The Oxford Set
Gorthugher Lighthouse had stopped being used as such for several years. Now it was a solitary place that people used either to work on their projects in peace or to carry out nefarious tasks, safe from the prying eyes of the police.
Ollie Green found the gentle crashing of the waves beneath him to be quite soothing. It helped him concentrate as he manipulated the clay in his hands and spun it on a stone wheel.
So fixated on his work that Ollie wasn’t disturbed by the tiny Victorian doll leaning on the wall opposite him.
Ollie never glanced up to see its cold, dead eyes staring back at him.
He just thought it was a leftover relic from the days when Gorthugher used to shine the way for ships approaching Kernow’s rugged coastline, and left it at that.
Except one night, when he was busy making one of his more ornate pieces for a local church fete.
Sensing he was starting to disassociate from staring at the clay for too long, Ollie poked his head above the parapet and thought the doll had moved from its original position.
He shrugged it off, assuming that he had misremembered where the doll usually sat, and formed the beginnings of a bowl on the wheel in front of him.
After completing his masterpiece, Ollie reclined before placing it in the kiln.
As he glanced around the lighthouse, he noticed the doll was now sitting directly in front of him, much closer than he had seen it before.
Ollie shifted on the floor, his eyes fixated on the doll.
He knew the lighthouse’s reputation, even its name translated to “haunted” from the local tongue.
But Ollie didn’t believe in ghosts. All the stories connected to the house were pure fiction evoked by the desolate atmosphere and sinister events surrounding its closure.
He picked up the clay bowl and wandered to the small kiln he had brought.
As he did so, the potter eyed the doll, just in case.
The doll slowly raised its arms of its own accord.
Ollie jumped, dropping the clay bowl, which landed with a splat on the floor.
He grumbled as he picked it up and stepped back towards the wheel to reconstruct the bowl.
The doll’s hands were lowered; what Ollie saw may have just been a trick in his peripheral vision.
He spun the wheel and reformed the bowl’s shape with his hands, scowling at the doll as he did so.
In Ollie’s head, two thoughts spun round: hope that he didn’t ruin his latest project due to a trick of the mind, and hope that the doll wasn’t actually possessed.
He stared at the bowl, focusing intently on the deep indent of the clay and the walls rising around it.
Ollie felt a sharp pain in his arm, as if a knife was lacerating him.
He winced, letting go of the bowl.
Ollie examined his arm, across the length of it was a large gash, dripping with blood.
He touched the wound and examined the red liquid on his fingers.
Ollie felt a similar pain in his other arm and glanced at it.
His body locked into place, his mouth dropped open and curled back as he watched a large gash magically appear on his arm.
Ollie backed against the wall behind him and saw the doll sit directly in front of the potter’s wheel, the closest it had ever been to him.
The smile on its face had always been there, of course, but somehow it seemed almost more malicious, as if it was mocking him.
On no, he thought, dropping his scalpel in a moment of extreme terror, I have had a vision.
The following morning, raindrops of sunlight speckled the calm ocean below.
Outside Gorthugher, with Ollie as far away from the site as possible, nursing his wounds, a gaggle of people gathered.
”Now then,” a young blond woman said, smiling at the group. “Any questions?”
”Yes,” a middle-aged woman said, a small smile on her face. “How long does it take to climb the tower?”
“The tour will take about two hours,” the guide said. “We will be taking occasional stops along the way as I tell you fascinating stories about the building.”
“Very well,” the middle-aged woman said, nodding in acknowledgement.
After the guide checked that no one else had anything they wanted to ask, the guide unlocked the door to the tower and began to lead the group into the tower.
”Here we go,” leading historian Ben Jones said to his wife, Alice. “Into the belly of the beast.”
A wide grin appeared on Alice’s face.
She clenched her fists and squeezed herself tightly before skipping into the building.
But as she was about to make her way up the long central staircase, she espied something on the ground.
