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Chapter Text

If you asked Pat, there was nothing more beautiful than a light lit on and on, forever. She would say there was something beautiful and deeply human about the flame, something passed down through generations like a line of stories or languages. Light had been with the human race since the beginning, Pat reasoned, and for that, it was her best friend, always there, always guiding; always, always a beacon to safety.

From the railing of the lighthouse, Pat leaned over, peering at the dark water. The waves of the Chesapeake - brackish, relenting - pounded at the rocks on the ledge, with more determination than Pat would ever be able to muster. Pat pulled up the hood of her jacket to keep out the pounding of the rain. It wasn’t like it mattered in the long run. The water that had seeped into her hair was already making its way down her bones.

“HELP!”

It was the second time the voice from below had called. Pat squinted in the dark to see who was yelling. Her glasses were soaked. She pushed them up onto her forehead under her hood. It wasn’t like they’d be useful, anyway.

“HELP! CAN SOMEBODY HELP ME!”

With a sigh of exasperation, Pat turned away from the railing and began the descent down the stairs to the shore. She gave one longing glance to the warmth of her kitchen - god, she could go for a mug of tea right now, the storm was perfect for it - and shut the door, letting her strides turn into a jog as she headed in the direction of the voice.

“PLEASE! I THINK I’M DYING!”

The person shouting had devolved into hysterical sobbing. Over one thousand eight hundred boats have wrecked in the Chesapeake, Pat thought to herself. Overhead, the heavens rolled with thunder, booming like a bass drum. The rain was fucking relentless. Pat’s socks were getting wet, and she was wearing boots.

“What’s wrong,” she called down flatly as soon as she reached the edge of the dock. Beneath her feet, the plastic slats wobbled on the surface of the water, angry and tossed. Pat didn’t have time for this, really; she had songs to write, guitar to practice. Records to spin and a fire to light and soup to make.

Out in the water, the sobbing continued. Pat sighed to herself. This might take a while.

“What happened?” she asked, hoping to get a reply. The sooner this was all sorted out, the sooner she could go back to her soup.

The voice stopped sobbing suddenly, as if surprised into silence. “Who’s there?”

“Patricia Stump,” Pat said.

“Who?”

“The lighthouse keeper. Concord Point,” explained Pat, tired.

“Concord Point,” the voice echoed. “Wait - no, no, no. I’m not - I’m not supposed to be here.”

“You got that right,” agreed Pat. “So now we can just go back our own separate ways and -”

“Hold on a minute,” said the voice. “What am I?”

And all at once, its outline sharpened into focus. A woman, maybe forty. She had curling hair that went down to her waist; piercing brown eyes. She was hovering two feet off the surface of the grumbling waves, and her very existence was translucent. A ghost, then. Her ship really had crashed into the bay.

“Ah,” Pat said. “There it is. Ma’am, can you tell me your name?”

“Janie Quinones,” the ghost - Janie - said. “But - why?”

“So,” Pat said. “I hate to break this to you, but you’re basically dead.”

Janie’s face paled. “What?”

“The process that happens when you crash your boat in the Chesapeake bay during a storm and drown.”

“I didn’t drown. I’m here, aren’t I?”

This happened Every. Single. Time. Pat was getting sick of it. “Because your spirit created a semi-corporeal form to carry you through the transition between life and death. No, you’re not dead for real - not yet. No, other people can’t see you, because your physical form is at the bottom of the Chesapeake.”

Janie looked like she was digesting this information, which was valid, Pat supposed, she just wished that she could take it in a little faster. Behind her, a flash of lightning sluiced through the darkness. Pat’s socks were fully soaked now.

“Come with me,” Pat sighed, and waved her hand to lead Janie into the lighthouse. Janie floated after her, looking unsteady - which couldn’t be right, because Pat was the one walking on a wobbling dock.

Flashlight in hand, she led the ghost to the lighthouse - her home, her isolation, her curse.

Pat liked her lighthouse all right - it was small, and simply decorated, with a twin bed in the corner and a wood-burning stove, her lamp and matchbox and closet and table (dark wood, small and round, with two chairs, one of which she never used). The real glory of the room was her record player, a pretty green thing her grandmother had given her for her sixteenth birthday; it sat with a place of pride atop the bookshelf, which was stuffed nearly overflowing with records. Next to the bookshelf was her acoustic, tuner clipped snugly to the headstock, a blue pick laced through the strings on the first fret.

But really, there were some very good records. Pat had collected them over the years from birthdays, holidays, friends, stores she had scoured. There were her favorites: Bowie, Coltrane, Cohen, Whitney. Sometimes, when she was feeling lonely, Pat would pull them out and trace the covers, put them in the player, and listen while she cooked her breakfast or cleaned the boathouse. It was cozy, it was lovely, and each day felt small and the same and it got a little boring sometimes, sure, but Pat liked that. It made her feel like she was within something comforting, something that felt tangible, alive. Nothing like the ghosts that passed through, seeking comfort and a friend before they ventured into the Other.

Pat ushered Janie inside and set about tossing a couple of logs in the stove - she had had a fire going earlier, but now it had burned down to a handful of ashes. She crumpled up an old page of newspaper and threw it in, and then knelt to light the thing. She could feel Janie’s eyes on her back, and they burned nearly as hot as the fire.

Nothing better than a light, Pat thought to herself, and turned around to face Janie. The ghost’s eyes were roaming, taking in the room - the quilt on Pat’s bed, the records on the shelves.

“Sit down,” Pat said, and came out more like a command than she intended. Nervously, Janie tried to pull out the chair from the table, and seemed alarmed when her fingers passed through. After a few tries, she gave up. Pat didn’t bother to try and help her.

“What are you doing,” Janie asked her. She sounded frustrated. Good. It was much easier to deal with frustration than grief.

