The Lighthouse Witches Read online

  Praise for The Nesting

  “A taut, scary thriller that winds the suspense so tightly you can barely breathe. I was rooting for the heroine all the way to the terrifying conclusion. This one will definitely keep you up at night.”

  —Simone St. James, New York Times bestselling author of The Sun Down Motel

  “[A] hypnotic psychological thriller. . . . Readers will keep guessing what’s really going on right up to the surprise ending. Rebecca fans won’t want to miss this one.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “An original and haunting thriller, filled with secrets, ghosts, and Norse folktales. The Nesting is an evocative and chilling tale that will keep you guessing and is best read with the lights on.”

  —Alice Feeney, New York Times bestselling author of Sometimes I Lie

  “A gorgeous, atmospheric book that chilled me to the bone. The perfect escape book into the deep woods of Norway, where nothing is as it seems. C. J. Cooke just became one of my favorite authors.”

  —Samantha Downing, USA Today bestselling author of My Lovely Wife

  “The modern and the Gothic collide in The Nesting.”

  —PopSugar

  “Dive into The Nesting for some creepy full-body chills.”

  —Shondaland

  “An atmospheric thriller.”

  —New York Post

  “[A] nail-biting Gothic suspense novel.”

  —OK!

  “[A] fast-paced, gripping plot.”

  —Chicago Review of Books

  “Strong horror-tinged fairy-tale threads and the stark fjord setting lend a supernatural twist to this domestic thriller.”

  —Booklist

  “Chilling, totally engrossing, and full of intrigue. The pages just whizzed by.”

  —Katherine May, New York Times bestselling author of Wintering

  “Norwegian fjords and folktales are beautifully evoked in this vivid and compelling novel.”

  —Rosamund Lupton, New York Times bestselling author of Sister

  “Nordic folklore, snowy landscapes, and an ever-turning screw of tension—a fun, Gothic treat.”

  —Kirsty Logan, author of The Gracekeepers

  “The Nesting is at once a taut psychological thriller, an eerie Nordic fable, and a thoughtful meditation on stewardship. . . . Ms. Cooke tells her story with a spare, elegant prose that betrays a poet’s ear and also a poet’s discipline. . . . The characters are heartbreakingly three-dimensional. . . . A quick read with a long echo.”

  —Christopher Buehlman, author of Those Across the River

  “A thrilling blend of lore and suspense, The Nesting is a gripping, deliciously tense page-turner that will give you chills.”

  —Rachel Harrison, author of The Return

  ALSO BY C. J. COOKE

  The Nesting

  I Know My Name

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2021 by C. J. Cooke

  Readers Guide copyright © 2021 by C. J. Cooke

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Jess-Cooke, Carolyn, 1978- author.

  Title: The lighthouse witches / C.J. Cooke.

  Description: First Edition. | New York: Berkley, 2021.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021012446 (print) | LCCN 2021012447 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593334232 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593334249 (ebook)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Horror fiction.

  Classification: LCC PR6110.E78 L54 2021 (print) | LCC PR6110.E78 (ebook) | DDC 823/.92—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021012446

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021012447

  First Edition: October 2021

  Cover design by Sarah Oberrender

  Cover image by Sandro Fabris / Getty Images

  Adapted for ebook by Cora Wigen

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_5.8.0_c0_r0

  For Amy Hyndman (d. 1662),

  and all witches,

  past,

  future,

  and present

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Praise for The Nesting

  Also by C. J. Cooke

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Liv, 1998

  Sapphire, 1998

  Luna, 2021

  Liv, 1998

  Luna, 2021

  Liv, 1998

  Luna, 2021

  Sapphire, 1998

  Liv, 1998

  Luna, 2021

  Sapphire, 1998

  Liv, 1998

  Luna, 2021

  Sapphire, 1998

  Liv, 1998

  Luna, 2021

  Liv, 1998

  Sapphire, 1998

  Luna, 2021

  Liv, 1998

  Luna, 2021

  Liv, 1998

  Sapphire, 1998

  Luna, 2021

  Liv, 1998

  Liv, 1998

  Luna, 2021

  Sapphire, 2021

  Liv, 2021

  Luna, Now

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Readers Guide

  About the Author

  A sad tale’s best for winter: I have one of sprites and goblins.

  —William Shakespeare, The Winter’s Tale

  Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities.

  —Voltaire

  They bind our feet and ankles, tear off our clothes, and douse us with alcohol. Amy’s crying and shaking like a new lamb, and I want to reach out to her but Stevens’ knife is held to my throat, his face so close I can smell his disgusting breath. He uncurls his fingers to show me the stones before shoving them one by one into my mouth, breaking my teeth. I gag on blood and broken molars.

  They start to cut off Amy’s hair, hacking off her silky black locks so close to the skin that aortic blood oozes darkly from her pale scalp. With a terrific lunge, Stevens plunges his knife deep into my chest, scraping my collarbone, the shock of it causing my knees to buckle. I cannot breathe, nor speak. Amy lets out a long cry, like a wounded animal.

