Todd Foley Writes

Written by Todd Foley

Sounds of wind, waves and gulls wash against the cliffside. It’s loud.

Louder.

LOUDER.

Then, silence.

***

Jillian drives along a windy road. Flustered, wound up. Nature’s sounds are slightly muted. Her phone calls out: “You have arrived at your destination.”

Jillian steps out of her car, the ocean breeze wrapping itself around her, the reassuring hug she needs right now.

Eyes adjusting to the wind, she focuses on her surroundings:

An open field.

A house in front of countless trees, and, finally…

A lighthouse on the rocky edge looking down to the rockier shore. Gulls circle the air, keeping watch over the property.

Jillian soaks in the lighthouse, more so in fear than admiration. The bulb flashes on and off. 

Fidgeting with her wedding ring, she musters the strength to look away.

She scans the property. 

Her phone buzzes. A text from Darian: “Open the shed, tools are inside, instructions too. Just don’t go inside the lighthouse. Thx for covering for me today.”

Scanning the property more, she finds the shed and opens the door. Gardening tools, buckets, a riding mower. The smell of dust and days past. 

She reaches for a bucket, then recoils at the sight of a dead seagull inside it. 

She drops it, stares, unable to break her gaze as she grabs a different bucket and heads outside.

Jillian starts weeding the grounds. Lost in the job, until she looks up to see a 50-something woman nearby, watching her. 

“Oh, so sorry dear. I didn’t mean to startle you,” the woman says. “I’m Sharon.”

Jillian collects herself. “No, it’s fine. I’m – hi, I’m Jillian.”

Sharon looks her up and down – maternal yet suspicious.

“Didn’t realize we have new help here. Do you know Darian?”

“I’m his wife. Filling in today.”

“Ah,” Sharon says. “I see. Is he unwell?”

“Flu. Usually hits him hard. Do you work here too?”

“I used to work as the groundskeeper, many years ago. Now I live here.” Sharon points to the house. “Darian, he really transformed this place. Brought it out of a dark era. We haven’t had a groundskeeper in years.”

Jillian adjusts her wedding ring, nervously.

“You’ve lived here long?” she asks.

Sharon looks around the property. “People either grew up here, or they moved here to escape something.”

Sharon saunters closer. 

“What’s your story, Jillian?”

Jillian fidgets with her ring again.

“I grew up in LA. We needed a change after a death in the family. The city’s great but here we get the ocean without the crowds and noise. It’s all brought healing to our spirits.”

“It certainly does,” Sharon says. “So does the lighthouse itself.”

Sharon looks at the towering structure.

“It makes you feel like you’ve stepped into the past. Something magical about it. You should try it. The view from the top, there’s nothing that compares. You finally see the truth.”

Jillian adjusts her ring again.

“Darian told me to not go inside, that no one’s allowed in.”

Sharon cackles, longer than necessary for such a line.

“How does a lighthouse operate if no one goes in to work it?”

Jillian considers it. “Darian’s just the groundskeeper.”

“The lighthouse is on the grounds.”

“He specifically said to not go in.”

Sharon looks at her with a smile that feels more intrusive than sincere.

“Maybe he’s just keeping you back from living.”

Jillian flinches, just enough for it to be noticed.

“We don’t hold each other back.”

Sharon shrugs. 

“Well. They say that when you get to the top and see the lamp and the view of the ocean from so high up, it’s like you find that solace you’ve been aching for, and your soul can finally rest. No more pain, no more hurt.”

They sit in the silence for a moment.

“I really should start-”

“Yes, yes,” Sharon cuts in. “Don’t let me distract you.”

Sharon heads back to the house. Over her shoulder: “Anything you need, sweetie, just knock.”

And she’s off.

Jillian gets back to weeding, eyes not fully leaving Sharon, or her house.

Am I safe here?

She nervously tackles the list from Darian:

-Mow the lawn.

-Trim the hedges.

-Rake the leaves into piles.

-Fill bags with debris.

The tools back in the shed, Jillian walks to her car. 

Seagulls call loudly, startling her. 

She turns, looks at the lighthouse. Gulls are perched all over.

She puts a finger on her ring, then walks toward the building.

