Skeleton Tower Read online

  Copyright © 2016 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

  Darby Creek

  A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  241 First Avenue North

  Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA

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  The images in the book are used with the permission of: © Jeremy Walker/The Image Bank/Getty Images (lighthouse); © iStockphoto.com/mustafahacalaki (skull); © iStockphoto.com/Igor Zhuravlov (storm); © iStockphoto.com/desifoto (graph paper); © iStockphoto.com/Trifonenko (blue flame); © iStockphoto.com/Anita Stizzoli (dark clouds).

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.5. Typeface provided by Adobe Systems.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Acton, Vanessa, author.

  Title: Skeleton tower / by Vanessa Acton.

  Description: Minneapolis : Darby Creek, [2016] | Series: The Atlas of Cursed Places | Summary: “Jason’s parents have just been hired to work at a historic lighthouse along the California coast. The lighthouse is built along steep cliffs, surrounded by fog, far from the nearest town...and cursed”— Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2015041822| ISBN 9781512413229 (lb : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781512413571 (pb : alk. paper)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Blessing and cursing—Fiction. | Lighthouses—Fiction. | Family life—California—Fiction. | California—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.A228 Ske 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2015041822

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – SB – 7/15/16

  For A.W., J.C., and C.C.—great sidekicks for jaunts to cursed places

  Chapter 1

  “I’ll give you the short version: the girl dies at the end.”

  Morgan says this without looking up from her phone. She must be playing a downloaded game, because I know she’s not getting any service out here. We’ve been on this twisting, narrow coastal “highway” for two hours, and it’s a complete dead zone. Steep cliffs directly to our left. Super-dense trees on our right. Every so often I’ll see an old-fashioned call box hiding in those trees, a few yards beyond the road. So in case the ancient family minivan breaks down, we can use one of those things to call for a tow. But as far as cell service goes, forget it. Which is why I’m bored enough to talk to my older sister about the series finale of Reckoning.

  “Which one dies?” I ask. “The hot girl or the one who does magic?”

  “I think they’re both hot,” says Morgan, eyes still glued to her screen. “Everyone on that show is hot. I would date anyone in the cast.”

  The minivan swerves, following a sharp bend in the road. I slide sideways in the backseat. My seatbelt digs into my collarbone. This has been happening every five seconds since we got on this road. My stomach is losing patience. “Mom, can you maybe ease up on the gas when you get to a curve like that?”

  “Relax, Jason,” my mom says from the driver’s seat. My parents’ motto. Just relax. Don’t worry about taking a turn too fast and plunging off the side of a cliff, into the Pacific Ocean.

  I glance out the window but can’t see much because the fog is so thick. Try leaving your shower running for about a year, with the bathroom door closed and no fan. Then try driving through that kind of mist at sixty miles an hour. On a road shaped like a kindergartner’s scribble. With basically three feet of clearance between that road and the edge of a cliff. And then try to relax.

  “OK, but seriously, tell me what happens in the finale,” I say to Morgan. “I don’t care about spoilers. Who knows when I’ll get to watch it myself?”

  Finally Morgan looks up from her phone. “They’ll have Internet at the lighthouse, won’t they?” She aims the question at Mom and Dad.

  “We didn’t ask about that,” says Mom. Of course they didn’t. When was the last time Mom and Dad ever considered anything practical?

  The road twists again. This time I hold on to the side door so that I won’t lurch the other way and slam into Morgan.

  “But who needs Internet when you’re living the dream?” adds Dad.

  This is one of Dad’s favorite phrases. Who needs—insert something people really need—when you’re living the dream? According to my parents, we’re constantly “living the dream.” Their dream. Or to be more accurate: their endlessly changing dreams, plural. By now I’m used to their habit of switching jobs and homes and school districts every two years. Six months ago, Dad was trying to make it big with online poker while Mom started her own food truck. Now we’re on our way to their next random gig: tending a historic lighthouse in You’ve-Never-Heard-of-It, California.

