 It was somewhere in the dark hills of eastern Kentucky, on this long straightaway through a valley. I feel that I must truly stress that there was nothing on that road, no houses, no farms, and certainly no coastline. That made the lighthouse even more striking when I saw it. It sat back in one of those meadows wrapped extending back into a mountain hollow. Even though the mid-afternoon sun and the floating pollen was turning everything around me gold, that meadow and that lighthouse were already bathed in shade from the mountains. I almost drove right past it, if I'm honest. It was so out of place, it was like my brain didn't recognize that it was actually there at first, and if there had been anyone else on that road, they may well have rear-ended me when I slammed my brakes, sending up dust and gravel as I skidded to a halt. It didn't even have a house attached to it, like the lighthouses I'd seen in pictures and movies. It sat alone, black and white stripes moving up its length like a barber's pole. Only the glass at the top was still above the shadows, glinting in the afternoon sun, but even as I watched, the afternoon shade inched up the length of the thing. I lied before when I said there wasn't anything else there. There was one thing, directly across the street, one of those old motels that's just a row of rooms wrapped around a parking lot. I still can't say what it was exactly that drove me to pull into that parking lot. There was something, some train of thought that made sense at the time, but I can't remember it now. I know I sat there for minutes, right in the middle of the road, looking at the lighthouse, but I can't remember. All I remember is that for some reason, stopping seemed like a good idea, and so I turned into that empty old parking lot. I half expected the place to be closed, but the neon sign buzzed red with vacancy and the door to the office opened when I pushed it. The front of the office was made up of floor to ceiling windows that led in lots of natural light and heat. It also gave a commanding view of the entrance to the parking lot, the lighthouse, and the mountains that served as the walls of a little valley. The woman that popped up from behind the counter was so ordinary looking that it actually circled back around to being almost extraordinary. I know that's strange to say, because how can ordinary also be strange, but it's one of those things where someone looks so ordinary that it crosses that line into the uncanny valley. She looked like the rough sketch of a master painter. Like there would be details filled in, wrinkles and smile lines, and moles and imperfections, but the painter just hadn't quite gotten there yet, or had consciously erased them. She wore a burgundy polo and her hair was blonde. I remember both of those things, but there wasn't much else. Even her eyes were this weird mix of blue and green with bits of brown around the iris. Her nose wasn't big or small and neither were her lips. She was remarkably unremarkable. Can I help you? She asked, setting a book down on the counter. It was old and weathered and the spine was bent like it had been read through dozens of times. I couldn't read the title because of how she'd laid it down. I'd like a room, please. She blinked like that surprised her. You want a room? Yeah, is that all right? Her brain seemed to catch up to her and she moved all at once as she said, yes, of course, I just normally it's people asking for change for the pay phone or something or I waited for her to finish the thought, but she only let it trail off or see the lighthouse. I asked. She was pulling a key from a desk drawer, a small gold little thing attached to a billet of wood with a room number on it and looked up at me confused lighthouse. She asked. Now it was my turn to blink confused. Uh, yeah, the lighthouse across the road. She looked over my shoulder out the window that faced the street. I, she opened and closed her mouth a couple times, clearly having trouble deciding on what to say. I honestly don't know what you're talking about. I looked at her, then turned around to make sure the giant lighthouse across the street hadn't moved. It hadn't. I looked at her again, trying to decide if this was a joke or not. And if so, what the punchline was, I pointed directly at it through the window right there. She leaned over to follow my finger, then looked at me and shook her head. The look on her face was quickly changing from confusion to annoyance. And I decided that rather than turn into one of those customers, I dropped the subject. I paid for my room and left her there in the hum of the air conditioner, walking down the long cracked slab of concrete until I reached my room right near the middle. Another question I had as I walked away was why I'd gotten this room in particular. My car was the only one in the parking lot, and all the windows to the others were dark. So how did she decide which room I got? It was