She bent down and picked it up; it was a rather elegant ring encrusted with a priceless Ruby.
“Ben, look at this,” Alice said, tugging her husband on the sleeve and showing him the ring.
Ben pursed his lips and nodded. “It is a wonderful piece of jewellery, darling.”
”Yeah, I know, but it’s the ring that was stolen from a woman in the village, isn’t it?”
Ben’s face became pale, and he gawped at his wife with bulging eyes.
She returned his expression with a similar one.
The historian returned to his reveries and made his way up the staircase.
Alice pocketed the ring and followed him up.
The tour guide held a small door ajar on the first floor, revealing a kitchenette.
”The last inhabitants of Gorthugher left this room exactly as it currently is when it closed,” the tour guide said.
The tour group nodded and hummed with approval as they examined the small room.
Alice couldn’t escape the sense that she could hear the sound of someone tapping furiously on a computer keyboard.
She glanced around her, trying to find the source.
”If you’d like to follow me, I’ll show you some of the unique 19th-century kitchenware we still have on sight.”
She opened the door and let the tour group cram into the room.
After everyone was inside, the guide opened a drawer and showed them a wooden square implement.
“This is mould used for shaping butter,” the guide said, holding the item closer to the tour group.
Ben moved closer to the item and examined it.
He furrowed his eyebrows before releasing them.
The cook would have bought the butter in tubs and then moulded it into this so the lighthouse keeper could have something interesting with his meal.
Ben wrinkled his nose as he scrutinised the individual grooves on the base of the mould.
Alice leant down next to him. “Maybe we should buy one and do something similar at home?”
Ben nodded before moving away from the mould.
The guide returned the item to a drawer and pulled out a rolling pin.
”This is one of the many rolling pins we have here,” the guide said, “all of them are original to the time of the-“
A guttural scream cut her off mid-flow.
The guide clung to the workstation behind her, and the rolling pin crashed onto the floor.
Her tour group glanced around the room.
Alice held onto Ben and frowned at him.
He stared into her big, wet eyes and grabbed her hand.
The guide clasped her hands and smiled at her group.
”Sorry about that,” she said, chuckling. “Is everyone alright?”
A few members of the group nodded, others shrugged.
The guide picked up the rolling pin and resumed her spiel.
But as she said her piece, blood-curdling yells echoed from outside.
The guide raised one eyebrow and put the rolling pin back into the drawer.
The screams could be heard from the kitchen, but she wasn’t sure where they came from in the lighthouse.
She crept closer to the door and slowly opened it.
There was no one directly outside the kitchen, but the screams made her wince.
The guide turned back around to her group and sighed heavily.
”Sorry,” she said, her mouth downturned. “We should see what this is about before continuing the tour.”
She held the door open and ushered everyone out.
Alice glanced at Ben. “Is this to do with the ghosts?”
Ben scoffed. “That’s a preposterous notion; any legends associated with Gorthugher are mere works of fiction.”
The guide tentatively climbed the staircase, encouraging the others to follow her.
Ben held his wife’s hand as they joined the rest of the group.
As she climbed, Alice noticed that her legs had turned into jelly.
The guide arrived on the second floor, the screams seeming to be a lot louder.
She edged further across the floor, her tour group in tow.
“Hello,” the guide said, stroking the lighthouse’s sides. “Are you alright?”
”Don’t come any nearer,” a disembodied voice yelled in an accent suggesting the person for whom it belonged was Kernow down to their bones. “It’s a trap!”
“Are you sure this isn’t paranormal related?” Alice said, wringing her hands.
Ben smirked at Alice. “Of course, any intelligent person knows that it’s practically impossible for a human soul to remain on the Earth after the death of their physical body.”
Ben moved closer to the rest of the group.
Alice stared at him with bulging eyes, her brow furrowing; was he suggesting she was stupid?
The tour group spread out into a vast open space.
”There doesn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary,” the tour guide said, scanning the empty room around them.
