As a cub reporter I had my first real assignment—to investigate a mysterious ghost light out on the Toronto Islands.
I wasn't going to write a fluffy piece about spirits and spectral rappings but do some in depth investigative reporting.
Hell, I even had a small expense account and transportation provided in the loan of a motor launch.
I was excited.
It was a warm evening in June when I powered out to the Point.
Church wasn’t kidding about the motorboat being old. I had serious doubts about it completing the voyage, but if there was a phantom light to be seen, the best way to reconnoiter it was to follow the shoreline and view the lighthouse from various angles while out on the water.
I chose dusk as the time for my crossing, but immediately regretted the wisdom of that decision—I should have ventured out earlier when there was more boat traffic, especially if the old scow broke down.
Somehow, despite the chugging motor and the ominous blue fumes from the exhaust, the boat held together for the mission, and just when I spotted the lighthouse looming up from the darkened island, I caught a glimpse of the mysterious light.
My heart began racing and I made my way toward shore intending to use my flashlight and check out the lighthouse on foot.
I had come prepared with some waterproof matches, a couple of flares, and a small flask of rye whiskey to keep off any night chill.
As I tied up the boat to an old stump near the shore, I spotted a second light, about a quarter of a mile away. This presented me with a problem—which to investigate? As I debated both possibilities, a young girl walked out of the darkness towards me.
She was blonde and beautiful with Marilyn Monroe hair and was dressed in a retro-fashion two-piece bathing suit that looked more like a pair of belted shorts with a skin-tight top.
She saw my jaw drop and giggled, “I’m sorry—I didn’t startle you, did I?”
“No, not really,” I smiled.
Her eyes were dancing. “You’re not a bootlegger are you?”
“Yes, I’m a rum runner—I make this trip every night under cover of darkness.”
“How delicious! she laughed. “But you don’t look like a baddy. Are you sure you just didn’t steal your father’s boat?”
I looked back at the battered scow rocking in the waves. “Yeah, it’s kind of hard to pretend I’m Al Capone puttering around in that.”
She struck me as very giggly and chatty. She had this entrancing wispy Marilyn Monroe hair that the breeze fluttered and toyed with enough to distract me from what she said—and there was something about her accent and manner of speaking that seemed odd and out of place somehow.
“So what are you doing here?” she asked.
I pointed down the beach. “I saw the light and was curious.”
“Oh that? My friends have a bonfire. We’re having a beach party under the stars. I sort of wandered off, and here I am.”
That answered my question about the second light. I decided to tell her about my real reason for being there.
“I’m writing a story for The Telegraph about a lighthouse keeper who disappeared here 200 years ago, way back in 1815. There are rumours he haunts the place and people report seeing mysterious lights.
“Oh, I don’t know about any of that,” she laughed, but added, “you’re not very good at Math are you? It was more like 120 years ago.”
“Actually, I am very good at Math,” I protested, “I was just rounding the numbers out, but to be exact it was 199 years ago. If I believed your calculations, we’d be living in the year 1935.”
She giggled. “You’re so funny. You almost make me believe you.”
I looked at her puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“I mean it is the year 1935, Silly. I’m not behind the grind, you know.”
“Huh? I don’t get it. What’s this, ‘behind the grind’ stuff?”
She looked at me curiously, tilting her head to one side, and laughed again. “Say, what’s your story, morning glory—are you feeling all right?”
I felt an icy tingle pass through me. Something was seriously wrong.