“My job,” Pat snapped. “Look, ma’am, I’m not a lifeguard. I’m just a lighthouse keeper. But if I don’t do it, nobody does, and you’d be floating in the world of the living for ages before you figured out how to pass on yourself.”

Janie grimaced. “So how do you pass on?”

“Tell me your story,” said Pat. “Share it with me. Once you come to terms with it, you’re allowed to leave. Tell me about your family, how you lived, why you died. Until then, you’re in this realm until you meet the next person who understands even a little bit. And I promise you, I’m the only person I know who’d be able to see and hear you.”

Janie looked at her, skeptical. “Is that it? Is that all I have to do?”

Pat sat back and looked at her, her wide eyes. Nervous, but not frightened. “That’s all you have to do.”

Janie cast a long look to the door, and then back at Pat. She took a deep breath and began.

“I was born in Vermont. Stowe, you know; the one with the good ski mountains. My parents and I used to go skiing all the time. I’ve always been into the outdoors, sporty stuff. Hiking, soccer, rowing, sailing. Especially sailing. Every summer my family and I would come down to the Chesapeake and rent a house on the bay and go sailing every day for a week. I’ve always loved Maryland.

I got married when I was twenty five. We’re divorced now, but I had a boy only a year later - Ben. He’s a brilliant kid. He was on the boat with me, but since he isn’t a ghost, with me here, I assume he’s still alive. We moved to Delaware. Closer to the beaches. Every summer I made sure that Ben and I went down to Maryland for at least a week, to give him the same experience I had. I took him sailing on the bay. There are beaches in Delaware, and Rehobeth is nice, but I wanted to keep the memories going. I guess you could say I’m someone who’s bad at letting go.

Ben turned eighteen a few months ago. He didn’t want to come to the Chesapeake this summer. I told him to come anyway. ‘One last time before you leave’, I said. I should have let him stay home.

He didn’t want to go sailing today. I thought he was just being stubborn and cold. He told me it looked like it was going to storm, but I just saw clouds. It turned out Ben was right. Not an hour after we’d gotten on the boat, the waves got rougher. The clouds formed, and soon enough it was beginning to rain.

We tried to turn back. Usually the bay isn’t too bad when it’s stormy but today, it felt bad. We couldn’t see because of all the rain. I think the ship capsized. I remember yelling for help. I knew nobody would hear me.”

Janie took a breath. “And I guess that’s when you found me.”

Pat studied her - the furrow between her brows, the shine in her eyes. She didn’t seem like someone who would be dead. Pat asked gently, “Can you tell me any more details?”

“There were two lighthouses,” Janie said. “When I was dying, I saw two lights. There was you, on the deck of your lighthouse. But there was another, too. A woman with black hair, holding up a lamp.”

Pat froze. “Huh? I’m the only lighthouse for… a while. Where was it?”

“I don’t know,” Janie said. “But I know I saw two.”

“Hmm,” said Pat. She would definitely have to look into that. “Okay.”

Janie took a shaky breath. “Okay. Is that it?”

“Yes, that’s it,” Pat said. “To pass - I’m not sure how exactly it works, but to pass into the Other you just close your eyes. It’s like falling asleep. You’ve pretty much already done it once - your physical body is no longer alive, so you have to release your soul.”

Janie seemed reluctant. Prompting, Pat asked, “Is there any message you’d like me to pass on before you go?”

“Yes. To my Ben. Tell him that I love him and I’m sorry.”

Whatever irritation Pat had been holding drained out all at once. “Of course. I’ll do my best.”

“I think I owe you a thank you, Patricia,” Janie said. “Thank you for helping me pass. It must not be easy doing this job all the time. Thank you for making sure that I didn’t die alone.”

Usually, ghosts got mad at Pat. They cursed her out for trying to help, called her names, curses, slurs, and eventually Pat became numb to it, started snapping back. But… this was a change. This was… nice. Janie felt like the warm comfort of a mother, and Pat… hadn’t had that in a long time.

Truthfully, Janie had died on her own. Ben hadn’t died with her; he had seen his mother drown before his eyes. But Pat wasn’t going to remind her of that. It wasn’t always easy to hear the drowning sailors’ stories, but somebody had to do it, and, well… nobody else could talk to ghosts.

“Oh,” Pat said, and she felt like her very existence was shaking apart, ready to shatter at the first touch. “You’re welcome, Janie.”

“My pleasure,” Janie murmured, and offered Pat a small smile, and closed her eyes.

Pat let her own eyes drift closed as well, and when she opened them, Janie was gone, disappeared into thin air.

The thing was, Pat had been alone for a while. She was used to being alone. Alone was her skin, the air she breathed; she didn’t mind being alone. And besides, she had friends. Andy Hurley, who called daily to check on the water’s Ph levels and talk gossip about her coworkers to Pat. Jo, a captain who often offloaded her ships in the harbor nearby and always brought Pat a box of tea.

And, well… that was it. They were the only people Pat really needed to know, to be honest. The city wasn’t too far, so she could always go get groceries, but it wasn’t like many people came near the lighthouse. It was probably too full of ghosts.

And it wasn’t really until Janie vanished into the Other that Pat really began to feel lonely. Lonely was a different feeling than being alone. It ached, like a hunger, but wasn’t as easily satiated. Pat sat at her table and stared at the place where Janie had disappeared and wondered why she felt like this.

Janie had said something about two lighthouses. That was so strange. There were no other lighthouses near Concord Point; there was no way she would have gotten that confused. Pat’s was the only lighthouse for miles.

Who could that have been? Had Janie been going mad before she died? Was Pat going mad?

Pat didn’t think she’d mind another lighthouse. The comfort of somebody who understood might have been nice.

She must have drifted off, because when she woke, her head throbbed like she had gotten blackout drunk. Someone was using her brain like a kickdrum. It took her ten seconds to realize that the pounding was on the door, not in her imagination.