  “For those of us born in the twenty-first century, no dream is worth giving up the Internet,” I mutter.

  Dad twists around in the front passenger’s seat to look at me. “Jason, I’m not liking this attitude.”

  “Maybe I’d have a better attitude if I hadn’t been motion sick since noon.” Or if my parents hadn’t sold everything we owned except what could fit in this minivan. Again. Or if they hadn’t decided to move in the middle of October, a solid two months into the school year. Again.

  “Look, there’s a sign for the lighthouse!” says Mom brightly.

  I almost miss it, thanks to the fog. But I catch a glimpse as the car zooms past. Just your typical touristy sign: Point Encanto Lighthouse, 2 miles.

  “We’re almost there!” says Dad.

  That’s when the minivan veers off the road.

  Chapter 2

  Morgan screams. To be fair, I scream too. When you’re inches away from plummeting into the ocean, you tend to freak out.

  But I have to give Mom credit. Her reflexes are quick. She slams on the brakes, and the van lurches to an awkward stop with only one wheel hanging over the edge of the cliff.

  “Okay, okay, nobody panic!” says Dad.

  The van isn’t technically moving anymore, but I can feel gravity tugging on it. Like when a seesaw is perfectly balanced for about half a second. And you know that it’s about to tip to one side or the other. Except in this case, there’s only one way our van might tip: forward, off the rock ledge.

  “Can you put it in reverse, Meredith?” Dad asks Mom.

  “No!” I shout. “Keep your foot on the brake, Mom! And put the parking brake on!”

  Dad glances back at me. “Jason, I don’t—”

  “He just took driver’s ed in August, Dad!” snaps Morgan. “I think the safety stuff is fresher in his mind than yours.” This is a first: my older sister taking my side. If we weren’t teetering on the edge of death, I would thank her.

  “Okay, the parking brake is on,” Mom says.

  “We need to get out of the van,” I say. “Like, now.”

  Morgan reaches for the handle of her side door—the side door facing away from the ocean. “Count of three?” she says, unlocking her seatbelt with her free hand.

  “Just go,” I say. “Trust me, I’ll be right behind you.”

  Five seconds later we’re all standing on the road, a few feet away from where the van is perched. “That was the weirdest thing,” says Mom. But not like she’s freaked out, the way a sane person would be. Intrigued might be the word. “It was like the steering wheel just turned all on its own. I had no control at all.”

  “Imagine losing contro
l of a speeding vehicle on a road with sharp curves,” I say dryly. “Especially when you get distracted reading signs. What are the chances?”

  Morgan shoots me her classic Just let it go look. My parents don’t even seem to hear me.

  “Guess I’ll go look for one of those call boxes and see if we can get a tow,” says Dad. “Don’t worry, guys, it’ll be fine.”

  “As long as the van doesn’t pitch into the sea while we’re waiting for the tow,” I point out.

  “And as long as another car doesn’t come hurtling around that curve in the road and slam into us while we’re waiting here,” Morgan adds.

  “Well, look on the bright side,” says Mom. “We’re only, what, a mile away from the lighthouse?”

  “I thought the sign said a couple miles,” I say. The sign is only a few car lengths away, so I head over to check.

  Yep: Point Encanto Lighthouse, 2 miles. But up close, I realize that isn’t the only thing the sign says. Along the bottom, someone has scratched some graffiti into the metal. The tiny, jagged lettering is hard to read, but not impossible.

  Beware the curse.

  Chapter 3

  “Tow truck’s on the way,” Dad reports a few minutes later. “But it might take a while.”

  “You think?” I say. “That’s what happens when you take a job in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Okay, Jason, we really don’t need the negativity right now,” says Dad. The edge in his voice doesn’t exactly sound like positive energy, but whatever.

  “Here’s an idea,” says Mom, all cheery. “Why don’t you and Morgan just head on up to the lighthouse?”