nothing special. Truthfully, it was like most other old motels I'd seen, with an old queen bed topped by a floral patterned bedspread, a little lamp and desk in the corner, and an old porcelain sink that had been white once upon a time but was now stained yellow by age and nicotine, the place smelled of air freshener and mothballs. I only had a backpack, so I dropped it onto the floor and laid on the bed, flipping the television on. Static, I might have known. I turned it off and stared at the ceiling instead. I'd been driving for multiple days by that point, and whenever I stopped for the day, some trick of the eyes made it seem that still surfaces were moving. Even as I stared at the ceiling, it seemed to be flying away from me. The paintings on the wall were all seascapes of rocky coastlines being threatened by waves and storms. They began to catch my eye as I realized they were just a bit too nice to be hung on the wall inside a crappy motel. Of course, it wasn't unusual to have paintings in a hotel room, but these were different somehow. Too detailed and, for lack of a better word, dark. Despite the fact it was only five, and the day outside was only barely descending into the hot haze of a Kentucky evening. Looking at those paintings made the room feel almost cold. Only one had a lighthouse in it, an incredibly wide painting depicting a stormy bay with dark purple clouds overhead and a ship sinking in the center. The lighthouse sat on the right side of the painting on a steep cliff. It was the same color as the one across the street with black and white stripes, but this one had a house attached. For some reason, the artist had decided to leave the lighthouse dark. The light at the top was off, and the windows of the house were all black. The other side of the painting was mostly empty, showing only a windswept outcrop looking down on the shipwreck below. Something about that painting, or maybe that room, began to give me a splitting headache and I think I laid down. I must have, because the next thing I remember is waking up and everything being dark. The only light was moonlight or some street lamp diffusing through the sheer curtains drawn over the big window at the front of the room. The little lamp on the bedside table provided only a small yellow glow that didn't reach the cobwebbed shadows in any of the corners. I looked around the room for a moment and tried, really tried, to remember when I'd fallen asleep, but the memory simply wasn't there. I hadn't passed out since I'd made it to the bed, but that period of time was simply missing. When I peeked outside, I found two surprising things. The first was that the glow through the curtains was not, as I'd originally believed, the moon or a street lamp. In fact, as far as I could see, the light in the center of the parking lot didn't work, and I couldn't find the moon in the sky. Instead, the source of that light seemed to be the lighthouse. I say seemed to, because a thick mist had settled across the whole valley while I'd slept, and I could barely see anything of it. Besides that dull blue light growing through that sea of mist, even as I watched, though, that dull glow began to pulse with a steady throb, like a heart beginning to beat. What I noticed second was much more gruesome. As my eyes adjusted to the dark and the mist, I began to see the figures standing mutely in the parking lot and the road, watching me with eyes and open mouths that glowed. With a thin version of that same bluish light, until all the mist in the valley was colored a strange turquoise that made me shiver. I did what any normal person would do, and picked up the phone to call the police. Glancing around, quickly realized that the room didn't actually have a phone, and still they stood in the curling fog as the lighthouse pulsed overhead. I opened the door, and it was like walking into a pool house. The air was so thick and damp that it was hard to breathe, like being wrapped in a wet blanket. The night was warm, but the fog was cold, and I wished I'd had a jacket. Hello? I called. I knew they were looking at me. Those glowing eyes and mouths were facing me, and there was no one else around. Who else could they be looking at? The only other light around was that dirty orange glow of the office, and I made my way toward it. I decided I would go ask the office girl if she could see the dead people standing outside, or if that was another one of those things that seemed particular to me. My footsteps caused a strange echo under the sidewalk awning as I walked, and I could see their glowing eyes following me. The office itself was locked, but there was a night window with a little sign that read, please knock. When I did, she slid it open with a look of confused annoyance. Come back to ask about the lighthouses again. She said, I jerked a thumb toward the parking lot. No, I came to ask about the weird dead people out in the parking lot this time. The put-upon smart