Member-only story
The Figs of Fellsgrove
When they offered me the job, I thought it was a prank. It sounded like something Cynthia might cook up. I laughed at the caller and said something like, “Nice try. I’ve got a lot to do here, but you have a wonderful day wasting people’s time.” Luckily for me, they called back the next day.
Maybe because the second caller’s voice was so different from the first, I doubted it was a prank. The offer was legitimate. I’d be a groundskeeper tending to the lighthouse just outside Arkham. The town, more like a village, sat nestled between the rocky cliffs and restless sea on the far northern coast of Maine, located halfway between Cutler and South Trescott.
The entire compound consisted of a robust stone cottage with heavy wooden storm shutters on the southern end and an unexpectedly pudgy lighthouse on the northern. A thick stone wall that was tall enough for me to take shelter from the winds from the ocean before me or from the west behind me, connected the two structures where I would spend my days. A tiny copse of oddly shaped trees sat between the northern end of the wall and the lighthouse. Beyond the lighthouse was a small wooden shed just beyond the lighthouse, where we stored the extra lighting elements and gardening supplies.
The lighthouse was shorter and smaller than I had imagined, but my hilltop was the highest point for miles, so I wrote its…
