Chapter Text
1890s, Great Lakes region, U.S.
The fog is so thick that the immense lake isn’t visible from where Aziraphale is standing on the bluff. On a clear day, the vast expanse of water is visible to the north, as is the entrance to the channel that flows below and carries ships to ports farther south.
Far beneath him, Aziraphale can hear the slosh and churn of waves. He can picture the dark water lapping against the rocky shoreline that is barely worthy of the word “beach.” It’s a strip of land littered with sand and driftwood, a barren stretch that he sometimes wanders to search for agates or to clear his mind.
His visits to the beach are infrequent, as he’s usually asleep during the brightest parts of the day. The darkest hours are when he’s most active, his nights spent tending the lighthouse that rises up behind him. The light guides vessels through the treacherous channel known for its fast currents, hidden shoals, and temperamental winds. The waters have claimed countless schooners and sailboats over the years, earning it the name of Hell’s Gate.
To be known as the lighthouse keeper of Hell’s Gate secretly amuses Aziraphale. It’s hardly the career he imagined as a proper English schoolboy, the son of an Anglican vicar and a dour mother. There had been a strong expectation that he’d follow in his father’s footsteps and join the clergy, but life turned out very differently once he fell in love with the sea. He became enchanted with the water as a young boy, fascinated by the ships and lighthouses he saw during his family’s summer holidays. A life of ever-changing water and open horizons seemed far more romantic than writing sermons or dutifully leading prayers.
Instead of ministering to a flock of souls as was expected, he found work at a lighthouse along the Celtic Sea, learning the solitary trade as an assistant to gruff and weathered keepers. Years later, he found himself migrating across the ocean to take up this isolated post among the Great Lakes. He’s held this post for a little more than three years now, and he’s grown to know the moods and tempests of the deep, cold lake and the channel.
He walks along the low stone wall that serves as a barrier against the steep drop to the rocks and water below. It feels good to stretch his legs and take in a bit of cool autumn air before starting his shift. There is kerosene to fetch from the oil house, the lantern wicks to trim, the lens to polish, the lantern room windows to scrub clean.
He takes another moment to gaze into the shifting mist, then turns to face the lighthouse tower and the small house that sits next to it. The brick two-story structure serves as his home and office. He scrutinizes the cottage and notices that the green shutters could use another coat of paint before the first hard freeze sets in. That’s a job for Adam Young, the assistant keeper who stands watch during the day. He’s a young man in his early twenties, bright and reliable and, at half of Aziraphale’s age, eager to climb ladders, patch roofs, and paint the highest window trim.
Aziraphale is still more than capable of doing hard work. His legs and arms are strong from years of hauling and lifting, but some tasks are better suited to more nimble frames. Once quite slender in his youth, Aziraphale has grown a bit more solid over the years.
He smooths a hand down the front of his waistcoat and fishes out his gold pocket watch to consult the time. Adam’s shift is nearing its end, and Aziraphale knows he’ll find the younger man at the kitchen table, a mug of tea at hand as he fills out his report in the daily log.
Once Adam signs out, he’ll bicycle the mile back to the home he shares with his parents. The Youngs are Aziraphale’s closest neighbors, and the nearest town of Black Bay lies another two miles south of their house. The dirt road that leads from the town to the lighthouse continues farther north, following the coastline to eventually end at the tip of the peninsula that stretches into the lake like a crooked finger. A few small fishing villages lie along the coast, and a handful of lonesome cabins are tucked into the heavily wooded land.
Aziraphale takes one more deep breath of brisk air before heading back towards the house. A movement across the road at the edge of the woods catches his eye — something silent and dark — a dog or wolf? He peers into the fog, but it’s quiet, the trees barely discernible. He remembers the local tales about a shadowy figure that lurks in the woods or on the beaches, and of strange phantom lights in the water and among the trees. Just stories to frighten children, Aziraphale thinks, shaking his head.
Once inside the warm kitchen, he greets Adam and hangs up his long wool coat. Apart from the coat, which is warm and practical, Aziraphale eschews the regulation uniform of dark blue jacket, vest, and trousers, choosing to wear his own comfortable clothes instead. He prefers a palette of cream and ivory colors, and stores the keeper’s uniform in a wardrobe until he has to don it for official duties. He received a stern reprimand on the one occasion he was caught in civilian clothes during an unexpected visit from a superior. Aziraphale used the terse warning letter as kindling for the stove, quietly refusing to follow orders.