alec look dropped off her face like a stone as she leaned through the window to look in the direction I was pointing. I remember having the thought that I should be more worried than I was, but I was vaguely sure this was all just a dream and I was going to wake up any minute. Even if it wasn't a dream, there was such a feeling of everything not being real that I couldn't muster up that fear. She could, though. Who the hell are they? She said, her reaction is what broke that strange dream like blanket that had been laying over me and sent my heart into my throat. Fear is contagious and I'd caught it. So you can see them. She shook her head in disbelief. Stop being a smart ass dude. Who the hell are those people? I was hoping you'd know. I said honestly, hell no. She said her voice was absolutely shaking as she looked at the mute figures once again. She unlocked the door to the office and yanked me through before slamming it closed and locking it. She slammed the window too, but pressed her cheek to the glass to stare wide eyed at the figures outside. I don't think they're coming any closer. You don't have any idea what they are. I asked, no asshole, I don't know why a bunch of weird people with glowing eyes are standing outside my hotel. She took several quick, shallow breaths, then swallowed the panic that I could see trying to fight its way up her throat. Okay, cops, that's what you do here. You call the cops. We're going to call the cops. She looked at me as if to make sure that was actually the correct response. I nodded, cops, cops. She repeated and pulled the phone from the receiver, punching the three numbers so hard that the phone's base scooted slightly with every touch. There was a moment's silence. Yes, this is Motel 9 on Highway 12. We need help. Now, there's these things out there. These, well, they're not things, they're people. They're just standing out in the fog staring at us. And I heard chatter through the phone. No, there's just one guest here in me. Please, please hurry, we don't know what they are and we're both really scared and just please hurry, okay? She nodded and put the phone back on the receiver. They said a car is on the way. She told me. It sounded strangely like she was trying to reassure me, but her hands were shaking and her breaths were shallow and ragged. I got a feeling that her telling me was only a way to reassure herself at this point. They didn't want to stay on the phone with you, I asked. She shook her head and sniffed. Tears welled up from the corners of her eyes, those multicolored eyes and she dabbed at them quickly. Why would they? I was pretty sure they were supposed to, but I didn't think that now was the time to tell her that, so I shook my head. Never mind. Now we just have to wait, she said, and slid down onto the floor behind the counter, cradling her knees in front of her. They'll be here soon. She nodded to herself. I looked out the window at the figures in the fog. I had a feeling that no matter how soon the cops could be here, it wouldn't be soon enough to matter. Still, they hadn't moved as far as I could tell, and I began to wonder what it was that they were waiting for. I don't suppose this is the part where you tell me about some old story from around here about things like this, is it? I asked. I didn't think it was likely, but the question filled the silence, and it was the silence that was frightening me. I had this feeling that I couldn't quite explain, and it told me that if that silence stretched on long enough, it would begin to hear things that I didn't want to hear. She looked up at me and shook her head. She reached up onto the desk, feeling around until her fingers grasped the book she'd left there and pulled it down, clutching it to her chest like some talisman. I pointed at the book. I don't suppose that's some kind of ghost encyclopedia, is it? She shook her head again. Her eyes were wide like a child and full of tears as she laid her forehead on her knees and began to sob. It was a sound beyond fear, beyond terror or anguish that had passed through all those emotions to land its sheer hopelessness, and it wrenched at my heart. I sat down on the floor opposite her. I considered reaching out, maybe putting a hand on her arm to give her some kind of human connection or comfort, but thought better of it. Come on now. That was a joke. I told her. She whispered. The conviction with which she said it felt like a slap, and the knowledge that I very well could be living my own last night here with this girl began to earnestly sink in. Still, the knowledge that this person, this girl needed my help, if only for the next few minutes, helped me smother that panic. What's that book you're reading? I asked her. She looked up at me, and then at the book she was still cradling. She blinked and screwed up her face like she was trying to remember. It's, uh, it's about a lighthouse. I knew if I turned and craned my neck, I'd be able to see