“Who the fuck is it,” she barked, instinctively, and then winced at the pain from her own volume. Maybe it was Jo with gossip and tea boxes, or maybe she had slept the week away and Andy was coming to check that she wasn’t dead. It wasn’t like there was anybody else that could be at the door, knocking like her life was in danger.

There was no answer, but the pounding on the door intensified. The sun shone through the windows, cheery and bearing no sign of the storm from before.

“Shut - shuddup,” Pat grumbled, and groggily dragged herself out of bed to check who it was.

The door opened with a creak. She really needed to get those hinges oiled. In the door stood the most beautiful woman Pat had ever seen in her life. The first thing she noticed was that this girl had gorgeous eyes; hazely green-brown and speckled with gold, hitting the light just right. The second thing Pat noticed was that she was solid.

She wasn’t a ghost.

And she wasn’t Jo or Andy.

“Hi, hi,” the woman said. She was more of a girl, really, probably closer to Pat’s age, with dark, jaggedly cut hair, and eyes rimmed black with liner. She was looking right at Pat like she expected something. “Hi, is this Patricia Stump?”

“Um,” said Pat. “Who are you?”

“I’m Pete Wentz,” said the girl. “I’m the other lighthouse keeper.”

Chapter Text

The other lighthouse keeper,” Pat said, testing it out. “There is no other lighthouse. Not for miles. Do you work at one of them?”

“No,” said Pete, grinning. Her teeth were sort of pointed, like a shark’s. It was a little weird. Pat couldn’t shake the strange cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had the feeling that this wasn’t just loneliness, either.

“I work at the Martyr’s Lighthouse,” Pete was saying. “Keep that light going day and night, yeah? Not a single wreck on my hands since the 1800s.”

Pete looked like she was in her mid-twenties. There was no way she had been around in the 1800s. Pat rolled her eyes. “Yeah, the 1800s, sure. I’m sure you were there for them.”

“I was,” Pete nodded, earnest. “Started in the forties, been at the Martyr’s ever since. Best lighthouse miles around. Better than this thing.” She gestured at Pat’s lighthouse. “You know, Concord Point’s been officially standing since 1827 - destroyed in the 60s, rebuilt in the early 1900s. Oldest in Maryland.”

“You know your history,” Pat said, mildly impressed. “But - what do you want? Nobody ever comes here.”

Pete smiled again, that shark tooth grin. “Well, I want to talk to you. I think there’s something interesting about you.”

“I don’t even know who you are,” Pat protested as Pete pushed her way through the door.

“Some days, neither do I, quite honestly,” Pete replied, and began rummaging through Pat’s kitchen like she owned the place. Pat made a noise of indignation.

“Get out of my cabinets, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Just getting some tea,” Pete fired back, hands up like don’t shoot. She went back to the cabinets. “Ooh, you’ve got chamomile, I could use some of that. May I?”

Pat resigned herself to a long talk with an unwelcome visitor. It didn’t seem like Pete was inclined to leave. It didn’t really seem like she had decent manners, either.. “Fine.” The fire was still alive, although not quite as blazing; Pat tossed another log on top of it and filled the kettle.

Pete had invited herself to sit at the table in the chair that Pat always sat at, and was tucking her legs underneath herself to sit criss-cross on the seat. “So how have you been?”

“We’re not doing this,” Pat said, and hung the kettle on the hook above the fire. “I don’t know you. You don’t know me. I don’t even know why you know my name. We’re not old friends, so don’t act like it.”

Pat was used to her visitors crying and screaming. Out of her visitors, probably ninety eight percent of them were ghosts. She was used to being told things like a lady like you shouldn’t be talking to me like this, the cursing, the anger. Being called a faggot again and again, and it was like she was back home, before she had left Chicago for the sweet isolation of Maryland’s coast.

Pete wasn’t a ghost. She didn’t yell or scream or tell her to fuck off, only frowned. “Why are you so mean? I’m just trying to make conversation.”

Pat’s anger ran into a brick wall, startled. “Um.”

“I don’t know, I thought I might get to know you a little bit,” Pete said, eyes dark and annoyed. “Since we’re neighbors. But if you want me to leave, I can.”

If Pete left, then Pat would be alone again. She didn’t know Pete, but so far, she had been nothing but nice to her, and charming, and she had those pretty eyes. Maybe it would be okay for Pete to stay for just a little while longer. It had been forever since Pat had had company that wasn’t dead, anyway.

“Fine,” she muttered. “You can stay. Just for tea.”

“Okay,” Pete said, visibly relaxing.

“So, um…” Pat said. The water wasn’t boiling yet and she had nothing to do with her hands. Pat was never any good when she had nothing to do. “Your lighthouse. Which is it you said you worked at?”

“The Martyr’s lighthouse,” Pete supplied cheerfully, ripping open one of Pat’s sugar packets that littered the table with her teeth and shaking it into her mouth before Pat could even protest.

Pat ran a mental calculation of all the lighthouses in Maryland. “That’s not a lighthouse?” It came out as a question. There was no lighthouse in the Chesapeake called the Martyr’s lighthouse, not in history nor in the present.

“It is, I promise,” Pete insisted, beginning to tear the sugar’s paper packaging into shreds. “You’ll see it. At some point.”

Delving into the cabinets for bread, Pat turned to look at her, confused. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll see, Trickypie,” Pete replied.

Okay, no. “Don’t call me that,” snapped Pat.

Pete just grinned. “Can I have some of that bread?”

“Yes,” Pat said and laid out the cutting board and set into the drawers for a knife. “But first tell me: Where is the Martyr’s lighthouse? And why is it called that?”

“You can only see it in the fog,” Pete replied, watching her intently. “And it’s called that because it’s old. There were some martyrs. At some point.”

