One body, two bodies,
three bodies, four
Check up in the attic,
seven bodies more
There's a dead man in the kitchen
and a blood slick in the hall
Twenty men are hanging dead
upon the garden wall.

Verse from children's rhyme
Red Cay, California, 1916

May 15

Prologue

Byron's Finger: 6:03 P.M.

"It's haunted."

"Is not."

“Is so."

"Is not."

"Is so. Wanna bet?"

"Is not." Billy Galiano stared hard at Body House then turned to his friend. "You're full of it, Farmer."

Matty Farmer crossed his arms. "You want to go inside and see? My dad says it's haunted and it is."

"My dad says it's superstitious crap."

Billy gazed at the forbidding stone mansion, taking in the heavy pillars of the front porch and the terrace crowning it, the sharply peaked roof and the tall rounded tower that loomed above the three-story structure. The windows on the first floor were all boarded, but not those on the second and third, and he could just barely make out the colors of the stained glass fanlights that topped each one. Curious to know whether or not the glass pictures were like those in church, he cocked his head and squinted at a third floor dormer window illuminated by the setting sun.

He thought he saw something move. Startled, he squinted harder, and saw another brief flash, but then it was gone. He shivered, even though he knew it had to have been his imagination.

"Go in, I dare you," Matty whispered in his ear.

No way did Billy want to go in Body House. "Look, wiener-breath," he said, pointing at the new blue and white Pelinore Realty sign stuck in the weedy front lawn. "It's got a new For Sale sign."

"So?"

The old rusty one had been there as long as either boy could remember, so Billy figured the new one had some significance. "We can't go in. They're trying to sell it."

"They're always trying to sell it," Matty sneered. "It's empty. What's the matter? Are you scared?"

"No way!"

"Way!"

"I'm not scared because I don't believe in ghosts." Something shifted again behind that same dark window and, involuntarily, Billy flinched.

"What?" Matty spun around and stared at the house.

"What'd you see?"

"Up there." Billy pointed.

"The ghost of Christabel," Matty whispered in awe.

"Nah. It's probably some homeless guy." His dad had told him that living people who lurked in old places like Body House were the real danger, and he believed it. "Maybe it's a serial killer," he added, half to get Matty to stop bugging him, half because he thought it might really be true.

"Look!" Matty grabbed his arm. "Look!" Billy looked just in time to see a pale face staring out of a second floor window, all the way on the other side of the house. He couldn't tell who--or what--it was, but he could feel it watching them.

"It knows we're here," Matty said softly. "Galiano, you think somebody alive could go down the stairs that fast?"

"Why don't you ask your dad? He'd know." Matty was always bragging about how his dad had been one of the cops who had discovered the bodies of a bunch of hippies after the mass murder in 1968. Billy was sick of hearing about it. Matty's father never talked about it--he didn't do much of anything except drink as far as Billy knew, so he figured his friend had made most of it up. "We should tell Chief Swenson. Whoever's in there," he said as he continued to watch the windows, "is trespassing."

"Swenson can't do squat," Matty said firmly. "It's not a somebody, it's a something. It's the ghost of Christabel. Or maybe one of her victims. I still think we should go look. Then we'll know who's right--me or you."

"Hey, wanna go check out the lighthouse?" Billy asked hopefully. He wasn't crazy about wandering around in there either, but it seemed a whole lot safer than the house. There were less places for killers to hide.

Matty regarded Billy doubtfully before turning west to look at the old lighthouse at Widow's Peak, which was what everyone called the tip of the peninsula. It hadn't been used in years, and if you walked beyond it, you could see a modern beacon cemented into the rocky cliffs below.

"The lighthouse is haunted, too," Matty informed him. Billy decided not to argue. "So I guess your dad saw the headless sailor, too?"

"Yeah, he did. But it's not just a headless sailor, it's a headless sea captain. Captain Wilder." Matty lowered his voice. "And he walks when someone's going to die."

"Let's go check it out."

"Cool."

