section7mfu | "The Maid in the Mist"~ for the PicFic Tuesday Challenge January 14th

It was the storm from hell, blowing in off the Atlantic with all the ferocity of a massive and violent N’or Easter.

Two men struggled against the howling winds as driving, near horizontal rain lashed against them. After abandoning their car in the remains of a leaky barn, they sought refuge at a nearby lighthouse; its beacon sending out a warning of the treacherously shallow shoals that could easily ground any passing ships caught unawares.

It was their lucky day, finding the steel door unlocked and unguarded as they took shelter inside the lighthouse. Closing the door behind them with a loud bang; they immediately drew their guns from beneath their drenched coats, preparing themselves for anything.

Looking at the spiral staircase leading up to the top of the lighthouse, Illya Kuryakin volunteered to make the climb to check it. His partner Napoleon Solo, headed to one of the rooms off to the side, guessing what he presumed were the keepers quarters.

He opened the heavy wooden door with care, finding no one, in what at first glance appeared to be a sitting room with a kitchen. His search of the next room revealed a small unoccupied bedroom. Surprisingly, given the intensity of the storm outside, there was no one here from what he could see.

One would think there’d be a lighthouse keeper to maintain the beacon to warn the ships at sea. Yet it seemed as though the place had been unoccupied for a while, as Napoleon ran his finger along the furniture, finding a light layer of dust there.

A few minutes later his partner appeared. “No one above. It seems the light is on automatic as there is a timer mechanism for the beacon.”

“Looks like we’ve got the place to ourselves chum. There’s potbelly stoves in the main room and bedroom, lets get some heat going and get out of these wet clothes before we catch our death of cold.”

After a quick search of the bedroom, Illya returned with two pair of trousers, socks, and heavy cableknit sweaters. The clothing was a little large even for Napoleon, and swimming on the Russian but they were better than sitting around half naked wrapped in blankets.

“Did you check them for fleas?” Napoleon crinkled his nose.

“Bednyakam ne prikhoditsya vybirat'_the poor do not choose,” Illya said as he dropped his blanket, quickly putting on the clothing. “They are fine, just put them on or freeze your...well you know.”

Napoleon put on the clothing, rubbing his arms to generate some warmth and in no time he had the fire burning in the sitting room stove with a tea kettle warming on it’s top. He scratched a few time, imagining there were some ‘visitors’ in the clothing, but finally dismissed the idea when he was finally warm.

He opened his communicator deciding it was time to report their situation to Waverly, but to his surprise there was only static on the channel; he looked to his partner with a shrug. Illya tried his, with the same result.

“I suspect atmospheric conditions are to blame. This storm, no doubt, is probably wreaking havoc with all sorts of electronic signals.”

“I suppose we should make ourselves comfortable then...plenty of food in the pantry chum. Mostly canned soup, but there’s saltines, a jar of peanut butter, strawberry jam, some dried fruit and lots of tea, as well as a jar with some beef jerky and oh, there’s even something for dessert. He handed the Russian a mug of hot water with a tea bag and a Hershey bar.

Illya snickered,”That will do for now, I suppose, as I will repeat again... poor cannot be choosers" Hershey’s were not his favorite as he’d developed a taste for Cadbury’s after living in England for three years.

“Snob,” Napoleon. “And that’s beggars can’t be choosers.”

Kuryakin smiled. “And proud of it, and in my country the saying translates as poor cannot be choosers.”

Not waiting, Illya opened the chocolate bar and bit into it with satisfaction. He banged around in one of the cabinets, coming up with an aluminum cooking pot and after opening several cans of beef barley soup, he emptied the contents into the pot and placed it on top of the stove.

Napoleon found some bowls and spoons, setting them on the coarse wooden table. Crackers with peanut butter and jam… tea and the steaming hot soup were a veritable feast; hitting the spot as they could hear the waves crashing against the lighthouse walls while the winds howled around them.

The American leaned back in his chair after finishing his food; stretching his arms behind his head with a moan. “Okay chum, I’ll take first watch. You go catch some shuteye in that bed.”

Illya was nibbling on a piece of the jerky.” Napoleon, the only door to this place has a heavy dead bold and security bar. Given the severity of this storm, I seriously doubt we will be having any company. We were not followed here, and for once I feel we are safe. However, that being said, we will see what the morning brings.”

Illya checked to make sure the door was secured and followed his partner; the two carried firewood to the stove in the bedroom. In no time things were toasty. Their wet clothes were hug up to dry on a length of rope Napoleon had strung up across the room and leaving on their new-found clothing; they climbed into the bed, pulling a heavy quilt over them.

It was really meant for one person, but it wasn’t the first time the partners had to share tight sleeping quarters, nor would it be the last. Better squeezing together in the bed with more body heat than one of them trying to sleep on the hard, chilly floor. Though there were numerous throw rugs there, they did little against the cold of the concrete.

“Remember tovarisch, no hogging the blanket or the bed,”Solo warned, but Illya was already asleep.”I hate when you do that.”