“Mm hm, very specific,” Pat grumbled, and began slicing the bread. It was a good loaf, springy under her fingers - Jo had brought it, freshly baked, along with the tea last Sunday. Over by the fire, the kettle began to whistle. Pat set down her knife and went to retrieve it.

“So tell me about you, ‘Trick,” Pete declared, taking the thick slice of bread Pat offered her. “What’s your story?” She took a bite of the bread, and then wrinkled her nose. “You got any butter?”

“Ugh,” said Pat, annoyed, and then chucked the plastic butter container at her. Pete caught it with surprisingly fast reflexes. Maybe Pat should have felt anxious about a complete stranger in her house, but there was something comforting about Pete’s presence. Like she was understood, in a way; like a cat in a patch of sunlight, knowing where it belonged. Pete was fucking annoying, sauntering in like she owned the place, but she was also strangely reassuring. “I don’t want to talk about me.”

It wasn’t like there was anything to talk about anyway. Just bad memories.

“Well, I guess we have nothing to talk about then,” Pete shrugged. Pat handed her her tea, and she took it, blowing lightly on the top to cool it off. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Pat said. “What do you mean, ‘we have nothing to talk about?’ We can start by talking about why I’ve never seen you before in my life and why you act like you’ve lived here since the moment you were born. We can talk about how I could be getting work done right now, but I’m chatting up a complete stranger instead.”

“Okay, fine,” Pete said, and leaned forward on the table on her elbows, tea forgotten. “What work do you have to get done?”

“I have to write and deliver a message to Ben Quinones from his drowned mother, I have to give Andy the daily updates, I have to organize the boathouse, it’s a mess - oh, fuck, I didn’t even sleep in my bed last night.”

“Hey,” Pete said, voice firm. “Calm down, Pattycakes. Look, the boathouse looks fine. You’re so neurotic that it literally can never get disorganized. Andy can wait. Do you want to sleep?”

“No,” said Pat. “I want you to drink your tea and leave.”

Pete just smiled. “You don’t really want me to leave.”

“I do. I really, sincerely do.”

“Look,” Pete said, and put down her bread. “I think that you’re lonely, but you think you like it, which is why you’re pushing me out right now.”

“I don’t like being lonely,” Pat clarified. “I like being alone. There’s a difference.”

“But you’re lonely, aren’t you?” Pete asked. She was staring at Pat with those eyes, goldengreenbrown, intense. “I’m only saying. We should be friends. I think that we have more in common than you think. But if you don’t want that, I’ll take my leave.”

Pat mostly felt like she was confused. This - this whole thing felt weird. Pete felt weird.

Pete asked, “Do you want me to leave? Be serious. If you want me to leave, I will leave.”

Pat said, feeling disconnected from her body and everything that made her whole, “No. I don’t want you to leave.”

Pete smiled that grin, assured and relaxed. “Good.”

Chapter Text

Jo said, “In my five years of steering ships around the bay, I have never once heard of the Martyr’s lighthouse.”

Pat knocked her head against the table. It was cold. Gratifying. “I don’t know how to feel, Jo. I’m so confused. She makes me question reality. She’s so weird.”

“Okay,” Jo said. “But, like, are you going to see her again?”

“She’s gonna swing by again this weekend for tea,” Pat replied, exasperated. “She just invited herself into my house. And then invited herself over for tea. Like, she’s so rude that I should be furious, but she’s actually super charming, it’s really fucking annoying.”

“And you’re absolutely sure she isn’t a ghost.”

Pat thought for a moment. “Well. Yeah. She’s solid.”

“Hmm,” Jo said.

Jo Trohman was the only person in the world who knew that Pat could see and talk to ghosts - well, the only person who believed that she was telling the truth, at least. She didn’t quite understand it, which was fair. Pat didn’t understand it either, but it was nice to have somebody to talk to about it other than her journal and the open water of the bay.

“I’ve got a solution,” announced Jo after a moment of silence had passed.

Pat perked up. “Really? Because she is so confusing.”

“Tea,” Jo proclaimed.

“Tea?”

“That’s what I said, yes.”

“The solution to the Pete problem is tea.”

“Yes, tea,” Jo said, reaching into her bag and carefully placing a box on the table before Pat. The label told her it was Thai tea. “Got some more. It’s all yours, baby.”

“Trohman, this is not a solution.”

“I’m not a lesbian, so I can’t help you with your crush,” announced Jo, and Pat spluttered in protest. “But I can offer you tea. Since you’re having Pete over this weekend.”

“She’s actually having herself over, I didn’t ask her to -“

“Technicalities. You’re having her over for tea. You will be making some of this delicious Thai tea, and I will email you the recipe to these deliciously buttery sugar cookies that my boyfriend makes that are insanely good. You will load up the recipe on your ancient, dinosaur PC and bake these godlike cookies.”

“That’s so tedious.”

“You‘ll charm her little trousers off.”

Pat was silent. Then she said, “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

Jo shrugged. “You never asked. It’s no big deal.”

“I just feel bad that I never asked. You’re always here to help me but I never hear you talk about your life, like, at all.”

“It really isn’t a big deal,” Jo said again. “It’s okay.” She squeezed Pat’s shoulder affectionately. “You don’t need to feel bad. You’ve got your own shit going on.”

“Yes, but you’re my best friend. I always feel the best talking to you, so I feel like I should know this stuff.”

“No offense, but if you feel the best talking to me, you really, REALLY need to get out more,” announced Jo, but she was smiling. “Look, babe, I gotta head back to the dock in twenty, so I gotta go - are you okay on the Pete problem? You’ll give me a call if things get weirder?”

“Yeah,” Pat sighed.

“Great,” Jo said, and stood, shrugging on her coat as she did so. “Give me a call, tell me how things go, okay?”

“Okay.”