  Already I can smell the fire. I do not fear it.

  Wait for me, Amy. Wait.

  LIV, 1998

  LÒN HAVEN

  THE BLACK ISLE, SCOTLAND

  I

  The lighthouse was called the Longing. Pitched amidst tessellations of rock black as coal, thrashed for over a hundred years by disconsolate squalls, it needled upward, spine-straight, a white bolt locking earth, sky, and ocean together. It was lovely in its decrepitude, feathery paint gna
wed off by north winds and rust-blazed window frames signatures of use and purpose. I always thought lighthouses were beautiful symbols, but this one was more than that—it was hauntingly familiar.

  Night was drawing in and we hadn’t yet met the owner. We’d driven hundreds of miles over mountains, through sleepy villages and winding roads, usually behind herds of cattle. We had taken a ferry, and got lost four times, on account of using an outdated, coffee-stained A-Z road map with several pages missing.

  I parked up behind an old Range Rover. “We’re here,” I told the girls, who had fallen asleep against one another in the back. I wrapped my raincoat around Clover—she was wearing only a swimsuit over a pair of jeans—and lifted her up to walk a little way along the rocky beach daubed with spiky patches of marram and tough white flowers.

  The four of us scanned the bay. It was a raw scene: a full moon hiding behind purple cloud, ocean thrashing against black cliffs. Gulls wheeling and shrieking above us. Trees stood like pitchforks, flayed by the wind. They hemmed the island, watching.

  II

  The lighthouse keeper’s bothy was a squat stone dwelling built close to the lighthouse. Smoke plumed from the chimney, pressing the earthy smell of peat into our noses. A woman stepped out to greet us. “Olivia?” she said.

  “Hi,” I said. “Sorry I’m earlier than expected . . .”

  “No trouble at all. Come on in out of the cold.”

  We found ourselves in a cramped hallway, where someone had pinned a shark’s jawbone to the inner wall. Luna reached out to touch one of the teeth and I tugged her back.

  Saffy nodded at it. “Is that from a great white?”

  “Porbeagle shark,” the woman—Isla—said with a tilt of her chin. “We don’t get great whites. Porbeagles are just as big, mind, and every bit as dangerous.”

  “I don’t like sharks, Mummy,” Clover whispered.

  “We have a basking shark that tends to hang around the bay,” Isla said. She glanced down at Luna, who threw me a panicked look. “You’ll be fine with a basking shark. No teeth, you see. Basil, he’s called.”

  “Is this where we’ll be staying?” Saffy asked warily, eyeing the shark jaw.

  “It is indeed,” Isla said. She turned to the girls. “I’m Isla Kissick, and it’s absolutely thrilling to meet all of you. But I’m afraid I only know your mummy’s name. Why don’t you tell me your names?”

  “I’m Luna,” Luna said. “I’m nine.”

  “Luna,” Isla said. “What a lovely name.”

  “It means ‘moon,’ ” Luna said, a little shy.

  “Mine’s Clover,” Clover said, elbowing Luna out of the way. “I’m seven and a half and my name means clover, like the plant.”

  “Also a lovely name,” Isla said. “And I bet you already know that clovers are meant to bring good luck?”

  Clover nodded. “Mm-hmm. But my mummy said you make your own luck.”

  “Very wise,” Isla said, glancing at me approvingly. She turned to Saffy, who flushed red.

  “And who might this lovely one be?” Isla said.

  “Sapphire,” Saffy mumbled to the floor. “I’m fifteen.”

  “Well now, that’s lovely,” Isla said. “My daughter, Rowan, is fifteen. I’m sure you’ll meet soon enough. Now, come and sit down. I’ve made you all some supper.”

  I nodded at the girls to leave their bin bags in the hall before following Isla to a kitchen at the back, where the smell of freshly baked bread and tomato soup made my mouth water.

  I’d supposed that Isla was Mr. Roberts’ partner, but she turned out to be his housekeeper. She was short and lithe with long copper hair neatly pinned up, and her quick, round eyes searched all of us up and down. She had a beautiful Scottish brogue and spoke fast, as though the words were too hot to hold in her mouth for long. She was smartly turned out—a crisp white shirt, gray check trousers, polished ankle boots. The bothy was incongruously old-fashioned. I would learn that Lòn Haven, its inhabitants included, was full of skewed time spheres. The absence of modern retail chains and its breathtakingly rugged landscapes made the place feel like you’d stepped back in time, perhaps to the very beginnings of the earth. The lighthouse itself was built upon an ancient Scottish broch that was built upon a Neolithic fort, which in turn was built upon late Jurassic rock, like an architectural babushka doll.

  III

  “There you go,” Isla said, placing bowls of steaming hot soup before each of us. I apologized again for the mix-up about our arrival. I’d planned to begin the commission a few weeks from now but decided to head north on the spur of the moment. Or the middle of the night, to be exact. We’d driven the whole way from York to Cromarty, only to find that the ferry was canceled for the day on account of high winds. The girls and I had to endure a very cold and uncomfortable night at a rest stop, sleeping in the car.