He exchanges a few words with Adam and puts the kettle on the stove.
“I noticed the shutters could use a new coat of paint before the weather turns too cold,” Aziraphale says. “You can start on that tomorrow, if you would, please.”
“Of course. I can paint the railing on the back stairs, as well,” Adam offers. “I noticed the paint was flaking.”
“Very well,” Aziraphale agrees, pleased with Adam’s initiative. He sets about filling the teapot with black tea that he’ll sweeten with a hefty spoonful of sugar.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Adam adds, cradling his almost empty mug in his hands. “I saw Madame Tracy in town yesterday. She sends her greetings.”
“How nice,” Aziraphale answers, his voice neutral. Madame Tracy is a rather eccentric, over-rouged woman of a certain age. A former stage actress, she now occupies her time by reading palms and Tarot cards and claiming to communicate with the dead. She also plies Aziraphale and every other man she meets with flirtatious overtures — small touches on arms, pouts of her red lips — that fail to move him in the slightest.
“She wanted me to ask you a favor.” Adam’s cheeks turn pink, betraying a sudden awkwardness.
“Oh? What about?”
“She asked if you might, er, well…”
“Yes?” Aziraphale prods, rummaging in the cupboard for the sugar.
“If you might agree to host a small party here in a fortnight.”
“Excuse me?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “What sort of party?”
“Erm… a séance, actually. She says that with so many shipwrecks in the passage, the lighthouse is a very active spot for spirits.”
“Spirits?” Aziraphale scoffs. “I hope you told her no.”
Adam twists his mug in his hands. “Well, I… not exactly.”
Aziraphale reads the younger man’s face and sets down the sugar bowl with a rattle. “Oh, my dear boy, surely you didn’t tell her I’d consider it?”
“I… I’m afraid I did,” Adam admits. “I’m sorry, I thought — I thought maybe you’d enjoy some company before the winter sets in.”
Taken aback, Aziraphale says nothing. The winters are long and harsh, and once the channel is frozen, shipping traffic stops, as does the operation of the lighthouse until the spring thaw. Aziraphale is used to spending upwards of three months on his own with very little besides his books to keep him company. The kettle shrieks and he hurries to pull it from the stove.
Adam tries again. “It wouldn’t be a big affair. It’d just be me, Madame Tracy, Mr. Brown, and Miss Maggie from the library. And you, of course.”
Aziraphale groans inwardly. He quite likes Maggie, a charming woman who runs the small library in town. She always holds the latest British novels for him. It’s Mr. Brown, the owner of the town’s general store, who he can’t stomach. Brown is an oily, self-aggrandizing man who perpetually tries to promote his own business dealings.
“I’m afraid the answer is no,” Aziraphale says curtly. “Absolutely not.”
The hopeful light in Adam’s eyes dims, and he looks down at his hands, his shoulders sagging.
“I’ve never been to a séance,” Adam says wistfully. “I thought it might be… I don’t know. Interesting. It would’ve been a good party.”
Aziraphale sighs. He knows Adam has seen very little of the world, only the lake and woods and snow of his home. He recalls how dull and stifling small towns can feel to the young, and he sympathizes with Adam’s desire for a taste of adventure, even if it's the sort of tawdry entertainment put on by traveling carnivals.
Aziraphale wavers. What harm could it do, really, to spend an evening playing parlor games and telling ghost stories? It certainly would fit the season.
“Oh, alright,” Aziraphale finally capitulates with a long exhale. “We can have this little party of yours here. But you do realize it’s all a charade, don’t you? Table knocking and communicating with spirits? Madame Tracy is a performer desperate for an audience.”
But Adam just grins, clearly thrilled at the prospect of an exciting evening. “Thank you, Mr. Fell. I’ll help get everything ready — I’ll help clean and cook and whatever else needs to be done for the party.”