Pat watched as she headed toward to door, but as soon as her gloved hand touched the knob, she whirled around, as if reminding herself of a thought. “But, Pat… I don’t know. I hope everything goes well with Pete, but she’s giving me weird vibes. I think you like her, but I also don’t think you know the whole story. I’d wait until you know more before you do anything drastic, okay? She seems… weird to me. Like the way you describe ghosts.”

“Pete isn’t a ghost,” Pat assured her. “I’ve checked.”

“Just be wary,” Jo said firmly.

“Will do -“ began Pat.

“Don’t finish that sentence-“

“-Captain,” she finished, and Jo groaned, flipped her the bird, and opened the door.

It was only after it had closed again that Pat noticed how loud the ticking of the clock on the wall was.

As a kid she’d dreamed of living in a house all by herself. God, what had happened to her? It wasn’t like Pat had many friends, but she was getting so needy. Fuck.

Pat shook her head like a dog after a bath. She needed to clear her mind. She didn’t miss long, forced talks with so-called friends, or excruciating check-ins with her parents. Yeah, being alone sucked sometimes, but Pat had to face the facts - it was SO much better than being back in Chicago. Evanston might have been her house, but the Chesapeake was her home.

****

On Friday evening, there was a letter in the mail, and it was addressed to Pat. The only letters Pat ever got were usually ads from restaurants Pat never went to and fashion magazine subscriptions that she kept forgetting to cancel. It was rare that she actually received correspondence. Curious, Pat tore it open with the letter opener. The paper was a creamy white, and the writing was flowing, scripted.

you asked how I knew you. short answer, you’re a friend of a friend. you remind me deeply of someone I knew and loved once. i hope we can get to know each other better. i think you will be more lasting than a mountain in shadow.

- p

PS: see you this weekend

The message was short and offered absolutely zero information. Pat flipped the envelope over after she was done reading. Where the return address should have been, there were only the words the martyrs lighthouse.

Huh, Pat thought.

So Pete could send mail, then, from her invisible lighthouse that didn’t exist.

Pat wondered if Pete had put it in her mailbox herself, seeing as how the letter was addressed to pattycakes. It was stamped with a wax seal, old and red, with a stylized W.

But what did the letter mean? Pat had only met Pete once but she was already exhausted of her cryptic nonanswers. Two could play this game. Pat rummaged in her shelves for a blank notebook. Most of them were filled with random bits and pieces of songwriting, ways to fill the time. In the end, Pat sat back, satisfied, semi-blank notebook and pen in hand

It wasn’t Pete’s fancy stationery, but it would do. Pat scrawled, can you please give me a straight answer for once? and tapped the pen against her chin, thinking.

Eventually, she wrote, here’s a chance to redeem yourself : tell me who i remind you of. no riddles or evasion. if you’re going to be my friend, I need honesty. just tell me who you are and why you know who I am. show me if you have to. i dont like suspense.

She didn’t sign it. Pete would know who it was from - who else would be sending that letter? Pat tore the page from the notebook and sealed it up in an envelope. She didn’t write a return address, only the sender. To: the martyr’s lighthouse.

Who knew if mystery girls got daily post?

Chapter Text

Pete didn’t show up for tea. Worried, Pat chewed on her lip. Had Pete forgotten? Worse, had Pete lost interest? It wasn’t that Pat needed her - or even wanted to be friends with her, necessarily, but her relentless interest in Pat had been… well, it had been gratifying, honestly. Even when Pat was regularly around other people, she had faded into the background. Nobody took notice of her, and she’d thought she liked it that way. Either she really was lonely, or she just really liked Pete.

It could have been either of them. Pete really did have the most beautiful eyes.

Either way, it wouldn’t do any good to wait by the door like a co-dependent golden retriever, so Pat peeled herself off the chair she had been sitting in for forty minutes and put the bread away, just to give her hands something to do.

Ten more minutes passed. Still nothing.

Okay, yeah, Pete had probably just forgotten about her. Pat still had her letter laying out on the counter, and Pete hadn’t gotten back to her reply. Granted, it had only been a few days. Maybe Pat was just getting more and more impatient. That was probably what happened when you lived in near isolation with only the bay for company for five years.

Pat was restless. She flipped through her records and settled on People’s Instinctive Travels and the Paths of Rhythm. Outside, it began to pour. The ideal weather for ghosts in the Chesapeake - go figure.

After another twenty minutes, there was a knock on the door. Pat should have been embarrassed by how quickly she leapt up to get it, but for some reason, she wasn’t. Her head was filled with all the angry things she was going to say to Pete as soon as she saw her.

But when she opened the door, her anger ran flat into a brick wall. Pete was there, but she didn’t look smug or even rushed; her eyes were puffy, red; she was soaked from the rain outside and she looked like she had been crying for hours.

Pat had a pretty good handle on people crying - not every ghost she encountered was as calm and collected as Janie had been, after all - but the thing was, Pat had not dealt with an actual person crying near her in many, many years. Pat knew how to help people with their own death, and that was it. Pete was so alive, and it felt so different. For a moment, Pat stood in the doorway, frozen, looking down at Pete drenched in rain and her own tears.

“Hello,” she said, which was the first thing she thought of, and then kicked herself mentally for trying to start an actual amicable conversation when Pete looked like her dog had just died. “Um, Pete? Are you okay?”

Pete collapsed onto her shoulder like all the fight had gone out of her, shaking with silent sobs.

Pat hesitated for a second, and then thought, get it together, Stump, you’ve seen ghosts after being impaled with various objects, you can handle a person crying on you, and brought up one hand to pat awkwardly at Pete’s back.

“Okay, let’s get you inside,” Pat said, because it was gross and wet out, and the humid chill from the early September air was beginning to seep into her bones.

