Evil Tidings

by Grey Webb

Prologue
Hillsboro Lighthouse
January, 1961

Emily quickly finished her breakfast, slurping the last drop of milk from the cereal bowl, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “You’re going to be late for the bus,” her father yelled. From his perch atop the Hillsboro Lighthouse, he could make out the dull yellow bus slowly rounding the curve on A1A as it headed for its final stop before it turned around and headed back to Pompano Beach Elementary School.

A cold front had passed through the night before bringing with it one of the few chilly days South Florida would experience this winter. The air was fresh and clean; the westerly breeze flattened the waves and made the ocean appear as a tranquil lake. Emily preferred the ocean calm. It had been five months since Hurricane Cleo paid a visit to South Florida and raked the eastern seaboard of Florida from Miami to Palm Beach. As hurricanes go, Cleo wasn’t as powerful as others in the past, but to eleven year old Emily Stanton spending that dark night in her families frame home located at the base of the Hillsboro Lighthouse was the most terrifying experience of her young life. At one point the angry gray ocean edged up to the front porch of the Dade County Pine cottage; then inexplicably the waters receded and the winds became eerily calm. “It’s only the eye”, she remembered her father saying. The eye, she knew was just a momentary calm caused by the very center of the storm passing directly over them; the storm had not given up, it was just taking a breather.

But today was crisp, cool and the sky was a brilliant blue; not a cloud in sight. She knew this was the weather that brought the “snow birds” to the Wahoo Bay Club for the winter months. Located just a few hundred yards to the north of her family’s cottage and lighthouse, the Wahoo Bay Club had been offering cloistered sanctuary to the very wealthy for over thirty years. She occasionally caught a glimpse of the guests when they sunbathed on the beach, partially concealed in their brightly colored canvass cabanas, their plaster white skin soaking up the famous Florida sun. They don’t look rich, she remembers thinking once when she secretly observed a couple wading in the surf. The outside railing of the lighthouse made an excellent platform for her stealthy observations; it was amazing how far she could see with the help of her father’s binoculars.

Her mother had been a waitress at the club from the 1940s but quit when she married her father in 1946. When they were alone, her mother would recount amazing stories of gala parties and of all the rich and famous people she had the chance to encounter and serve. Her father did not like to hear of these stories. Emily was too young to understand the insecurities of men’s egos, but intuitively she knew her father did not want to be reminded of her mom’s past experiences; real or imagined. His job as the Keeper of Hillsboro Lighthouse was worthy she was sure, but from her mom’s accounts, she knew there existed beyond the borders of her young isolated world, a whole different class of important, wealthy, sophisticated people. “I want to be rich and travel the world when I grow up,” she would tell her mother. “If those people don’t look any different than me, then why can’t I be rich too?”

As she stumbled out the door, her books in hand, she realized Daisy had not greeted her. Normally the mix breed Labrador would meet her as she exited the screen door and accompany her all the way to the bus stop. It was Daisy, who had cuddled up to her the night of Hurricane Cleo and gave her solace as the winds blew hard against the cottage. It was Daisy who escorted her on her long walks down the beach. Where could she be? “If you don’t get your butt in gear young lady, that bus is going to leave you behind.” She knew she was running late and there was no time to waste; no time to look for Daisy.

Revis Stanton had discovered the lifeless body of the dog earlier that morning when he had made his rounds. It was lying prone just a few steps from the entrance of the lighthouse as if asleep. He hastily hid the remains under some dead coconut palm fronds just to west of the lighthouse, knowing he would have time later, after Emily departed for school, to properly bury the dog. Stanton knew he could not let on in anyway the dog had died if he had any expectations of getting Emily to school. As soon as he heard the school bus rumble across the Hillsboro Bridge he knew it was safe to bury Daisy.

The grounds immediately surrounding the Stanton’s cottage and lighthouse encompassed just under an acre of light brown grainy beach sand gently sloping to the water. Coconut palms, Australian pines and sea grape trees punctuated the landscape and provided a definite tropical air to the place. It would be difficult digging a very deep grave for Daisy in the loose beach sand; too deep and it would cave-in on itself. Some one hundred feet or so north of the cottage, towards the Wahoo Bay Club, the ground gently rose maybe three or four feet. There in a grove of sea grape trees, Revis found the perfect spot.

Revis knew this area well. An eight foot concrete block wall separated the southern boundary of the Wahoo Bay Club from the cottage and lighthouse. Only a heavy wooden gate, where Revis stood now with his shovel, provided limited access to the private club from the north. It was here Emily passed on her way to the bus stop located at the entrance to the club itself.

“This would be a proper place for Daisy,” he mumbled to himself. The sea grapes formed a canopy over a small open space. Someone, years ago, had placed an old weathered driftwood bench in the corner of the opening, giving the place a park-like setting. It was here, he and Maggie met for brief visits between her shifts as a waitress. This was also the place where Revis asked Maggie to marry him. His return to the clearing caused him to reflect.

When he arrived in the spring of 1942, the lighthouse had been without a keeper for several months. The previous caretaker had been killed and his wife and children relocated back to North Florida to live with family. The story regarding the man’s death had always been shrouded in mystery. He had heard rumors from some of the charter boat captains, but when questioned more closely, they could only speculate. Revis never could get a straight story of what really happened. Maggie would only describe the incident, in late December, 1941, perfunctorily as a ‘dreadful night’. He knew she either was hiding a secret that possibly involved a former lover or she was simply trying to moderate a frightful incident.

After several swift stabs with his shovel, the blade struck something hard. “What the hell?” he cursed. Again, a hard thrust with the shovel and the same hard clink. Dropping to his knees, he brushed the loose sand from around what appeared to be a strong box. The pad lock had rusted open and was hanging by its clasp. Lifting the metal box from its grave, he placed it on the driftwood bench. For a brief moment he thought of found treasure, but only briefly, the box was too new for that. He had seen a box of similar dimensions, 18” by 5”, before. It looked to be a safety deposit box. Wiping the crusted sand from the lid, he carefully opened the box. No gold, he still had thought, maybe! Nothing but a strange looking black disk with two electrical wires extending from the center, along with what appeared to be rolled-up engineering drawings and several booklets.

He heard rustling and then sensed someone behind him; it was Maggie. “I think I have something to tell you,” she said sobbing.