“Yes, yes.” Aziraphale waves away Adam’s eager offers of help. “We’ll work out all the preparations later. But first, before you go, I’ll write a note of acceptance to Madame Tracy, and you can deliver it to her tomorrow.”
Aziraphale finds his pen and note paper and dashes off a few lines confirming plans with the exact date and time. He hands the envelope to Adam, who is still grinning.
“Now don’t go losing your head about this. There’s still plenty of work to be done, and I expect you to keep your focus. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Aziraphale says firmly.
“Yes, sir. Have a good evening, Mr. Fell.” Adam jogs out the door and hops onto his bike, then pedals away down the packed dirt road. Aziraphale slowly shakes his head and takes a sip of tea, half amused and half appalled at the thought of hosting a party.
A séance, he thinks. Piffle.
The evening of the party is chilly, the crisp October leaves swirling around Aziraphale’s feet as he walks the short distance from the lighthouse to the cottage. He has triple-checked that all is in order: the kerosene filled, the lamp burning, the clockwork wound to rotate the light in its distinctive pattern: one second on, six seconds off.
He notes the weather out of habit, thinking about what he’ll write in the log. Waxing gibbous moon, clear skies, moderate breeze. Hosted small social gathering with three guests from town and Assistant Keeper Young.
Barring a sudden squall, it should be a calm enough night for any ships traveling in the channel below. He knows the rhythm of his duties like his own heartbeat, and he’s confident there is enough time to indulge in a few hours of socializing.
He enters the kitchen and hangs up his coat, pausing a moment to take in the sight of his guests engaged in a lively discussion in the parlor. Madame Tracy is holding court, her bright orange hair a stark contrast against the dark green fabric of the settee.
Adam is sitting next to her, his upturned palm in Madame Tracy’s hand.
“And this is the heart line,” she explains, tracing a path on his hand with one fingertip. “Ah, it’s quite long. You’re perhaps a bit shy, but your heart is filled with an abundance of love. I see quite a harmonious outcome for you.”
Adam blushes and smiles as Maggie clasps her hands in delight. “How lovely,” she says fondly.
Maggie is in her 30s, Aziraphale estimates, with dark blonde hair and a pleasant round face. She has a sweet and cheerful demeanor, and Aziraphale likes her for her kindness and their shared interest in books. He’s aware of the town’s occasional efforts to matchmake them into a couple, and he’s extremely grateful that she appears to be just as uninterested in such a match as he is. Though they’ve never spoken overtly of why this is, he senses a kindred spirit in her.
“Mr. Fell!” Madame Tracy calls out in greeting. “Would you like me to read your palm next?”
Aziraphale accepts the glass of punch that Mr. Brown offers him. “No, not right now, thank you,” Aziraphale tells Madame Tracy, flashing an apologetic smile. “Perhaps later.”
“Suit yourself,” Madame Tracy says with a shrug. She turns to Adam again. “Have I ever told you about the time I played Desdemonda in New York?”
Aziraphale takes a seat and listens politely to the chatter around him, trying not to wince at Mr. Brown’s braying laugh and Madame Tracy’s colorful stories of life on the stage. He glances at Adam, who is listening raptly to the tales of theatre greats and bustling cities. Aziraphale doubts it was all quite as glamorous as she makes it out to be, but holds his tongue.
Instead, he nibbles on a slice of cake and sips his punch. Mr. Brown subtly offers him the flask he draws from an inner jacket pocket, but Aziraphale declines. He enjoys an occasional drink, but it’s strictly forbidden when he’s working. He takes a furtive glance at his watch. Nearly 9 o’clock.
“My friends,” Madame Tracy announces, “I believe it’s time to begin our communion with the dearly departed. Shall we take our seats at the table?” She turns to Adam. “Be a dear and bring me my bag, won’t you?”
Adam fetches her large beaded bag that is decorated with black fringe. The group gathers around the circular table covered with a red velvet cloth. Madame Tracy reaches into her bag and draws out a flat wooden board and a smaller heart-shaped plank of wood. “A good friend sent me this from Chicago,” she explains. “It’s a device for communicating with spirits. It’s called a Ouija board.”
Maggie’s mouth falls into an O shape, and Adam sits up eagerly. “I’ve read about these,” he says. “It spells out words, doesn’t it?”