When Napoleon was settled in against his pillow, the Russians eyes popped open, snickering to himself before he closed them again, letting himself quickly drift off into an exhausted sleep.

The American woke up in the middle of the night, shivering as the fire had died down, and of course his partner had pulled away the blanket.

He listened as Illya snored lightly and finally crawled from the warmth of the bed to throw more wood in the stove and stoke the flames. He found a small throw blanket, and draping that over his shoulders, he decided to climb upstairs to take a looksee outside.

As he climbed the spiral staircase, he had the oddest feeling he was being watched, and several times he turned with his gun in hand, looking to see if someone was following him. “Illya? You’re not trying to play a joke on me are you tovarisch?” The only sound he heard was the moan of the wind.

When he reached the top, the glass panes were all iced over and after scraping away a spot, Napoleon peeked out into the night sky...seeing snowflakes reflected in the beam of light from the lamp and lenses that flashed every fifteen seconds or so.

It seemed like it was flashing when in fact the light was on a spinning table. As it spun to the back of the lighthouse, it looked as it it had shut off but as it spun to the front, ships could see the beam of light again. When the light was visible again, Napoleon could see it was snowing heavily.

"Damn..." he muttered. They could be stuck in this place for an indeterminate length of time. There was a sudden flash of light outside, followed by a loud thunderclap, making him jump unexpectedly. He'd heard of thundersnow, but never experienced it before.

Napoleon peered at his reflection in the glass, and was startled for a second as it wasn’t his face but the image of a woman...at least that’s what he thought. He looked again, wiping the glass with his hand convincing himself it was his imagination, or maybe what they’d eaten for dinner. He tapped his fist against his chest, belching with the taste of peanut butter repeating on him.

There was a thud, and Solo turned instinctively holding out his firerarm, though a second later he presumed it was his partner since the lighthouse was locked up tighter than a tomb. That thought suddenly made him shiver.

“Illya knock it off. I know it’s you.” He leaned over, looking down the staircase, again seeing nothing.

Napoleon made is way back, feeling a terribly cold draft and when he arrived at the bottom floor, he found the door wide open with the wind blasting the snow inside.

He instantly went on alert, raising his gun as he spotted footprints in the snow on the floor. Strangely they were small, not shoe prints but bare feet, too small to be the Russians.

Solo quietly closed the door, not understanding what was going on. Illya wouldn’t have let someone in much less have left the door wide open, and there as no way anyone on the outside could have moved the security bar on the inside, even if they had a key to the lock.

The bar had been attacged well past the the door jam with iron brackets on either side, holding the flat steel bar that slid in place from bracket to bracket. There was nothing that would have fit trough the door to lift it...it was impossible.

Silently following the wet footprints into the bedroom to make sure Illya was there and all right; Napoleon saw something he did not expect at all...a THRUSH goon, a madman with a gun perhaps, but not the figure of a woman standing in a green ethereal mist. She was dressed in what might have been white, with long pale hair. Her skin glistened as though it were covered in ice. She was leaning over Illya, reaching for his head when the American spoke his warning.

“No you don’t sister, that’s as close as you get.” He raised his gun, ready to shoot her with a sleep dart, and without warning, she disappeared.

The woman was simply gone.

Solo rubbed his eyes with his free hand, not believing what he’d just seen. “What the fu..Illya wake up!” He called, his voice filled with confusion.

“Waaaa?” The Russian sat bolt upright, his gun in his hand.

“We have company tovarisch...at least I think we do.”

Kuryakin threw back the covers and was on his feet instantly.

“T.H.R.U.S.H.? How?”

‘I don’t know exactly.” Napoleon ran his fingers through his hair, trying to process what had just happened.

“What do you mean you do not know?”

Solo repeated the scene to his partner as it had unfolded, not leaving out any details.

“Perhaps you were sleep walking,” Illya suggested. “We are both very tired.”

“I don’t think so. Come with me,” Napoleon gestured with his index finger, making Illya follow him out to the door.

“If I were dreaming chum, then how did that snow get in here and those footprints…” He looked at his partner, but not at the floor.

“Napoleon, are you sure you did not find a bottle of scotch here somewhere? I see nothing but a little dampness on the concrete, most likely condensation from the difference in temperature between inside and out. Look at the walls, as heavy as they are, they are sweating.”

“No, no way. I know what I saw….what I felt.” The look of annoyance on the American’s face told the Russian he wasn’t kidding.

“All right my friend. We search.”

Together the partners walked the rooms and back up the stairs. Nothing, they found nothing at all.

They returned to the kitchen; Illlya putting on the kettle for tea.

“You had to have been dreaming my friend...or perhaps you are coming down with a cold.” Illya reached over, placing a cool hand on his partners forehead. “No sign of a fever.”

Napoleon brushed his hand away. “I feel fine and I know what I saw.”

They sat in silence, drinking their mugs of tea before deciding to head back to bed, as they opened the heavy sitting room door, they both received a surprise.

The main door to the lighthouse was again open, with the wind sending gusts of snow inside. Solo placed a finger to his lips, silently pointing out the small foot prints in the snow on the floor. He gestured for Illya to follow him towards the bedroom.