Once Pete was sitting in a chair wrapped in a blanket with a mug of tea between her hands, Pat allowed herself to assess the situation. This was not how she had expected today to go. Pete looked awful. The circles beneath her eyes were so dark, a contrast against the bright hazel of her irises. Her hair was wet and tangled and a little curly.

“Pete,” Pat said quietly. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Pete shook her head. Pat pressed her lips together in frustration. Pete wasn’t telling her anything, but she was obviously super upset, so something had clearly happened.

“Okay, then,” she said. “Would you like to talk about something else?”

This time, she was awarded with a nod.

“Fine,” said Pat, and pulled out the letter Pete had sent her earlier. “About your letter before. Who do I remind you of?”

Pete looked down at her mug, like she was hesitating. Pat didn’t understand the hesitation. It was a simple question. Idly, Pete swirled the tea in the mug. This, it appeared, was going to be another question that Pete would evade the answer to.

Pat had just resigned herself to the fact that Pete was not going to answer her question when she said, “My ex-husband.”

Well, that wasn’t what Pat was expecting at all. She did a mental double take but had to force herself to stay still. “What?”

Pete sipped her tea, because of course when she wasn’t being mysterious and cryptic she was going to be the biggest shit in the world. Jo was right, she really was a weirdo. Oh, Pat regretted letting her into her house the first time around. “You remind me of my ex-husband.”

“Your ex-husband.” Pat was still not sure she was hearing correctly.

“Well, I guess he’s not my ex,” Pete considered once she had put down her mug. “He’s kind of dead.”

“He’s kind of dead?!”

“No,” Pete frowned. “He’s actually dead. Dead-dead. Truly. It was sort of my fault. I don’t know. That’s why I’ve been so weird talking to you. Sorry.” she sipped her tea again like this wasn’t world shattering news. Pete looked, like, maybe twenty seven, how was she already a widow?

Pat didn’t even know what to say.

She settled on, “What was his name?”

“Mikey,” Pete said. “I loved him a lot.”

Now, at least loss, Pat knew how to handle. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It always sucks to lose people. I bet he loved you a lot, too.”

Pete smiled, really sadly. “Yeah.” She sighed. “I guess I’m just in a weird mood today, huh?”

“You could say that. But it’s okay.”

Pete had just been more straightforward and honest about her dead husband than she had about anything regarding herself or Pat. Pat tried not to let it bother her too much. Some people had boundaries. But, also, like, what?

Pete straightened up and fixed her hair. She set the mug of tea down. Truly, this was not how Pat had expected this day to go.

“Hey,” Pete said. “Can I show you something?”

“Yeah?”

“Okay,” Pete said, and sat up to begin pulling her boots on.

“Wait,” said Pat. “Do you mean, like, outside?”

“Well, yeah,” frowned Pete. “Why? What would I have to show you in here? No offense, but this isn’t my house.”

It was weird that Pete thought she would take offense by that, but whatever. “There’s a literal hurricane outside.”

Pete shook her head. “It’s not a hurricane, just a lightning storm. I checked before I got here.”

“Gee, thanks, I feel so much safer,” drawled Pat, but she laced up her boots just the same. God, they were going to get ruined. Andy would be SO pissed at her for leaving the lighthouse, but… Andy wasn’t here. Maybe it would be okay to step away, just for a moment.

She made sure, as she was leaving, that the light was still on. No matter what, her job was to keep that flame burning, and a storm was only more motivation to keep it going. Whether or not she would be watching it.

Pat took a lamp with her, too; one of the oil ones - the handle was cold under her fingers. With a shiver, she tugged on her jacket and slipped out the door after Pete. It would only be a few minutes; surely nothing could happen in that time.

Curiously, she traipsed after Pete, who was heading into the woods behind her lighthouse.

They walked for a few minutes down the dirt path before Pat finally thought to ask where they were going.

“You’ll see,” Pete replied, with her sly, shark grin. It still didn’t quite meet her eyes, but Pat was mildly relieved to see her smiling regardless.

The funny thing was about Pete was, Pat mused, even though she had technically known her for a total of a few hours, she felt so trustworthy. Pat felt strangely that she would lay down her life for this woman, although that was so stupid - a dumb thought to think about a person who was still basically a stranger, and a cryptic stranger with a lot of secrets, at that.

Pat had been hoping to get answers out of Pete during this teatime, and instead she got her crying for no reason, a non-answer about a past lover, and a hike through the woods in a thunderstorm. Great.

They lapsed into silence, a rhythm of steps - left, right, left. The mud squelched under Pat’s boots, and she winced. Her boots were sturdy, but they were untreated leather, and the mud would take forever to wash off, if it did at all. Ugh. Abovehead, the rain pounded down on the path and on their heads. Pat’s hair was wet and getting wetter, sticking to her face in reddish blonde strands. It was a good thing she’d thought to bring her coat.

“Here we are,” Pete said, dragging Pat out of her thoughts at last. “The Martyr’s Lighthouse.”

Surprised, Pat looked around. After telling her basically nothing, Pete was finally going to show her the mysterious Martyr’s Lighthouse?

But… there was no lighthouse. There was only a clearing in the woods, drooping daisies spotting it with dots of white in the gray, dreary landscape. Pat had walked ten minutes out in a thunderstorm for this? Was Pete delusional? Pat peered at her, suddenly vividly aware of exactly what she was getting herself into. Was Pete trying to trick her? Was she a murderer who had looked up her information in order to kill her? Was she trying to kidnap her by taking her to this deceptively normal clearing in the woods, away from her lighthouse and many methods of communication? Here she couldn’t radio Andy, or call Jo. She was alone with Pete.

Pete saw her expression and shook her head. “I know what you’re thinking. Just… focus a little. It’ll be hard for someone who’s still - well, it’ll be hard for you to see it. Just… try thinking about everything in your brain slightly to the left. It’s just like unfocusing your eyes.”