  “It’s no trouble,” Isla said. “Mr. Roberts is away, of course, but I’m to take care of everything until he returns.”

  “Are we sleeping in the car again?” Clover said, wiping her mouth on the back of her sleeve.

  “In the car?” Isla repeated, looking to me for explanation.

  “I’m sure there are plenty of beds for all of us,” I said quickly, and this time I was the one to look to Isla for confirmation. I didn’t want to mention that we’d had to sleep rough.

  “Of course there are,” she said. “Shall I give you the grand tour?”

  The bothy was small but efficiently organized. A door at the rear of the kitchen led to a scullery with a washing machine and loo. Three bedrooms provided ample sleeping space with freshly made-up beds, and there was a bathroom with a shower cubicle.

  We followed Isla to the living room at the front of the house, overlooking the garden.

  “Now, you’ll have noticed it’s a bit chilly on the island. So you’re not to worry if you need to turn the heater on.” She nodded at the wood-burning stove. “You’ll find a shed at the side of the bothy stocked with wood. And I’ve put plenty of blankets in the cupboards for you to get cozy in the evenings. Which reminds me. Sometimes the electricity goes off. Nothing to worry about. You know how to manage an oil lantern?”

  I followed her gaze to an old-fashioned oil lamp in the windowsill, which I’d assumed was for decoration. I caught Isla rolling her eyes as it became clear that no, I didn’t know how to manage an oil lantern.

  “I’ll be sure to leave instructions,” she said with a tight smile.

  “Does Mr. Roberts live here?” Saffy asked.

  “This is one of his properties,” Isla said. “But no, he doesn’t live here. His main residence is north of here, twenty minutes or so by car.”

  “Will you tell him I’ve arrived?” I asked.

  “Well, I’d love to,” Isla said brusquely, “but he’s at sea just now.”

  “At sea?”

  “Aye, for all he has a half dozen houses dotted about the place, he prefers to be out on his boat.”

  “I have a boat,” Clover offered.

  Isla lifted an eyebrow. “Do ye, now?”

  “It’s green with a purple chimney and I play with it in the bath.”

  “Well, Mr. Roberts’ boat is a wee bit bigger than that, I’d wager,” Isla said, chuckling. “He tends to sail to Shetland at this time of year.”

  “He’s a pirate, then?” Clover said, astonished.

  Isla bent down to Clover’s eye level. “No. But I reckon he’d be a good ’un.”

  “Do you come from Shetland?” Clover asked, running her fingertips along the stubbly wood-chip wallpaper. Wood chip was her favorite texture.

  “No,” Isla said. “I come from Lòn Haven. Where d’you come from?”

  “My mummy’s vagina,” Clover said.

  I watched Isla’s face drop. “Girls, go have a look at your bedrooms,” I said, ushering Clover quickly away.
“Do you know when I’m to discuss the commission with Mr. Roberts?”

  “He said to give you this.” Isla reached into her trouser pocket and pulled out a piece of folded paper. I opened it up to find an elaborate and highly abstract sketch, a diagram of sorts. Lots of lines and arrows and circles, like a zodiac.

  “What is it?” I said, turning the page to the side. There was no indication which way the sketch was meant to be viewed.

  “It’s the mural,” Isla said flatly. “The thing you’re painting inside the Longing.”

  I stared at her, wondering if I’d misheard. “This? This is the mural?”

  She cocked her head. “Is something the matter?”

  “No, no . . .” I said, though I didn’t sound convincing, not even to my own ears. “I suppose I thought there might be more to it than this. Written instructions, perhaps.”

  “That’s all Mr. Roberts has given me. He said I’m to fetch whatever equipment you need to do the job. So perhaps you can write me a list of whatever you require and I’ll get onto it in the morning.”

  Still dumbfounded by the sketch, I said I would, but that I’d need to see inside the Longing first.

  “Ah, now that would be an idea,” she said, straightening a lampshade. “How about I show you just now?”

  Outside, harsh winds buffeted us on the rocks, and I saw movement on the far reaches of the island. Seals, Isla told us. I was astonished at how close they were to the bothy, but she told me they were shy creatures, despite their size. They’d not bother us. I watched them slip off the stones into the black water, their shape in the dark almost human.

  The lighthouse stood twenty feet away from the bothy toward the far end of the island. We all pushed against the wind toward the heavy metal door at the base. I could make out an object wrapped around the handle. A tree branch. I made to pull it off, thinking it had been blown on there by the wind and become stuck. Isla stopped me.

  “Rowan wood,” she said. “It’s for protection.”

  I had no idea what she meant, but I stepped back as she tried to leverage the door open. Finally, it shifted. I lifted Clover onto my hip and held Luna’s hand tight as we followed Isla inside.