They peered around the door post, both spying the glistening figure of the woman. She was standing beside the bed reaching out with one hand, as she had done with Illya. The two men swore they heard weeping. Seconds later, just as mysteriously as before, she simply wasn’t there.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m not sleeping in here,” Napoleon said, grabbing their clothes from the line along with the quilt and pillows.

They closed the main door, making sure the security bar was in place, and headed to the sitting room. There they pushed two arm chairs together, and draped the quilt over themselves, trying to sleep again.

They had little luck, and at six in the morning Napoleon rose wearily, making another a pot of tea, and preparing some chicken noodle soup for their breakfast.

They ate in silence, letting the hot soup and tea warm their bellies; neither of them wanting to step outside the sitting room to see if the door was open again. They changed to their own clothing, but keeping the sweaters over their suit jackets. They donned their coats, preparing to take a look outside as it sounded as though the wind had finally died down, and the storm had passed.

“Perhaps we can get a signal on our communicators outside the heavy walls of the lighthouse,”Illya suggested.

Napoleon opened the door, peeking around it and much to his relief the main door was shut tight. Together they opened it and found the strand and everything surrounding and including the lighthouse blanketed in ice, with treacherous icicles hanging everywhere. It had been so cold and windy that even the spray from the water had frozen. Walking across it would be nearly impossible.

Kazhetsya ad zamerz_ hell has frozen over,” Illya wise cracked, then snapped his fingers. “Wait...I saw something inside we can use to navigate across the ice.” Illya headed into the bedroom, looking around cautiously for company, and returned with two pair of ice fishing cleats.

“Good find, partner,”Napoleon smiled as the two of them strapped the metal spikes to their shoes.

It was treacherous going as they made their way across the ice-covered ground, and at last reaching their car; they found it still safely hidden in the dilapidated barn. It was clear enough for them to drive it slowly down the snow covered road. The winds somehow kept the roadway surprisingly clear, drifting the snow off to the side. Luckily the ice was closer to the water and not inland, allowing them safe passage away from the eerie light house.

Forty-five minutes later they pulled into a small New England town, parking in front of a mom and pop restaurant called ‘The Cape Codder.’ The locals were there, enjoying some hot coffee and breakfast while taking a break from shoveling the sidewalks. A pickup truck with a plow attached to its front was parked outside as well.

Napoleon and Illya made their way inside, and after hanging up their coats, a waitress seated them at a booth.

“How’d you fellas make it hee-yah inta town?”She eyed their baggy fisherman’s sweaters.” Main road t’ain’t been cleared yet,” she asked, flipping the page on her order book. “Coffee?”

“Umm, yes coffee would be fine,” Napoleon smiled, seeing Illya looking over the menu. “I think we’ll have two orders of scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns and toast please. And to answer your question, we took shelter overnight in the lighthouse out by the water.”

“You’re jokin’ right?” The waitress looked incredulously at both men.”You he-yah that Ted?” She called to the cook.” These fellas say they stayed they-ah at the lighthouse.”

“No kidding?”

“Why is that a such a big deal?” Napoleon asked.

“Well, most folks avoid it...even the keep-ahs only go the-yah once a month and just during the day to check up on the place.”

“And why is that?” Illya asked, taking a sip of his coffee as soon as the waitress had poured it.

“Because of the haint.”

“Haint?”Illya repeated, unfamiliar with the word.

“That means ghost,” Napoleon whispered out of the side of his mouth.

“So did ya see-ah? The haint that is?” Ted asked.

“We saw something, a woman in white bathed in a green mist.”

“Ah, that’s the maid of the mist. She only appears when the-ahs a big storm.”

“Why’s that?” Solo asked.

“She’s searching for her lost love. Story goes, the light keep-ah was washed out to sea and drowned. It’s said she found his body and brought him back to the lighthouse. She hovers over his bed...and that’s whe-ah she died of a broken haart.”

“Interesting,” Illya shrugged. “And she only appears when a storm arrives?”

“Not just any storm young fellah, a doozie of a N’or East-ah like we had last night.”

No further discussion of the maid of the mist was made; the agents fisnished their breakfast with Illya having seconds when offerered.

Once it was announced the main road was clear they headed off with the intention of returning to New York still carrying the files they had stolen from T.H.R.U.S.H.

“So what do you think of the ghost story tovarisch?” Napoleon finally asked his partner, who was in the driver’s seat, navigating the snowy roads.

“We have had run-ins with such things that are inexplicable, but still I remain the skeptic. Hard facts are what speak to me, not stories about that which goes bump in the night.”

“Really? Okay chum, so next time we run into a ghostly apparition I’ll stop and ask them to sit and have a chat with you to explain their umm, ectoplasmic condition.”

“Would you?”Illya cracked a smile,”That would be most enlightening.”

Napoleon shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, giving the Russian ‘that’ look...

"The Maid in the Mist"~ for the PicFic Tuesday Challenge January 14th

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