that blinking light still floating in the fog at the top of that lighthouse. A lighthouse that I could see, and she couldn't. Lighthouse. I asked her. Yeah, that's why I was so weirded out when you came in earlier asking about that. I thought you were talking about the book or something. I shook my head. I don't even know the name of it. She furrowed her brow again like she was struggling to remember the name. She held it out to me and the title read The Sins of Amy Campbell. I gave the book back to her. I don't think I ever got your name, by the way. I'd given her mine earlier for the paperwork and the room key, but I offered it again. Mine is Tom. She was cradling the book to her chest again as she responded quietly and without looking. Macy, my name is Macy Pelbham. It's nice to meet you, Tom. I started to say something else, but that's when the moans started. I thought it was wind at first, but when it went on for a second longer than normal, I realized the truth. It wasn't just moans either, but whales and crying too that sounded impossibly far away. I could tell the moment she heard what little color remained on her face drained away. Before she could speak, though, the overhead light snapped out with the sound of glass breaking. Macy screamed, and I started as the darkness settled around us. The only lights now, the humming red neon and the mist outside glowing that pale blue silver color. She was so pale, and that neon light outlined her in red as she put her head back on her knees and started sobbing again. I thought of saying something, but before I could, I watched one of those figures from the fog walk slowly up to the window and stare in. He looked at her for a long moment before turning to me. I didn't move, and I don't think I even breathed as I waited there, watching. It was the closest I'd been to any of the figures, and what I'd taken to be dark clothes and the mist weren't actually dark, but were instead rotten rags. His might have once been an old fashioned coat with a high collar under a thick wiry beard that reached almost to the remains of his belt. Close up, his eyes still glowed with that same eerie turquoise color. Macy, I said, it turned back to look at her as she sniffed and raised her head. What? She asked. Her eyes were puffy in bloodshot. She looked to the spot I was staring at and then back again, repeating her question. What? You don't. I started, but the figure standing at the window looked back to me again and shook his head slowly. Don't what? She asked. She turned to look at the spot where the figure stood again and then back. Do you see something? Even as I watched, though, the figure turned and, like he'd forgotten what he came for, purposely ambled off back into the mist. Why can't you see the lighthouse? I asked her. The lighthouse? The one you were talking about when you got here? Yeah. Look, I thought you were messing with me when you got here. She said, wiping her eyes. I have no idea what you're talking about, though. There isn't a lighthouse here. I don't know what's going on, but I know there's not a lighthouse. I turned. Outside, the light was still blinking in the fog. I got that sense again that I'd wandered into some dream or some part of the world that wasn't quite real. A gust of wind tugged at the mist shrouding those figures again and joined the faraway sounds of the Moans. Do you hear that? She asked excitedly. I listened, but could hear nothing new over the Moans. What is it? I asked, Sirens, they're here, we're all right, we're gonna be okay. Before I could say much of anything. She jumped to her feet and pressed her face to the window. I got up much more slowly, trying to listen. I don't hear anything. I told her. She ignored me, pressing her nose to the glass as she looked back and forth frantically. Why don't they have their lights on? I can't see them. I still don't hear them. I repeated, how can you not? They sound like they're right outside. I knew the answer even then, but I didn't know what to say. Right then, the blinking light that had marked the top of the lighthouse changed suddenly to a red and blue blinking light, like a police light. There, she said, they went into the field. Come on. No, just wait for a second and we'll, but she was already running out the door. I lunged for her arm and I watched it pass right through my hands, like more of the mist floating outside. Every part of me that touched her went cold and numb, like I'd submerged it into ice cold water. She ran through the parking lot straight toward those waiting figures and that blue and red light flashing somewhere high overhead. She ran and the mist and the night both swallowed her whole, closing behind her like water. I walked out into a night that smelled of wet asphalt and grass and cedar and stood there for a moment, deciding whether to go after her or not. The moaning had stopped and to this day, I don't think I've ever experienced a silence as deep as that