The wall behind the cabinet looked different from the rest of the studio. The boards were older and weathered in a way that suggested they’d been exposed to salt air for longer than the cottage itself had existed. She ran her fingers along the seam where two boards met and felt one shift slightly under her touch.
She worked her fingernails into the gap and pulled gently. The board came loose with surprising ease, as if it had been designed to be removable. Behind it, a small compartment had been hollowed out of the wall space between the studs.
Inside, something was wrapped in oilcloth that had yellowed with age. The oilcloth crinkled as she carefully unwrapped it, revealing a book that had been protected from moisture and time. The leather cover was worn but intact, and the pages inside were slightly yellowed but still readable.
She carried it to the work table where the fading light was strongest and opened to the first page. The handwriting was old-fashioned, each letter carefully formed. At the top of the page, an entry that began: “The lighthouse keeper’s log should only contain official observations, but these pages will hold the truth of what we do here.”
She turned the page, then another, scanning entries that spanned years. Different handwriting appeared throughout, suggesting multiple lighthouse keepers had contributed to this hidden record. Many dates were partially obscured by water damage or faded ink, making it difficult to establish a clear timeline. Some entries were mundane, but others made her pulse quicken.
“Recorded three sequences tonight. Confirmation received.”
“Pattern altered as instructed. New protocol in effect.”
“Observed unusual activity. Maintained regular intervals despite interference.”
“Visitors came by boat. They asked questions about the lighthouse’s history. I told them nothing.”
Some entries included sketches, rough but clear enough to show architectural details. Modifications to the lighthouse structure. Hidden compartments. What looked like grid patterns with numbers alongside them. Nothing explicitly stated their purpose.
She found herself completely absorbed, turning pages with increasing excitement. This wasn’t just a journal. It was a record of something methodical and deliberate, something the lighthouse keepers had been involved in across decades. Her background in art history had included training in archival research, and she recognized the significance of what she’d found. This was a primary source document, carefully preserved and intentionally hidden.
The entries continued with gaps, suggesting either periods of inactivity or missing pages. Then the handwriting changed again, and the entries became more cryptic. References to “sequences” and “patterns” made it difficult to establish a clear timeline.
Winnie’s voice called out, interrupting Emily’s reading, “Emily? Are you here?”
Her head snapped up. She instinctively moved to cover the journal, then felt foolish. This was Winnie’s property. If anyone had a right to know about the journal, it was the lighthouse keeper herself.
“Come in. In the studio.”
Winnie appeared in the doorway to the studio, and her gaze swept the room, taking in the moved cabinet and the open journal on the work table. For just a moment, something flickered across Winnie’s face. Surprise, maybe. Or fear. Or something Emily couldn’t quite name. Then it was gone, replaced by Winnie’s usual calm expression.
“I brought you a slice of peach pie,” Winnie said, holding up a covered dish. Her eyes drifted to the journal, and this time Emily definitely caught the flash of recognition.
“I found something while I was exploring the studio. There was a hidden compartment behind that cabinet.” She watched Winnie’s reaction.
“Was there?” Winnie set the dish on a small table near the door and moved closer, her steps measured. “And what did you find in this compartment?”
She motioned to the journal. “This. It looks like a record kept by lighthouse keepers, going back to the early 1900s, maybe earlier. But it’s not an official log. It’s something else. Something they were hiding.”
Winnie reached the work table and looked down at the open pages. Her hand lifted as if to touch the journal, then dropped back to her side. “I see.”
The silence stretched between them. She waited, giving Winnie space to explain and claim the journal or perhaps dismiss it as unimportant. But Winnie did neither. She simply stood there, gazing at the pages with an expression Emily couldn’t decipher.
“The Lockharts have been the keepers here ever since the lighthouse was built.”
“So this journal. It would have been written by your family.”
“By my grandfather, yes. And his father before him. And later, my own father.” Winnie’s finger traced one of the entries. “The lighthouse has served many purposes over the years. Not everything made it into the official logs.”
“What kind of purposes?”
“That’s a complicated question.”
“But you knew this journal existed. That it was hidden here.”
“I knew there were more records. I didn’t know exactly where they’d all been hidden. My father was protective of the family’s secrets. He didn’t share everything, even with me. I’ve spent years trying to piece together the full story. He died suddenly without a chance to explain it all to me.”
“What were they doing?”