“Someone who’s still what?” Pat said, because she had caught onto the hesitation in Pete’s voice.

“What?”

“You started to say. ‘It’ll be hard for someone who’s still’. Still what? What did you mean?”

“It’s nothing,” Pete said quickly. “Just a slip of the tongue. Here. Just - focus. You have to focus to see.”

Begrudgingly, Pat let it go. She squinted at the clearing - the rain had made her glasses go all wet and wavery - and she focused. She let her vision slip, tumble into the rain - and she saw it.

The Martyr’s Lighthouse was about forty feet tall and about half as wide. It was old, covered in vines and mud; it looked like it was crumbling. It did not look like a place to live. It looked like a place to leave.

Overhead, the heavens rumbled with thunder. Pat jumped at the sound.

“Home sweet home,” Pete said, voice sounding very far away.

Pat’s voice sounded wrong, even in her own ears. “Why were you crying when you got to Concord Point?”

Pete took a deep breath. “I saw him. Today. My ex-husband.”

“I thought you said he was dead?”

“He is,” Pete said.

“Then how did you see him? If he was-“

“I can see ghosts,” Pete murmured, so quietly Pat might have missed it if she wasn’t listening intently to every breath, every word from her mouth.

“Oh,” Pat said. So can I sat on the tip of her tongue like a diver on the ledge of the deep end. She held it back.

Pete gave her a look, as if assessing her emotions.

And she surged forward to open the door of the lighthouse. Pat, predictably, followed.

Chapter Text

When Pat was younger, she had started seeing the ghosts. It started simple - a see-through dog on the street when she was six, beady black eyes piercing and soulless. Then it got worse: a young girl playing jump rope in the parking lot of her school, the side of her head caved in; a man in a coat with a gaping hole through his stomach, leaking blood and sticky intestines on the playground mulch.

Her family had told her that she was hallucinating. Pat must be crazy - that was the only way to explain the things she was seeing. She had known, even then, that she wasn’t hallucinating. The things she saw - they were real. Some days she felt like she was losing her mind, like she was the only person who could see the ghosts, but that feeling in the back of her head reminded her - she wasn’t the only one.

Her parents had always told her she was crazy, but Pat had never felt crazy.

Pete made her feel a little bit crazy. Pat was still trying to figure out whether or not that was a good thing.

But this knowledge - that Pete could see ghosts, too - made Pat feel a little less alone. It was like a sigh of relief; she wasn’t the only one. She really wasn’t the only one. It felt like a huge middle finger to everyone who had told her she was insane. Pete could see ghosts, too.

They were in the Martyr’s lighthouse. It was old, that was the first thing Pat noticed; the walls were dirty and the floor had some rotten planks. The second thing was that she noticed it looked exactly like the Concord Point lighthouse. The build was the same. The size was the same. It was like somebody had taken everything in her home and shifted it slightly to the left and let it sit for a century or so. It felt wavery, like looking through a funhouse mirror or floating in a dream.

Pete was looking right at Pat like she was expecting her to say something. Pat realized suddenly that she had never really replied to Pete’s declaration. Pete probably assumed that Pat thought she was crazy.

“I can see ghosts, too,” Pat blurted without thinking. As soon as the words had left her mouth, her traitorous mind whispered, What if she hates you? What if she thinks you’re a freak forever? Pat told her brain to shut up. Her and Pete shared the same problem. There was no way Pete would cast her out like that.

But Pete just looked at her and said, “Yeah, I know.”

“Wait,” said Pat. “What?”

“I know you can see ghosts,” Pete said. “That’s, like, the whole reason I brought you here. If you couldn’t see ghosts, you wouldn’t be able to see the Martyr’s Lighthouse.”

“What,” Pat said again. How did Pete know? “What do you mean - the lighthouse -”

“Look,” said Pete patiently. “You have the pieces. Now put them together.”

Suddenly it dawned on her. The uncanny resemblance of the Martyr’s Lighthouse to Concord Point… Pete’s instant knowledge on the rebuilding when they had first met… “When you asked me to concentrate before I could see it. This was the first Concord Point Lighthouse. Right?”

“Yup,” Pete confirmed. “Demolished in 1864, the old Concord Point Lighthouse was nicknamed the Martyr’s Lighthouse after a winter storm two years prior forced the keeper and his wife to help his… um, his best friend on a sinking ship. That was one of the last times the Chesapeake ever froze over. On their way to save him, the keeper’s wife hit a thin patch of ice and fell through. She got out and the two of them helped save her husband’s friend in the end, but died of hypothermia herself that night. That was the coldest winter the bay had had in ages. After the incident, the keeper was never the same and died a year later. Due to disrepair and neglect, the lighthouse crumbled in a hurricane in the spring. Locals say the ghosts of them both haunt the area to this day.”

Pat shook her head in disbelief. “How do you know all this? How did you even become the lighthouse keeper in the first place, if the building itself is a ghost? How did you even find it here?”

For the first time in their conversation, Pete wavered. “I don’t remember.”

That was strange. Pat would have to pry into that later. For now, though, she let it go - her mind was thrumming with more and more questions.

“How is it that the lighthouse looks solid? I’ve never seen a ghost inanimate object before, but every other ghost I’ve seen has been transparent. This place looks perfectly solid.”

“It’s because you wanted to see it,” Pete explained. “I’ve discovered that the transparency of ghosts is indicated by their wish to be seen - and how much the person watching wants to see them. It’s different in inanimate objects, ‘cuz they’re not alive, but it’s still a two-two principle - the concentration has to be on both sides. Whoever built the Martyr’s Lighthouse wanted it to be seen - the greatest lighthouse in Maryland - and so after its symbolic death, it was able to be seen if the viewer wanted to see it, as well. It’s sad, because nobody knows much about it anymore, they mostly know Concord Point. I’ve been meaning to experiment with more non-living things. You were able to see it because I told you it was there, and because you wanted to.”

