Our Days Operating the Lighthouse had Come to an End

PROMPT: The old, deserted building on your street was about to be torn down. You were allowed to explore it and keep anything you wanted. Write a story about this experience.

The house had stood alone and unoccupied for years. When we first moved to the village, a family lived there, the Deanes, but they had moved out a few years later , and then the house was just that- an empty building with a great view.

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When we were kids, we called it the lighthouse. It wasn't because the building resembled a lighthouse, it was an ordinary home, pretty much like ours, but it stood on the peak of a promontory overlooking the sea, and the occupants enjoyed the most amazing views.

When the Deanes lived there, and their daughter, Rosemary, was at home, my sister Cassie and I used to overnight sometimes, and we would shine torchlights from Rosemary's window, imagining the tiny lights were strobe lights from the lighthouse guiding errant ships to shore.

When the Deanes left, no one replaced them, and for years, the house stood vacant, paint pealing from the walls, windows flapping open, slapping indignantly against the walls every time the wind blew, almost as though throwing fists at the wind and at us for neglecting it.

And so it came to be that we, the children, took ownership of the building. It was ours: our hiding place, our haunt, our lighthouse. Then one day, everything changed.

A developer purchased acreage a few streets down from us and began erecting a series of brightly colored buildings, and the elders on our streets hemmed and hawed about the area being gentrified as they immediately became conscious of the eyesore that the building had become and the impact it could have on property value. And so, a council meeting was held, the villagers voted, and it was decided- the Deane house had to go.

I was 12 and in my exam year when the villagers voted to change the face of my street. My mom came home, bright with excitement.

"Guys," she said. "Guess what?" And without waiting for a guess, she plunged on.

"We're about to get a facelift. The villagers agreed to tear down the old, abandoned house on the promontory."

I deadpanned her and shrugged. How was it great news that the adults were gonna tear down the one physical thing that connected all the children on the street? Adults were always excited about the strangest things. My siblings- Cassie and Ron- were also silent.

My mom didn't miss our lukewarm response. She stood silently for a moment and then added kindly, "The building's going to come down, guys. It's been decided. Why don't you guys visit the house one last time, see if there's any little thing there that you like? Maybe you can each keep one thing as a reminder."

I didn't look at Ron or Cassie, but there was a tiny pebble in my chest when I nodded. I didn't exactly want to visit the house under the cloak of finality. I felt like it would be like a final visit to the deathbed of a relative when the doctors said the moment was drawing near. I felt the mood would be somber, looking out through the window and staring over the promontory for the final time, knowing that a little torchlight will never again shine from our "lighthouse". Taking mementoes would be like robbing the not quite dead. Nevertheless, I knew that staying at home and sulking over the inevitable was not an option that I was prepared to consider. And so it was that later that day, reluctantly, Ron, Cassie and I formed a sorry procession, heading to the Deane house to say our farewells.

It was late afternoon when we went by, and it had been a cloudy day. The house was cloaked in shadows, gaping windows staring at us as we approached like lidless eyes. Near the eastern end of the house, a tall tree grew close to the walls, and as the wind played in its branches, and as its branches beat a staccato sound on the walls, the screeching sound like a loud, agonizing wail, echoed around the house.

Cassie stood in front of the house and chewed her lips nervously.

"Are we gonna go in?" she whispered, rubbing her hands along her arm.

"Yep, I think that's the idea," I approached the stairs.

The steps leading to the front door creaked noisily, but the door gave way when we tried the knob, almost as if the house had expected our visit and was waiting.

Inside, the parlour was huge and empty, like we had stepped into the house's gaping mouth. Some light still made its way into this room, but there was a door leading off to another room, and the shadows were thick and threatening.

"I don't think I can go any further," Cassie shuddered.

"Don't be such a baby," I shoved her, and Ron snickered. "The house won't eat you. It's an adventure, come on!"

Leading the way, I swallowed and stepped into the shadowy room deeper inside the house, hoping that no one could see beyond my brave façade. The second room, the old living room, was also empty, save for a single lace curtain that hung limply from one window, almost as though it recognized the incongruity of its presence, and was ducking its head in shame.

"This house is empty." Cassie had a penchant for repeating the obvious. No one responded. Ron flicked on his torch, and made patterns of light across the wall.

"This could have been a great disco," he observed.

"Maybe," I chuckled. "But there'd hardly be room to dance, would there?"

In the kitchen, there were some odds and ends- discarded plates and spoons- as though the last occupants of the house had left in haste.

"Signs of the zombie apocalypse," Ron turned the torch to shine on his face, his voice ominous. "The last fight was here."

I rolled my eyes but grinned.

"Ooooh," he and I began a ghostly chorus.

"That is not funny." Cassie was robbing her arms again.

Ron coughed and muttered "kill joy" into his sleeve, and I chuckled out loud. Cassie sucked her teeth, pocketing a silver spoon.

In the den, Ron found an old baseball glove which he pocketed.

"I'd pretend this belonged to the world's greatest pitcher," he avowed.

Finally, we made it to Rosemary's old room. There, I saw it: an old book atop her book cupboard, covered in dust, pages yellowed.

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"David Copperfield," I whispered, thumbing through the pages.

Ron shone his torchlight on the pages, and I read, "Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show." The introduction was fascinating. I wondered privately in that moment whether I would be the heroine of my own life. I resolved to see what Copperfield's journey had been like.

I dusted the covers, and slipped the book into my pocket, resolving to keep the book as my memento. And so we gathered finally- Ron, Cassie, and I- to stand together looking through Rosemary's old window, Ron shining his torchlight, flicking it on and off, sending his final signal, our farewells, out to sea.

When we left later that day, we each whispered our private farewells to the house, for we knew that our feet would no longer be directed this way. Our days operating the lighthouse had come to an end.