“That’s right.” Madame Tracy sweeps her hand over the board that is stenciled with the alphabet, the numbers 0 through 9, the words Yes and No in the upper corners and Good-Bye along the bottom edge.
“You place your fingertips lightly on the planchette,” she points to the heart-shaped piece of wood that is elevated by three short legs, “and the spirit will guide you to the answers by moving the pointer across the board to each letter.” She now looks at Aziraphale. “Could you dim the lights, please? We need only one candle.”
Aziraphale and Adam quickly extinguish the lamps and retake their seats. Aziraphale tries very hard to quell the skepticism in his expression as Madame Tracy closes her eyes. Shadows dance across their faces as she rests her hands on the table, palms facing up. She begins to speak, her voice ringing out. “Oh, spirits of the night. We greet you and ask you to commune with us. We wish to part the veil between our worlds to speak with those beyond the physical plane.”
She pauses dramatically, and the guests trade glances with each other, trying to suppress fits of nervous giggling. Aziraphale feels a bit silly, but continues to go along with the dramatics.
“Mr. Brown, Adam, please be the first to begin,” Madame Tracy directs them. “Place your fingertips on the planchette.”
They both reach forward and gingerly rest their fingers on opposite sides of the small wooden plank.
Madame Tracy takes a deep breath and drops her voice into a lower register. “Is anyone here with us? Use the board to make your presence known.”
The room goes still, but nothing happens.
Madame Tracy speaks again, a little louder. “Oh, spirits, come forth! Are you here with us?”
For another moment, there is no movement. Mr. Brown and Adam look at each other, unsure of what to do. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, the planchette begins to glide across the board.
Adam’s eyes go wide. “I’m not moving it, I swear!” he whispers frantically.
“Neither am I!” Mr. Brown exclaims.
The planchette seems to drag itself slowly to one corner, stopping over the word Yes.
Madame Tracy smiles. “Excellent. Good evening. You are welcome here.” Her bracelets jangle as she gestures to Mr. Brown. “Now, do you have a question you’d like to ask?”
Mr. Brown looks startled. “A question? About me? Or the — the spirit?
“Whatever you desire.”
Mr. Brown hesitates, and clears his throat. “Well, then… Are you a ghost?” he asks with exaggerated bravado.
The pointer slowly slides across the board to cover the word No.
Mr. Brown shifts in discomfort. “What are you, then?”
The planchette moves again, spelling out a reply.
R E S T L E S S
The group laughs nervously, and Madame Tracy shoots them a warning glance. “Adam,” she says pointedly. “Do you have a question?”
The young man leans forward in his seat, his face eager. “Will I travel the world someday?”
The planchette moves more quickly, hovering near the word Yes.
Adam breaks into a smile, and the pointer moves again, swiftly covering a succession of letters. Several people speak the letters out loud as they are revealed.
G O A N D R E T U R N
“Go and return?” Adam repeats, confusion in his tone. “Does that mean I’m supposed to come back here?”
The planchette doesn't move, seeming to ignore Adam’s query.
“Perhaps it’s meant to be unclear,” Madame Tracy answers vaguely, then turns to Aziraphale. “Do you have a pencil and paper? It may be easier to decipher the messages if we write them down.”
Aziraphale retrieves the requested items from his nearby desk and returns to his seat at the table, where Mr. Brown has jumped in to ask another brash question.
“Will I be wealthy?” the storekeeper demands to know.
Aziraphale thinks the question is in poor taste, but keeps the pencil poised over the paper, recording the rapid series of letters that follow.
He can’t help but give a small chuckle when he reads back the reply. “It says you’ll be wealthy ‘in coin, not wisdom.’”
Everyone, even Madame Tracy, has a snicker at that.
“Cheeky ghost,” Mr. Brown mutters.
“Mr. Fell, Miss Maggie, perhaps you’d both like to try now?” Madame Tracy suggests.
Aziraphale has to admit that he’s more than a little intrigued by this parlor game. He and Maggie edge forward in their chairs and place their fingers on the planchette. Aziraphale swears he feels a tiny current, like a small spark of static, when he touches the wood. It’s just your imagination running wild, he chides himself.
