When I was a sophomore at Princeton High School in northern Greater Cincinnati in 1964, my English teacher, Ms. Sally Morrison, assigned each student to choose a book to read and present to the class as an oral book report. The only requirement was that the book be a novel. As a class, we had already read several books, none of which appealed to me to the point of great expectation or excitement. The boring high-society tales of Henry James and Jane Austen had nothing for me. I was stimulated, however, by Herman Melville's Moby Dick, Bram Stoker's Dracula, Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, Charlotte Bronte's Wuthering Heights, and H. G. Wells's The Time Machine. I chose for my book report a paperback novel entitled The Invasion of the Body Snatchers, a science fiction tale about alien creatures who come to Earth disguised as giant pods and steal the identities of Earthlings. Ms. Morrison gave me an astonished look when I submitted my choice, but since my selection met the novel requirement, she approved it. I am proud to say that my performance drew my classmates' very focused attention. Even Ms. Morrison liked it, accepting that I was simply a boy whom God had made differently. I have always loved stories of adventure, action, and intrigue salted with a dash of horror. Lighthouse is such a tale with an ending that will shock you. It is definitely a book for late at night, or perhaps the beach. Beware, my dear reader, but realize that it is only a story, a work of fiction. Or is it? Could it really happen? Moo-oo ah! Ah! Ah!