The lamp flares at her.

She adjusts the ring…then stops. She’s made her decision.

Pulling out her phone, she composes a text to Darian: “Taking longer than expected. Will text when leaving.”

She looks at the lighthouse – the lamp, the gulls, the wind working together to beckon her. 

She follows the call, and steps inside the door.

Jillian takes it in: mysterious, majestic, forbidden fruit. 

Wind slams against the outside walls.

She turns to see framed pictures on the wall lining up the staircase – portraits. They sit under painted words “For in the light, they found freedom from pain.” 

Each portrait has a birth and death year. One is of a woman that looks strikingly familiar – Sharon – and has the same name, but died in 1977.

Thinking nothing of it, Jillian slowly makes her way up the stairs, hearing the call of the gulls. 

Then she sees a photo of Darian.

Darian.

Her Darian.

A death date of last year.

Then, next, an empty frame with no name or dates.

She sees her reflection on the framed glass.

Jillian looks back and forth between these three frames – overwhelmed, confused, shrinking into herself as the winds blast with greater strength.

She runs down the stairs. The door is locked. She tries again, harder, BANGS ON THE DOOR.

“HELP!” she pleads. “HELP ME PLEASE!”

She reaches for her wedding ring for reassurance.

But there’s no ring there for comfort.

She looks everywhere for relief, but it’s nowhere to be found. 

Terror tightens its grip over her chest.

Jillian freezes.

Someone is behind her.

She turns to see Sharon standing in front of her, dressed in white. 

Smiling that same unsettling smile. 

“Welcome to the light, Jillian.”

Jillian screams and turns, but Sharon is suddenly in front of her again.

She turns around, and Sharon is there as well – appearing out of nowhere. Every corner of the lighthouse, even on the stairwell, Sharon is there.

Every time Sharon appears, her smile grows.

“You are one of us, now…well, almost.”

Jillian searches for her voice.

“One of them?”

The smile manages to grow even more.

“The keepers of the light.”

Sharon points to the portraits, then hums a melody: “This Little Light Of Mine.”

Trembling, almost knowing the answer already, Jillian looks up to the portraits. 

Step by step up the stairs.

She sees that there now is a name: Jillian, but no death date, no photo.

She grabs her phone, dials Darian. 

“The number you have called is no longer in service. Please contact the surviving members of the customer’s family if you wish to contact them.”

She looks up. Again, Sharon is there, singing: “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.”

In existential terror, Jillian collapses.

The singing continues.

“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.”

She opens her eyes to see feet in front of her.

She looks up.

Darian. 

Darian?

Darian.

Her Darian. 

Dressed in white.

Jillian is relieved, elated as she runs to embrace him. They hug….and then she pulls back, bracing herself for what she knows she will see.

A smile, wider than she knows he’s capable.

Darian points up the stairs to the lamp. 

In unison with Sharon, he sings: “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine. Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.”

He looks to Jillian. “Shine, my love. Shine.”

Jillian looks at Sharon, then back to Darian – both offering that same haunting smile.

They approach her, cornering her, moving her toward the stairs. 

Smiling.

Through their grins: “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.”

She can’t escape. There is no way but up.

The lamp glows brighter.

The gulls call louder.

Jillian runs from Sharon and Darian, escaping to the top. 

The bulb shines bright. The gulls circle outside.

Jillian sees the view – and an opening in the glass. 

Darian and Sharon are both at the top now, smiling.

Singing.

Approaching.

Jillian screams, backs up…

***

From afar, a small figure falls from the lighthouse onto the rocky shore below.

On the portrait of Jillian, the year 2020 now appears.

***

Gulls circle around the property. The grounds are unkempt. Neglected for who knows how long.

A car pulls into the driveway. “You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS calls.

A young man gets out. He carries himself with grief, complacency. 

After a glance at the lighthouse, he picks up his phone.

“Hi, sir,” he says into the phone. “Made it. So everything’s in the shed?”

A young woman approaches from behind. He turns to greet her. Her white dress dances in the breeze. He locks eyes with hers, which sit just above an enthusiastic smile.

“Hello, welcome,” she says. “I’m Jillian.”