I've always loved lighthouses. Long before GPS, they were beacons of hope. Like a lover,

or friend, they show us the way home to safety and warmth. Well, at least I thought so, until a few years

ago. I was visiting a fellow writer, a smart, cocky academic I'd met at a university event years ago.

She was spending the fall in Maine to write a book about the coastal islands.

It was always nice to visit her, but I wasn't the happiest camper.

I'd hit a dry spell work-wise, and watching her work all day left me feeling...

...useless.

So maybe she was trying to cheer me up when she told me.

She'd bribed a local official for permission to visit the historic Seguin Island Lighthouse,

a condemned landmark that was going to be torn down the next day.

A haunted condemned landmark.

We took a small ferry to a desolate island two miles out from the main coast.

Our captain was an older woman named Martha.

She had a mess of scars on her left cheek and a rough, tense personality.

But when we got to the island, she gave us a great tour.

It was an old tower built in 1795, and it seemed to be in great condition.

Except with a giant shattered bulb at the top, the spider webs of broken glass radiating from a single point unsettled me.

As the kids say, the vibes were off.

I asked, so who all is haunting this place?

My friend slapped my shoulder.

Why did I always go for the creepy angle?

Martha avoided my gaze, but she muttered. In the late 1800s, the lighthouse

...