Page 30 of Thunder Road

Simon could understand. With computers, cell phones, satellite television, and the internet, living at a lighthouse wouldn’t be as isolated as before modern times. But the lack of day-to-day, face-to-face connection wasn’t for everyone.

“He kept a journal and made notes every day—we found boxes of them, one for each year. This is the one his ghost wanted me to find, the one he mentioned in our séance as his first year at the lighthouse. He noted the weather and the ships that came by, as well as the wildlife. I think he loved being able to see the birds and dolphins. He left the journals to me.

“But one was set aside—for the first year he was at the lighthouse,” she went on. “I think it was because it had information about how to maintain the wardings and what rituals he needed to do to keep them strong.”

She pulled the old leather-bound book from her purse and passed it across the table to Simon. “Maybe you’ll make more of it than I could. To me, the pretty verses sound like a prayer, but I guess I don’t understand how these things work.”

Simon’s fingers traced the leather, getting a frisson of old memories and faint power.

“It’s not so far off thinking of them as prayers, but not meant for a particular listener,” Simon told her. “More like speaking to the universe itself, using the words to harness the speaker’s will and intentions, an act of creation by voicing something into being.”

“That’s very poetic.”

Simon shrugged. “It’s a deeply-rooted reaction at the core of every belief system, so it touches something in how we’re wired. I can’t explain it, but I’m not going to discount something that old and powerful.”

“He makes comments in his first journal about how important it is to keep the wardings strong, do the ritual on a regular schedule, and not skip over anything in the incantation,” Mrs. Brighton said.

“And he mentions something I didn’t expect. The South Carolina lighthouses are in a pretty straight line down the coast. But the North Carolina ones are a little more spread out. According to his notes, seven of those are more supernaturally powerful than the others, and it’s possible to draw a seven-pointed star in a circle using them as the key points.”

“A pentagram in a circle is an old protection sigil,” Simon mused, acknowledging the validation of the story he had heard. “Probably not something they bring up on the lighthouse tours.”

She laughed. “No, I’m sure they don’t.”

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” Simon told her. “I’ll take good care of it.”

Mrs. Brighton laid her hand over Simon’s. “Do with it whatever you need to do to bring back the protections. I know that’s what my uncle would want.”

“Would you mind if I digitally scanned it? That way it’s preserved for the future.”

She gave a vague wave. “Fine with me. That sounds like a good idea. For as important as the wardings seemed to my uncle, it’s a bit scandalous that they’ve just gone by the wayside.”

“Thank you.” Simon gripped her hand gently. “I think this is going to be very useful.”

“I’m glad to help. I hope everything goes well.” She waved goodbye to Pete and left the shop. Simon watched from the window until she was out of sight.

“I’m going to put the journal in my bag and shut down my computer,” Simon told Pete, who had nearly finished closing. He had barely gotten to his office when he heard someone rapping at the front window.

“It’s Ricky,” Pete said when Simon came up front. “What do you want me to do?”

Simon glanced at the clock and figured one more conversation wouldn’t make him too late for dinner. “Let him in. And if you don’t mind, stick around, please. We won’t be long.”

“You’ve got it.” Pete headed for the door, unlocked it long enough for the newcomer to enter, and locked it again afterward.

“Sorry to come so late,” Ricky said. “But I heard something I think you’ll want to know.”

Ricky was one of the Skeleton Crew, but Simon hadn’t heard from him in a few months. His untrained ability as a medium had sent him spiraling until Simon helped him get the training he needed to manage his gift and control his abilities.

“What’s up?”

Ricky rubbed his hands on the front of his jeans, a nervous gesture that went with his twitchy way of looking around even though the shop was empty except for Simon and Pete. “I’ve been working at the shelter for the last six months. It’s part of qualifying for my certification, but I really like it there. I feel like I’m helping people.”

After Ricky had gained more control of his mediumship, he had been able to go back to school. He was working on a counseling certificate and hoped to be able to steer others with paranormal abilities to resources that would help them learn about their gifts instead of writing them off as imagination.

“Beach towns get a lot of drifters,” Ricky said. “People down on their luck, looking for a fresh start, or who just give up and plan to fade away by the ocean.”

Simon could relate, having come to Myrtle Beach after his personal and professional life exploded. He had been fortunate to have the resources to rebuild. Not everyone was as lucky.

“So we have our regulars and our newbies,” Ricky went on. “Some of them keep their distance, but the ones that stickaround, we get to know at least a little. Unless they get picked up by the cops for vagrancy or stop at a soup kitchen, we’re likely to be one of their only points of contact.”

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