Chapter 9: The Gathering on the Cliff

Out of the swirling fog that filled the roofless aisle of the Abbey, shapes began to materialize.

They did not walk; they drifted across the turf, their heavy, sea-soaked garments clinging to gaunt, waterlogged frames. Their faces were the gray, sunken visages of men who had spent twenty years in the dark depths off Ravenscar Reef. Seaweed hung from their shoulders like rotting tresses, and their hollow eye sockets flickered with a dull, phosphorescent silver light—the same light emitted by the chemical emulsion on Arthur’s glass plates.

At the head of the specters stood Captain Jonas Vance. His jaw was slack, filled with gray silt, but his arms were extended toward the altar, his fingers hooked like iron talons.

"They aren't looking for the Custodian," Arthur said, backing up against the altar stone until his spine hit the cold masonry. "They're looking for the camera. The silver is the only thing that holds them in this world."

"Arthur," Caleb growled, stepping in front of the young photographer and pulling a heavy brass horse-pistol from his belt. "Get behind me."

Caleb cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger. The gunshot shattered the silence of the ruins, a blinding flash of orange fire lighting up the gothic arches. The lead ball passed straight through Captain Vance's chest, tearing through the waterlogged wool of his coat without slowing his advance. The smoke from the black powder was instantly swallowed by the cold, stagnant stench of the sea.

The specters closed in, forming a tight ring around the altar steps. The air grew so cold that Arthur’s fingers went completely numb, his breath turning to frost on his collar.

The iron anchor chain stretched out from the fog behind them, vibrating with a high-pitched, metallic whine. It was wrapped around the central pillar of the Abbey nave, using the ancient masonry as a cleat to haul the phantom schooner closer to the cliff face below. The stone pillar groaned under the immense strain, long cracks spidering up the gothic stonework toward the sky.

"The whole cliff is going to give way," Caleb shouted over the grinding of the stone. "If that chain pulls any harder, the East Cliff drops into the harbor!"

Arthur looked down at his satchel. Inside were the three remaining unexposed glass plates and the small tin of magnesium flash powder used for indoor portraits.

"The light," Arthur said, his mind racing. "The long exposure drew them in because the silver caught their reflection over time. If I flood the emulsion with a blinding flash—a full exposure in a fraction of a second—it'll saturate the silver completely."

"And what happens to them?" Caleb asked, holding off a dripping specter with his iron lantern.

"It seals the image," Arthur said, scrambling to mount his camera onto the tripod. "It locks the exposure forever. But I need them to stand still long enough to focus the lens."