“Oh, so, is that why you came here?” Pat asked. “To learn more about the ghosts? That’s funny, because I came here to avoid them. And look at me, and what I do for a living.”

Was it just Pat, or did Pete almost seem uneasy? “Yeah, that was it. I wanted to know more, so I came to this place, because it’s a… historical location. Figured there would be lots of ghosts.”

Pat snorted. “Well, you were right about that, that’s for sure.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Overhead, another bout of thunder shook the sky. Pat took a moment to really look around. It was dark, and there were no lights or fires lit; Pete seemed to be able to navigate around the lighthouse without needing a single light source. The decorations were old, nautical, and simple. It felt cold and hollow. There was nothing that indicated that anybody had been living here for the last few years - at least, Pat assumed Pete had been here for the last few years.

It was a house, but nothing within it felt like a home. It didn’t feel very Pete. How long had she been living here, by herself? Longer than Pat’s five years, for sure.

“You should probably get going now,” Pete said, breaking the quiet. “It’s almost dinner time. Andy won’t be happy that you’ve left the lighthouse.”

There it was again. Pete hadn’t met Andy, and Pat had never mentioned them. More information that Pat hadn’t told her, leaving Pete’s mouth like they had been friends for decades. Something about it made Pat feel at home, and something about it made her feel very, very uncomfortable.

“Um,” Pat said, more than a little bit hurt and stung at the sudden dismissal of Pete’s words. “Did you… want to get tea?”

Pete looked up, startled. “What?”

“I mean. You initially came over for tea, right? I gave you some earlier, but you were crying. If you don’t want more, we can just hang out. I like hanging out with you. Um. If you want.”

“No,” Pete said immediately, with so much force it made Pat flinch. “Sorry. I mean, no. Thank you, I’m good.”

“Oh,” said Pat.

“Sorry,” Pete said again.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Pat asked. It wasn’t like there was much she could do about Pete’s dead husband, but she could help tidy up Pete’s house, or cook her something warm, or. Just. Anything to get Pete to like her, and maybe Pat could bask for a few more minutes in Pete’s glow. “I can help you clean your house, or cook you something, if you want.”

“I’m fine,” Pete said, and she sounded closed off again. Pat hated that. “Seriously. Don’t worry.”

Pat was really starting to get annoyed and hurt with Pete’s nonanswers and changing plans. It had been intriguing at first, but now she just seemed noncommittal. “But I thought you were coming over.”

“I already did.”

Pat snorted. “Yeah, crying and shaking like a wet chihuahua with a problem I didn’t know how to solve! You know all these things about me, and I keep asking for information about you, I just want to help you.”

Pete looked at her, surprised and a little bit hurt. “I never asked you to solve any of my problems.”

“I want to.”

“Mikey is dead,” Pete said, “and that’s that. It’s probably better off that way.”

“But if he could see you, and you could see him, then with your logic, you both want to be seen. Right?”

“Pat.”

“You should talk to him again. What did he say to you? I bet -“

”Pat.”

This was louder, a warning. Pat backed down, reluctantly. Pete sighed.

“Why do you want to help me so much? There’s nothing to help me with. I’m fine.”

“You’re my friend.”

“We’ve met twice.”

“Yeah, and in that time, I’ve figured out two things,” Pat said. The words were bubbling out of her and she couldn’t stop them. “One, I like you. Two, you’re a fucking martyr. You give me all these vague bits of info about yourself, and then you take them all away, so that there’s no way I’ll ever get to know you as a person.”

Pete shot a look down at her shoes. “If you knew who I was, you wouldn’t like me. I’m not what you think I am.”

“Look,” Pat said fiercely, “I’ve only met you twice, but I like what I see. You are one thousand percent not as bad as you think you are.” And it was true. Looking at Pete felt like falling in love.

Pete looked back at her, and just kept looking. Her eyes were dark brown in the dim light. Outside, the rain had stopped, and the buzz of the late cicadas was the only noise besides their breaths.

“Tell me,” Pat breathed, keeping her voice pitched low like she was talking to a scared dog. “What can I do?”

Stepping closer, Pete murmured, “You could start by kissing me.”

“Oh, wow,” Pat said loudly. This was definitely not what she had expected Pete to say. It felt wrong, like a broken coat hanger. “Um. No.”

“Oh,” Pete muttered, awkwardly stumbling a step back. “Okay. Sorry. Overstepped. I thought you said you liked me.”

“I do! I promise I do,” Pat said. “It’s just - I want to do it the right way? Dates and chocolates and not kissing each other for the first time after you’ve been emotionally vulnerable with me and I could be taking advantage of you? Like, I feel like that would be bad.”

Pete gave her a look. For the first time since they had first met, she had her expression on, the confident one, like, can you believe this girl?

“You said you liked me, right?”

“Yes?”

“And you want to kiss me, yeah?”

“Yeah, like, eventually.”

“Okay,” Pete declared, and grabbed Pat’s face between her hands and pressed their lips together. Pat melted into it like chocolate, like honey, like everything sweet and warm.

The first thing she noticed was that Pete was very cold. Her hands and her lips were cold, like there was no heat to them at all; her mouth felt like the coolness of mint without the flavor. Pat reached up to cup Pete’s hands in her own instinctively, by her own cheeks, holding them in place, offering some warmth. The lighthouse was like a tomb, but here they were alive. Pat had never felt anybody so solid, so real, in her life.

Pete kissed so sweetly, like they had all the time in the world, all the life in the world.

When they broke apart, Pat breathed a mangled “Oh,” and Pete laughed her good laugh, not the broken one, the one that Pat had found made her sound whole, and for a second, everything felt like it would be alright. Pat wouldn’t be lonely ever again, as long as she had Pete.