They walked along the path toward the lighthouse. Byron's Finger--the peninsula was named for the man who built the tower and the house about a hundred years ago--was long, skinny, and very tall with steep, ragged edges jutting out of the ocean. Halfway to the lighthouse they paused to throw pebbles over the sheer cliffs into the ocean. Inland, just to the north, Billy could see the town of Red Cay nestled in the hills edging the half-moon bay. Dinky cars traveled the streets and tiny fishing boats were moored to the pier.

Before the lighthouse was built and even after, when the fog was bad, there had been lots of shipwrecks at Byron's Finger and there were always rumors that you could find sunken treasure in the deep waters below--if you didn't get smashed on the rocks first. Pretty much anyone who tried it got smashed, and according to Matty, it was because Byron's Finger was cursed. According to Billy, it was just really dangerous down there. It was dangerous up here, too, he thought, taking a step backward. Except for some old wooden railings that would probably give way if you even touched them, nothing stood between you and falling over the edge. Their parents would kill them if they knew they were out here.

They approached the splintered remains of a weathered wooden door that hung crookedly on the hinges of the lighthouse. It creaked as Matty pulled it further open. "Come on, chicken," he whispered, stepping inside.

"I'm not chicken," Billy hissed, and followed him in. Silence. Complete, utter silence, then a slight creak from the door behind them made them both jump. Light streamed in from above, creating a dim spotlight at the center of the room. Brighter light crisscrossed in laser-like angles, entering through the small arched windows that studded the thick walls. Plaster had fallen away in many places to reveal the stone beneath and the black iron stairs clung to the circular wall like a rickety web.

"Captain Wilder walks those stairs, top to bottom, bottom to top," Matty breathed, "looking for his head."

He likes this a lot, Billy thought as he tried to figure out if it was possible for anyone to hide on the top floor where the beacon used to be. "Come on," Matty urged. "Let's go up."

It didn't look safe, but Billy didn't want to be called chicken again, so he said okay, and took the lead. The black stairs creaked, swaying a little under his weight. A breeze ricochetted in through a window and ruffled his hair. He got goosebumps.

"What're you waiting for?"

"Nothing. Listen, Matty, go slow. Some of the fasteners are pulling out of the wall." At least the one he was looking at sure as heck was. Plaster crumbled around the bolts as he took another step.

They ascended, slowly and without incident, pausing twice when the stairs swayed perceptibly. Nearing the top, Billy got more goosebumps. He had to enter the room, climb up through the center, where the light shone from above. If someone was up there, he was in deep shit.

The sea captain…

Nah, he didn't believe that, but maybe Matty really did, because he'd stopped nagging him to go faster. Somehow, that made Billy feel braver. Cautiously, he poked his head through the round opening.

Welcome sunlight streamed in through the huge glassless windows that ran the circumference of the room. Still eye level with the floor, Billy checked the place out. The floor consisted of heavy wooden planks, and huge rusted metal bolts held down the skeleton of the old beacon. He wondered if there had been a foghorn here too, but he didn't know what an old one would even look like. On one side, a doorway opened to the iron widow's walk outside the building.

"Come on, Matty," he said, no longer afraid. If the floor could hold the weight of the rusty iron, it could hold theirs, too. He pushed himself into the room and turned to give Matty a hand. His friend looked a little pale. "What's the matter, Farmer, see a ghost?"

“Very funny." As Matty peered around, his cocky attitude returned. "Wanna go out on the catwalk?"

"Yeah, sure."

The floor creaked as they crossed the room, but that didn't worry Billy; he sensed it was sturdy enough. The widow's walk, however, was pretty wobbly and even Matty stayed away from the outer edge. Standing still, they gazed out to sea.

"Sun's going down," Matty said.

"Geez, what time is it?" The sun wasn't sinking into the ocean yet, but it was low enough that it was turning the thin cirrus clouds orange and purple and gold.

Matty squinted at his watch. "Shit, it's six-thirty already. I'm supposed to be home in half an hour. If I'm late again, they'll ground me for a year."

Billy didn't have to be home until seven-thirty, but he was happy to leave. "Okay, so let's go."

They reentered the beacon room and Billy paused, staring at the sunset once more. It would be extra pretty tonight, he thought, not that he'd ever admit noticing stuff like that.

"What was that?" hissed Matty.

"What?"