“Maggie, would you like to go first?” Madame Tracy asks.
Maggie purses her lips. “Oh, I feel silly. I don’t know what to ask. How about —” she pauses, blushing before she even says the words. “Will I ever find true love?”
The pointer moves, and both Maggie and Aziraphale gasp at the strange sensation. He is barely touching the surface, and the planchette seems to move under its own power. There must be a logical explanation for this — probably some sort of subconscious motion — but another part of his mind can’t help but be amazed by it.
Bit by bit, the answer is revealed.
H A V E P A T I E N C E
Maggie absorbs the words and nods slowly, appearing neither pleased nor disappointed. “I suppose that’s not all bad.”
“One never knows what the Fates have in store for us,” Madame Tracy adds sagely.
Aziraphale is tempted to point out that Madame Tracy often claims to know exactly what the Fates have planned, but again says nothing.
“Mr. Fell?” Madame Tracy looks at him. “What would you like to know?”
Aziraphale has no desire to blurt out personal questions, so he takes a different tact.
“I’d like to know more about our spirit guest,” he says, curious to see how far he can take this game. “What is your name?”
Adam picks up the paper and pencil, ready to write. There is a long pause before the indicator moves slowly.
F O R G O T T E N
The group exchanges glances, uncertain what to make of the answer. The candle flickers, nearly goes out, then recatches.
Aziraphale presses on, feeling daring. “How did you die?”
As soon as he asks the question, a violent gust of wind rattles the shutters, making everyone jump. A chill runs down Aziraphale’s spine as the planchette glides from letter to letter.
D R O W N E D
“Were you a sailor?” Aziraphale asks, picturing a capsized ship and broken masts.
The planchette slides across the board to point at the corner again. No
A passenger, then? Aziraphale wonders. But before he can form another question, Maggie is asking one.
“Why are you here? What drew you to us tonight?”
A chill descends over the room, causing Madame Tracy to draw her shawl tighter around her shoulders. An oppressive atmosphere fills the space, as if the air has become heavier.
Sensing a growing unease among his guests, Aziraphale wonders if they should stop. But the pointer moves again, and Adam writes down the letters as they are highlighted.
T O F I N D
There is another pause, and the room remains hushed. Aziraphale’s heart is beating faster, his senses heightened as if he’s being watched. The planchette starts to move again slowly, deliberately.
S O M E O N E
“I don’t like this,” Maggie whispers. Her fingers tremble, but she seems unable to lift them from the board.
The candle flame gutters and the wind slams the shutters wildly against the side of the house. Someone whimpers.
Aziraphale stares at the board, paralyzed. With great effort, he forces himself from his stupor and tries to regain control of the situation.
“Oh, come now, this can’t be real,” he protests in a shaky voice, looking around at the others. But they are silent, their faces strained with fear. He looks at Madame Tracy, who has gone pale. “You’re doing this. It’s some sort of trick.”
She shakes her head. “It’s the spirit.”
The window panes rattle in their frames as if a force prowling outside wants to break in.
Putting on a voice that’s braver than he feels, Aziraphale poses another bold question, hoping to prove this game is all a hoax.
“What do you mean, find someone?” he demands, challenging the thin air.
The planchette flies across the board as if possessed.
I W I L L C O M E F O R YOU
Aziraphale’s blood runs cold and his mouth goes dry. He doesn’t know why or how this is happening, but he’s compelled to ask one more question.
“Who? Who are you coming for?” he hurls the question into the oppressive air. The table begins to rock with a small tremor, and the room vibrates with a low force, the pictures on the wall shaking, several books falling from the shelves. The temperature in the room plummets, and Aziraphale feels the hair on the back of his neck rise. He resists the pull of the planchette, but it is moving, now beyond his control.
A Z I R
Aziraphale wrenches his hands away as if he’s been burned and Maggie lets out a small cry.
“That’s enough!” Aziraphale shouts, standing up so swiftly that his chair topples over. “We’re done with this game. Light the lamps, Adam.”
Adam stumbles up and hurries to find the matches, and the room is soon filled with warm light. The group stares at each other silently for a few moments as if waking from a bad dream.