  I gape at her. “On foot?”

  “Sure. Just follow the road. It’ll probably only take about half an hour. Dad and I will wait here with the van until the tow truck comes. You can tell Mr. Shen what happened so he knows why we’re running a little late.”

  “Who?”

  Morgan rolls her eyes at me. “The program director at the lighthouse. Mom and Dad’s new boss. Sure, Mom, we’ll do that.”

  Before I can protest, Morgan starts dragging me by the arm. She’s been doing that since I was a baby and she was a one-year-old. I shrug her off but follow her up the road. I’m not looking forward to a two-mile walk along the edge of a cliff. Still, anything’s better than dealing with parents who never admit anything’s wrong.

  ***

  I hoped I’d feel better when we got to the lighthouse. Safer. No such luck.

  We’ve just reached the far side of the parking lot—which is empty except for one car. “There it is,” says Morgan, like I can’t see for myself. From where we’re standing, we have a clear view. Or as clear as any view gets in porridge-level fog. There’s a cute little whitish cottage. Next to it is a cylinder-shaped, glass-peaked structure—the lighthouse. And next to that is a narrow tower built of metal scaffolding. A revolving light is shining from the top of the metal tower, slicing through the fog in a slow arc.

  Cozy-looking, sure. But this whole setup is perched on a ledge of rock that juts into the ocean—the “point” in Point Encanto. And it’s about half a mile below us. Between us and our destination is a stairway with hundreds and hundreds of steps. On either side of those steps is a steep downward slope, ending way-too-many feet beneath us, where rock meets ocean.

  “Holy mother of—”

  Morgan cuts me off. “Relax, Jason. This is why railings were invented.”

  She starts her descent. I grab the guard rail and inch down the first few steps behind her. “Don’t you start telling me to relax. Mom and Dad are bad enough. They’ll be telling me to relax when the apocalypse hits.”

  A killer wind is rolling in off the ocean. I wish I’d worn a heavier jacket. Or a life vest.

  “I read online that there are three hundred steps,” says Morgan over her shoulder. “You can count them if it makes you feel better.”

  It doesn’t. Mostly because for some reason I can’t stop thinking about that sign. Beware the curse.

  To my left: steep drop, ocean. To my right: steep drop, ocean. Straight ahead: my older sister, practically skipping down the stairs.

  To distract myself, I call to Morgan, “What else did you find out about this place online?”

  “You mean you actually care for once?”

  “Come on, Morgan, just talk to me.”

  Morgan always researches our family’s moves in advance. She programs the numbers of local takeout places into her phone. She remembers the names of our parents’ bosses and knows random details about their jobs. I don’t bother with any of that. What’s the point of cramming all that information into your head if it won’t matter in another few months?

  When I was little, I got super excited about my parents’ work. But that’s like being really invested in a new show that gets canceled after thirteen episodes. Not worth it.

  “Well, it’s one of the oldest lighthouses in the Bay Area.” She has a fact for almost every one of the three hundred steps. When it was built. (1880.) The name of the nonprofit foundation that currently runs it. (Something Something Lighthouse Association.) How long it’s been a museum. (About three years.)

  “Did you read anything about the place being cursed?” I ask.

  “What? No. Why?”

  “No reason.” I point to the metal tower’s rotating light. “So that’s the light Mom and Dad have to take care of?”

  Morgan glances back to see where I’m pointing. Then she looks at the tower and shakes her head. “No, that’s the skeleton tower. Its light is automated. It replaced the original lighthouse light in the sixties.”

  “Wait. If it’s automated, what are Mom and Dad supposed to do?”

  “Take care of the old light—the historic one. Do maintenance work. Give tours.”

  “Seriously? That’s . . . so lame.”

