boots. 
                “I just wanted to let Lisa know where we were gonna be,” Brandon stated matter-of-factly as he donned his parka and wool cap.  “Okay, ready,” he said as he flipped on his flashlight with mitten covered hands. 
                “Don’t worry,” Johnny reassured him, “we won’t be long.”
Brandon squinted as they stepped outside to keep the whipping snow from his eyes.  He could feel the hair in his nose turn frosty every time he took a breath.  They blazed across virgin snow leaving tracks that were covered nearly as soon as they were left.
                Even without light and in the storm Brandon could make out the tall, cylindrical silhouette that stood on a sharp crest looking over the lake.  He kept expecting the flash once every six seconds as he had always known it to, but it never did.  As he and Johnny approached the fishing club Brandon could hear the muffled hum of an engine churning in the snow blustered wind.  Brandon followed Johnny to the source of the sound which was an emergency generator stationed outside the stone cylinder that held the light.
            “The generator is working,” Johnny said, but Brandon felt like he was yelling to insure some sense of drama.  “We need to get inside to check the breaker box.”
              “How will we get in?” Brandon asked.  “We can’t break and enter.”
Johnny smiled and led Brandon to the back door.    He grinned and winked at    Brandon before reaching down with a gloved hand to brush the snow from the mat, revealing its edges.  Then Johnny lifted the edge to reveal a key which he used to unlock the back door of the fishing club. 
              The forbidding dark of an unfamiliar place was actually of little comfort to  Brandon compared to the snow and the wind outside.  Johnny pulled a small light from his coat pocket.  The howling wind echoed through the pitch dark room as Brandon pushed the door tight behind him. 
              Johnny panned the circular light around the room revealing a large open living room with a large bay window overlooking the lake.  Three long couches and several chairs were positioned around the room so all had a view through the oversized window.  Separating the living room from the kitchen was a counter which could be used as a breakfast bar. 
              Brandon found the light switch along the wall and flipped it, but nothing happened.  He stepped cautiously into the living room slowly swinging his light along the wall until he found a short hallway which led to the bathroom and the door to the light house.  A sudden burst of adrenaline shot through his gut as he saw a shadow stir at the edge of the light.  Brandon gasped and quickly brought the light center to where he saw the movement.  He held his breath for an uneasy moment and sighed relief when he found nothing.
            “Just an old lady’s tale,” Brandon muttered to himself.
            “Over here,” Johnny’s voice boomed in echo through the darkness.
              Brandon swung his light to the kitchen where he heard Johnny.  There he saw his friend standing by a door at the far end.
              “The breaker box is probably down in the dock.  I couldn’t find it anywhere up here.”
              The sudden thought of being alone in the house pushed Brandon quickly through the kitchen where he followed Johnny down an old, musty stone stair well.  The air got significantly colder and Brandon could see the trail of steam from their breath swirl through the beams of their flashlight as they moved down toward the landing of the boathouse.  A the bottom of the stairs, Brandon could hear the winter winds whistle by and gently rattling the great metal doors that hung in their tracks, protecting the inside from the elements of the lake.  Brandon panned his light around finding two boats suspended from the ceiling in dry dock above their slips.  He shined his light at the slips to see clear, cold water ripple discretely.  Brandon was surprised to see the boat house kept the water warm enough to keep from freezing. 
              “Here we are,” Johnny announced.
              Brandon turned and followed over to the far wall where Johnny stood inspecting the panel.  He flipped the main breaker a couple of times and sighed.  “Shit.  I don’t know about this,” Johnny said as he stepped back.  “Everything here seems to be in order.  Maybe we should go take a look at the light.”
              “What would be wrong with that?” Brandon asked anxiously.
              “Well, I’m not sure, but maybe…”
              In the reflected light Brandon could see Johnny wrinkling his nose and glanced side-to-side with a contorted face.  “Ugh! What’s that smell?”
Brandon swallowed hard as his stomach knotted.  The putrid aroma of rotting fish stirred his senses, forcing him to cover his mouth and his nose with his hand as the childhood memory of the dead man washed ashore flashed through him.  The quick flattening spasms in the back of his throat forced him to turn to rush upstairs.  As Brandon turned, his light fell upon a man who reached out toward Brandon.  Water seeped over a face of grotesque pallor tinged green.  Patches of hair were missing from his scalp and his eyes were fogged over in thick mucus clouds. 
              “Jesus!” Brandon exclaimed in a surprised hiss and dropped his flashlight as he leaped backward. 
              “What is it?” Johnny turned shining his light on Brandon.  “What’s wrong?”
              Brandon could no longer see the rotting, waterlogged man.  He picked up his flashlight and swung it around wildly.  “Didn’t you see it?  Did you see it?”
              “See what?” Johnny asked as he grabbed Brandon by the coat to calm him down.
              Brandon took a deep breath and swallowed.  “I’m getting the hell out of here,” he said soberly and released Johnny’s grip from his coat. 
              Brandon could hear Johnny behind him as he ascended the stairs.  Fear and anticipation filled his chest making his breaths short and shallow.  He swung the door open to find the light from the lighthouse illuminating the living room through the bay window and leaking under the door at the far end of the hall.  The light was not flashing once every six seconds as it was supposed to; rather it was on in a constant blinding beam reaching out over the lake.
              “What the hell?” Johnny gasped as they cautiously made their way into the living room. 
              Out of the corners of his eyes Brandon could see shadows twisting and writhing only to stop when he looked directly at them.  He also saw spectral forms out of the corners of his eyes, mysterious visions that would allow him but a glimpse as they passed by him trying to reach the light.  Brandon shuddered as he could sense the shadows moving in on these ethereal forms.  Suddenly the dark silhouette of a little girl raced before the picture window into the darkness of the hall.  The door to the lighthouse flung open flooding the interior with blinding light.  As Brandon turned to shield his eyes he saw the frail, luminescent figure of his grandmother moving toward the light.  Panic erupted within him as he realized the danger his grandmother was in.
              “No!” Brandon screamed as fear overwhelmed him.
              The door slammed shut but a moment after it opened and all was dark inside.  Quick gasps from Brandon and Johnny filled the stagnant air as they swung their flashlights around.  Then a flash caught their attention out of the window.  The two men stood silently for a minute as the light resumed flashing once every six seconds, as if nothing had been wrong.
              “I’m going home now,” Brandon said in a soft, strained voice.
              “Yeah, me too,” Johnny relied.
              The two men walked out of the fishing club and into the chill of the snow flurried night.  They walked in silence breaking it only to bid one another good night when they parted.

                A week later the family was gathered at the cottage passing gifts and eating and drinking and making merry.  Brandon was relieved he had this to look forward to.  It took him the entire week to process his experience at the Brittingham boathouse and the family gathering was the perfect distraction for him to purge his thoughts from those events. 
                As Brandon squatted in front of the tree to pass gifts to his nieces and nephews, out of the corner of his eye, he saw his grandmother watching over them.  Her ethereal presence forced a sudden discomfort to shift through Brandon.  He smiled weakly to the children, knowing he would soon be talking with Millie, and learning from her, because he also knew there were only nineteen years before the new Metonic Cycle would end.  Then the stars would align allowing the shadow people another chance to prey on his grandmother’s soul.