”I said don’t come any closer,” the disembodied voice said, startling everyone else. “Leave, now! Get out whilst you still can!”
A member of the tour group espied someone writhing underneath a dirty blanket.
He jumped back, clinging to the wall behind him. “A ghost! A ghost, I tell you!”
Other group members spotted the writhing blanket with wide eyes and backed away.
”Leave whilst you still can,” the ‘ghost’ said. “I’m trying to help you.”
Alice held onto her husband, staring at the thing with her bulbous eyes.
Ben glared at her and freed himself from her grasp.
A smug grin appeared as he swaggered over to the creature and threw off the cover.
The tour group gasped, some even recoiled, but couldn’t properly tear themselves away.
In front of them was a rather dishevelled man in his late teens, sitting in an old armchair with a laptop perched on his legs.
The man leapt from the chair, flinging the computer to one side. “I told you to get out!”
”So you can do whatever you’re doing in here?” The tour guide said, stepping over to the computer. “We would have done that, had you not pretended to be a ghost.”
”I wasn’t pretending to be a ghost,” the man said. “I don’t need to, there are plenty of ghosts in here already.”
Some tourists gasped and gazed at their companions, while others made the cross sign.
Ben chuckled, then grimaced as he inhaled too much of the man’s cigarette smoke through his nostrils.
He examined the mass array of stubbed cigarette butts surrounding the armchair.
Whoever this man was, and whatever his purpose, Ben thought, one thing was sure: he was a serious smoker.
The tour guide slowly opened the laptop lid, but the man snatched it away.
“Don’t look at it,” the man said. “It’s mine, and private.”
He cradled the laptop like a beloved teddy bear.
The tour guide leered at him. “You’re keen not to be discovered, aren’t you? Covering yourself in a blanket and being very protective of your laptop.”
The man pressed his laptop tightly against his cheek. “No. I like my privacy. Now leave, the ghosts have given us some reprieve.”
Another member of the tour guide pointed at the man and cackled. “He’s afraid to admit what he’s doing!”
”No, I’m not,” the man said, holding his laptop away from the crowd. “I don’t need to tell you what I’m doing.”
”He wishes to cause significant disruption,” a voice bellowed through the room, almost like a gust of wind blowing through it. “Via that magical device of his.”
The tour group’s eyes darted around the room. Some people ducked and clung to loved ones.
Alice gazed up at the ceiling, her eyebrows raised. “Who’s that?”
”I told you, the ghosts!” The man said. “We need to get out now. Come on, I’m trying to help you here.”
The tour guide glanced at the man momentarily before addressing her tour group and clearing her throat.
”Now then, since we’re in here, let me tell you a little bit about the history of this room.”
Ben turned to the tour guide and smiled, rubbing his hands. “Finally, a return to some normalcy.”
The man growled and hit his forehead.
But as the woman recounted tales set on the second floor during the days of the lighthouse keepers, a woman screamed.
The gaggle of tourists turned round, and a few of them gasped.
“Is everything alright?” the tour guide said, tilting her head and making eye contact with the staircase, her eyebrows drawn together.
A woman wailed in pain.
”I think that answers your question,” the man said.
”A woman has fallen down the stairs,” a tour group member said. “She’s in a bad way.”
Alice frowned at her husband, who returned her gaze with a furrowed brow.
”Someone pushed me,” the woman said with all the energy she could muster. “I could feel it!”
“Well, what did I tell you?” the man with the laptop said, glaring at the tour guide.
The tour guide pushed through the crowd and descended the stairs towards the woman.
“Don’t worry, everything’s going to be fine,” the tour guide said, placing a towel underneath the victim’s head to temporarily stop the flow of blood.
She gazed up the stairs. “Has anyone called an ambulance?”
”I have,” a member of the group said. “They should be on their way soon.”
The tour guide let out a huge breath.
An unusually sharp chill filled the room. So sharp that human breath was visible.
Alice hugged herself and rubbed her arms to keep warm. “The air con’s in overdrive, isn’t it?”