one. When I watched those figures all watching me, there were no bugs, no far away sounds of cars or trains, nothing at all until the screaming. I knew it was her. It wasn't even words, but just a loud, piercing, fear soaked scream that covered the valley like a blanket for those few seconds before it too receded like the tide into silence. The light blinking above the fog turned back into that blinking turquoise and then went steady again. I stood rooted to that spot for a long time, unsure what I'd seen or what I should do. I had a feeling that I couldn't call the police, not really anyway, and I didn't know what I would tell them if I did. Instead, I waited there in the night, hoping I'd think of something, but I didn't. I walked back inside and all I found was that old paperback book thrown to the floor in her hurry to be gone and I picked it up, slid it into my pocket, and walked back to my room. I drew the curtains closed and those paintings again caught my attention. In the largest, I actually noticed something I hadn't before. On the far left of the painting, on the second cliffside that I'd thought was empty, there was a small figure painted there, watching the wreckage with a tiny lantern. I wasn't sure how I'd managed to miss the detail before or why it caught my attention now, but I watched him, wondering what he must have seen and why he was put in the painting in the first place. Like before, though, the longer I watched, the more my head ached until I didn't even have the strength to peek through the curtains one last time before a dreamless and painful sleep took me. I woke up the next morning feeling like I'd been hit by a bus. The curtains were open again for some reason and bright harsh sunlight was filling the room. Something about the color the walls turned in that bright sun made me sick to my stomach and I might have vomited if I'd had anything on my stomach to vomit up. When I dragged myself out of bed, I saw that I was still the only person in the place. My little car looked even smaller in that wide empty parking lot. The clock radio by the bed read 1045 and I assumed that checkout was at eleven. I consciously avoided looking at any of the pictures on the wall while I put my shoes on. I couldn't even remember taking them off. Outside I tried not to stare at the lighthouse as I put my bag and the copy of the sins of Amy Campbell into the trunk of my car and walked down the covered awning to the office once again. She was still there, still reading that feathered old paperback when I walked up, looking just as bored as she had the day before as she looked up at me with that same look of, oh, you again. Checking out? She asked. I nodded and handed her my key. She took it and asked, how was your stay? A million things that I might say flashed through my mind. I had strange dreams. She cocked her head to the side, probably taken aback by the frankness of my answer. I know the feeling. She said, while she closed out the stay and wrote up my receipt, I nodded at the book laying open on the desk. Can I ask you what you're reading? She looked down like she'd forgotten the book was there. Oh, yeah, it's a book about a lighthouse keeper. She forgets to light the light and causes a shipwreck and it's about her dealing with a fallout from it and the town deciding whether it's her fault or not. It's my favorite. Is it? I asked. She slid the receipt across the desk. Yeah. Where'd you first hear about it? I asked. She thought for a moment. You know, I can't remember. I think it might have been a gift, maybe? We all have things like that. I replied. She shrugged. Well, you're all set. Thanks. I never caught your name, by the way. She frowned at me and an outside observer may well have seen just another old man trying to chat up a young lady that wanted to read. There were no outside observers, though. And she sighed as she said, Amy Campbell. I nodded. Well, thank you for your help, Mrs. Campbell. I appreciate it. I hope you have a good day. She squinted like she was surprised that that was the end of the matter. But then nodded, you too. Have a safe trip wherever you're going. I left her there in that little motel office and sat in my car a long time without ever starting it. When I pulled away, I watched the rear view until the mountains in that shimmering heat and haze of the summer day swallowed up first the motel and finally the lighthouse. I have searched for the book The Sins of Amy Campbell multiple times throughout the years whenever I'd had an odd afternoon or found myself in certain kinds of bookstores. I have never found even a mention of it, though I still have that old copy in a lock box on my own bookshelf. I have searched for that motel along that old road and though I have driven the length of that highway many, many times since and have passed the landmarks I remember from that trip. I have never found that old valley nor that lighthouse nor that old motel ever again.