“I’m so sorry,” Madame Tracy finally gasps, her hand worrying at her throat. “I don’t know what happened.”
“Our imaginations ran away with us,” Aziraphale desperately rationalizes, picking up his chair. He feels compelled to move around, picking up books and putting things right again. “We simply got caught up in the moment.”
“Quite right,” Mr. Brown chimes in, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. “It’s nearly Halloween, of course we’re easily spooked.”
He’s met with half-hearted murmurs of agreement.
“But the pictures, the books —” Adam starts, and Aziraphale cuts him off.
“It was just the wind rattling the house,” he says sharply, not entirely convincing himself.
“I could use something to drink,” Maggie admits feebly as she sinks onto the settee.
“Of course. A little brandy might be just the thing.” Aziraphale pours out glasses for everyone and passes them around, glad to have something to do. He takes a long sip, the sharp burn of the liquor helping to ground him in reality.
The drink seems to calm everyone’s nerves, the tension gradually easing until they can talk again.
“Well, this was certainly a memorable evening,” Madame Tracy tries to keep her tone light, but her face is still pale.
“I can’t wait to tell my friends about this,” Adam adds eagerly. “They’ll never believe it.”
Aziraphale gives him a thin smile, not sure he wants to believe the strange events himself. They manage to turn the conversation to more pleasant subjects, and the guests finally start to gather their things to depart. Madame Tracy slips the Ouija board into her bag as quickly as possible, as if she’s trying to dispose of a dead rat. She looks like she would prefer not to hold it, but no one offers to take it from her.
Aziraphale makes sure that the group will travel back to town together in Mr. Brown’s surrey, dropping Adam off at his house along the way.
As Aziraphale stands by the front door bidding everyone good night, Maggie hesitates. “Are you sure you’ll be alright here alone, Mr. Fell?” she asks with genuine concern.
Aziraphale smiles reassuringly. “I’ll be fine. I’m used to being on my own. It’ll take more than a cheeky ghost to frighten me.”
Maggie looks at him for a long moment, and he forces a little laugh. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll light a nice fire and settle in with a book. Adam will be back here in the morning.”
Maggie squeezes his arm. “Take care. And thank you for hosting the party, even though it — well, you know what I mean.”
“It was my pleasure. I’ll see you at the library soon,” Aziraphale promises. He watches them depart, his arms hugged around himself to ward off the chilly air. The wind has indeed picked up, and he can hear the waves dashing against the shore below. The night has turned unsettled.
He finally closes the door behind him, and the silence in the house is deafening. On a sudden urge he locks the door, something he rarely bothers to do. Squaring his shoulders, he gathers the glasses and plates and takes them back to the kitchen to wash and dry them. He sweeps the floors then builds a small fire in the grate. He jots a few notes down about needed supplies, glances out the window to ensure the lighthouse lamp is still burning, and finally wanders over to the bookshelves. He selects a favorite novel by Jane Austen and pulls his reading chair closer to the fireplace.
He manages to distract himself until it’s time to do his rounds. He slips on his coat, lights a lantern, and climbs the spiral staircase in the light tower. He hurries to finish his inspections and ensconces himself in the warmth of the parlor again.
Once back in his chair, he reads several more pages, but then his eyes grow heavy. Must be the brandy making me sleepy, he thinks, lowering the book to his lap.
Despite his efforts to fight the lure of sleep, his eyes drift shut and he dozes. He falls into a twilight state, unsure if he is dreaming or awake. His limbs feel liquid and heavy, unable to move. He can see, though — the room is bathed in an odd blue light that shifts like deep water. He senses a presence behind him, and he struggles to turn his head to see who is there, but he can’t move. His heart pounds, his breathing rapid. To his horror, a cold touch trails down his cheek like icy fingers.
Aziraphale…
A voice whispers his name like a sigh in the wind, a hiss of rain.
He suddenly jolts awake with a stab of terror, his eyes flying open. He looks around wildly, but no one else is there.
The glowing coals in the grate pop and sizzle. He quickly throws another log onto the fire and coaxes the flame back to life before slumping into the protective curve of his chair. He touches his cheek, swearing his skin feels cold. He exhales uneasily. It’s going to be a very long night.