She giggled nervously, but Ben didn’t smile.
He strode over to a thermometer attached to the wall and examined it.
“Minus fifteen degrees,” Ben said to himself.
He felt his legs weakening, but did his best to regain control.
”Do you see what I’m getting on about now?” the dishevelled man said. “The ambulance has a better chance of seeing you if you’re outside the lighthouse!”
Ben observed the window as ice slowly formed across it.
Although the icy crust obscured most of the view outside, Ben espied something on the headland.
He furrowed his brow and pressed his head against the glacial glass.
A mound of earth shaped like a rectangle was next to a windswept tree.
It had the unmistakable appearance of a grave, an unmarked one.
He turned around and viewed his companions with a devious smile.
Alice stepped over to him, her arms crossed. She grimaced at him.
”Why are you smiling?” she said.
“I’ve just figured out how to bring this whole sorry affair to an end,” Ben said, before pivoting towards the rest of the group.
“Ok, everyone,” he said, clapping his hands. “The tour’s over, let’s leave and wait for the ambulance to arrive.”
The man with the laptop sighed and glanced heavenward, his knees buckling.
Although no one was sure what was happening, they bundled down the stairs like an obedient flock of sheep as Ben shepherded them out of the premises.
Once everyone was outside and the injured woman had been taken to the hospital, Ben showed Alice the unmarked grave.
”You think the last lighthouse keeper was buried here,” she said.
A smug grin appeared on Ben’s face. “Yes. If we fork out for a proper headstone, peace will return to Gorthugher once again.”
Alice crossed her arms and smiled at Ben. “So now you realise it’s haunted?”
Ben scoffed. “No, of course not. But perhaps there is a subconscious feeling of sadness as a result of the poor man not being properly memorialised that might be having a psychological effect on all who enter it.”
Alice squinted at her husband, then felt a low grumble in her stomach.
She clutched her belly. “I think it’s time for lunch.”
A warm smile appeared on Ben’s face. “Yes, I do believe a pasty is in order.”
Ben trekked in the direction of Porthysek, and Alice trundled along behind him.
”I also think we should probably call the police,” Alice said.
Ben gazed at Alice with a raised eyebrow. “Why?”
”I gotta tell them about the ring, don’t I?” Alice said, briefly showing Ben the stolen item before pocketing it again. Also, that guy with the laptop— I think he might be responsible for all the cyber attacks affecting Cornwall.”
Ben tilted his head and loosened his posture. “You think that strange fellow could be a hacker?”
”Yeah,” Alice said. “He didn’t want anyone to find him or look at his laptop.”
”He could have been watching pornography,” Ben said, raising his chin and marching on ahead.
”Gorthugher is known to be where people come to do things they don’t want the outside world to know about.”
”Yes, and watching pornography does fall into that category, don’t you think?”
Alice sighed and rolled her eyes. “Illegal things.”
Ben paused for a moment and gazed up at the sky. “It could be child pornography.”
Alice stumbled and dry heaved. “I’m just gonna assume he’s a hacker, ok?”
”Fine, fine,” Ben said, storming ahead towards the local pastry shop.
Alice glanced back at the lighthouse. If Ben was correct that the lighthouse keeper’s grave needed a headstone, she hoped it would usher in a brighter future for both the lighthouse and its users.
“I was thinking we could pop into Ollie’s pottery studio and buy another fruit bowl,” Ben said. “That should help us recover from our ordeal.”
“That sounds like a great idea,” Alice said.
And with that, the Jones’ disappeared from the headline and made a beeline for the nearest Kernow bakery to have a pasty.
As for the creepy doll, that stayed on the top floor of the lighthouse until it was discovered by one of the police officers who arrested the cyber criminal they’d been searching for for the past month.
It now sits in a glass case in the local museum of curiosities within Porthysek, near the harbour.
Whether it continues to behave itself remains to be seen.
The Robinsonverse 