The storm clawed at the lighthouse windows like a living thing. Evan pressed his forehead against the cold glass, breath fogging the pane as lightning fractured the sky. Below the cliffs, the Atlantic roared its approval.
A floorboard creaked behind him.
He turned, charcoal smearing across his shirt. The beam from his headlamp swept across a woman standing in the spiral staircase doorway. Rainwater glistened on her white dress, the fabric clinging to her legs like a second skin. She held no flashlight.
"Are you lost?" Evan's voice sounded too loud over the storm. The National Trust caretaker hadn't mentioned other visitors to the decommissioned lighthouse tonight.
Her laugh held the chime of rigging in wind. "Lost implies I had a destination." She stepped into the light. Chestnut hair tumbled from its pins, curls dark with seawater. When she tilted her head, the beam caught her eyes - green as shipwreck glass.
Evan's sketchpad slipped from his lap. Pages fluttered open to half-finished studies of the storm. "I'm Evan. The caretaker let me stay to sketch the..."
"Tempest?" She traced a finger along the curved wall, coming to rest beside his folding chair. Her dress whispered of another century - high collar, leg-of-mutton sleeves. "Shelley wrote of such nights. 'The tempest is a steed that none may tame.'"
Lightning flashed. In that frozen moment, Evan saw through her.
Not metaphorically. The iron staircase spiraled clearly through her torso, rusted bolts and all. When the darkness returned, she was solid again, smelling of salt and gardenias.
"You're shivering." She reached for his denim jacket draped over the radiator. Her hand passed through the fabric.
Evan's heart stuttered. "How...?"
"Look at the lighthouse registry." Her voice frayed at the edges like aged parchment. "October 17th, 1883. The Isabella went down carrying the mayor's daughter to her wedding." Moonlight through the observation window revealed the silver pendant at her throat - an engraved 'I' entwined with anchor chains. "They never found her body."
The storm died at dawn. When sunlight pierced the clouds, she faded like mist, leaving Evan clutching a charcoal sketch he didn't remember drawing - a woman dancing on the storm-wracked cliffs, her wedding veil streaming behind her like a ghost ship's sails.