“You’ll be responsible for basic upkeep for two weeks–nothing complicated, mostly buttoning the lighthouse down for winter. The list of chores and instructions is in the kitchen.”

That suited me just fine; I’d volunteered to live and work at the old decommissioned Iron Point Light to be free from distractions, after all, to unplug and disconnect and do a digital purge. “What about tourists?” I asked.

“It’s past the end of the tourist season, so you likely won’t get anyone coming by. But if they do, you’re to show them around, take them out to the rockpiles, and try to solicit a donation or sell them a t-shirt.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “The rockpiles?”

“You’ve never heard of ’em? They’re the biggest draw for the Iron Point Light aside from the lighthouse itself.” Oscar rubbed at his nose. “You can see them from here.”

I looked through one of the front windows. The gentle sandy slope to the beach was full of small shrubs and gently bent grass, but at various points in the water and on the beach there were standing piles of lake-smoothed rocks.

“Do the tourists make those?” I said.

“What does this look like, Mission Point?” Oscar scoffed. “We don’t get enough tourists for that, and the water’s ice cold. No, the piles are one of the mysteries of the lake. they just appear and disappear as they will.”

“Has…anyone ever tried to investigate it?” I said eagerly.

Oscar fixed me with a harsh glare. “That’s a hole you don’t want to be going down, kid. Best stick to your duties.”

I knew at that moment what I’d be spending my two weeks doing: shedding a little light on that very mystery.

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