  “I don’t know why you sound surprised. You think everything they do is lame.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  Finally we reach the bottom of the endless staircase. The front door of the cottage has a small sign on it: Welcome to Point Encanto Lighthouse. Visiting hours: Wednesday – Sunday, 9 a.m. – 5 p.m. Today’s Sunday, and my phone says the time is 4:45. Since we only saw one car in the parking lot, I figure peak visiting time is over.

  Morgan knocks. A short, balding guy with thick glasses answers the door. “Good afternoon! Are you here for a tour?”

  “No, actually, our parents just got hired to work here,” says Morgan. “Steve and Meredith Lewis. They’re the new keepers. Are you Mr. Shen?”

  The guy’s face lights up. “Oh, yes, of course! Come on in.”

  We step inside. If a museum and a gift shop had a baby, it would look like this room. The walls are covered in info-panels. Display cases are scattered around like an obstacle course. Off to one side there’s a bookcase filled with touristy coffee table books, travel guides, a few atlases. Racks of postcards and key chains stand nearby. Then there’s the counter, which has a cash register and a cutesy guest book. It’s all vaguely a letdown. Mom and Dad could’ve sold postcards anywhere.

  Morgan introduces us, then says, “Our parents should be here soon, but we had a little accident on the road.”

  Mr. Shen’s smile crumbles. “Oh no,” he murmurs. “Not already.”

  “What do you mean, not already?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” he says, too fast. “I’m just sorry their time here is off to such a rough start. This job is difficult enough as it is.”

  “How so?” I press. “Other than going up and down those insane stairs every day.”

  The question seems to make him weirdly uncomfortable. “Well, being forty-five minutes from the nearest town . . . balancing so many different duties . . .”

  “I mean, they’re not actually going to be lighthouse keepers,” I point out. “Right? They’ll be more like tour guides.”

  “Caretakers,” says Mr. Shen. “And I do like to think of them as keepers, in the true sense of the word. They
may not be operating the light, but they’re guardians of this place’s history.”

  “Okay. Sure. How hard can that be, though?”

  Mr. Shen sighs and glances up at the ceiling. “Harder than you’d think, I’m afraid. Our last keepers couldn’t handle the stress.” He pastes on a fresh smile. “But your parents are made of tougher stuff. I could tell from our phone interview. Once I’ve trained them on the routine, I’m sure they’ll be fine. Would you like to see your apartment while we wait for them to get here?”

  Mr. Shen leads us up the back staircase, unlocks the door at the top, and shows us the cottage’s private second floor. Three bedrooms, a bathroom, and a “kitchen nook,” aka a closet-sized space with an oven and a fridge. At least it’s furnished. There are even some dry goods on the tiny pantry shelf.

  “Help yourselves to the food the previous keepers left behind,” says Mr. Shen. He’s clearly noticed me eyeing the box of frosted cereal.

  “They must’ve left in a hurry,” I say as I grab the box.

  “They didn’t give much notice, no,” Mr. Shen admits. Quickly, he adds, “I can show you the light station itself if you’d like to see it.”

  “We don’t want to impose,” says Morgan. “If you have to be back downstairs in case visitors come . . .”

  “Business has been pretty slow lately,” says Mr. Shen. “And it’s almost five. I’m not expecting anyone to show up. It would be my pleasure to give you a quick private tour.”

  He doesn’t wait for us to respond. Morgan follows him. She loves this kind of stuff. I stuff a handful of cereal into my mouth and set the box back on the pantry shelf. That’s when my hand brushes the piece of paper on the shelf.

  I pull it down. It’s an envelope. On the back someone has scribbled in pencil: TO THE NEXT KEEPERS.

  Mr. Shen and Morgan are already halfway down the stairs. I don’t call out to them. I just tear open the envelope. Inside there’s a piece of paper with a short, handwritten note.

  YOU’RE NOT SAFE HERE. THIS PLACE IS CURSED. CHECK THE ATLAS OF CURSED PLACES. IT WILL EXPLAIN.