The lighthouse at Willowbrook Cove had been standing for over a hundred years, which meant two things: it was sturdy, and everyone trusted it. That’s why people noticed right away when it started to lean.

Not much.

Just enough.

I stood at the edge of the overlook, hands in my overall pockets, staring up at the tower as gulls wheeled overhead. The white-and-red bands spiraled upward as usual, but something about the angle felt… off.

The lighthouse wasn’t collapsing.

It was tilting.

That doesn’t just happen.

A small crowd had gathered near the railing. Phones were out. Voices buzzed with theories.

“Storm damage.”

“Erosion.”

“My cousin says this happened in Maine once.”

I kept quiet and looked closer.

The base of the lighthouse sat on a wide concrete platform, solid and weathered. Cracks traced the surface like faint spiderwebs — old ones, not fresh. The ground beneath it looked undisturbed.

No buckling.

No sinkholes.

No mud.

Interesting.

I circled the base slowly, eyes scanning the details most people skipped.

That’s when I noticed it — a thin metal plate bolted near one side of the foundation. One corner had slipped loose.

Just enough to matter.

I crouched and pressed my palm against the concrete.

Cool.

Dry.

Stable.

“This isn’t erosion,” I murmured.

I pulled out my notebook.

Clue #1: Lighthouse foundation intact

Clue #2: One loosened base plate

If the ground wasn’t shifting, something else had to be. I followed the curve of the foundation until I reached the maintenance access panel. The lock hung open, swinging slightly in the breeze. Inside, a stack of wooden shims lay scattered across the floor. They were supposed to be wedged tightly beneath the platform.

Supposed to be.

Footsteps crunched behind me.

“Oh — good, you’re here,” said Mr. Bellamy, the historical society caretaker. “Everyone’s in a panic. We’re worried the whole thing might topple.”

“It won’t,” I said.

He blinked. “You sound sure.”

I held up one of the wooden shims. “These were removed.”

His face fell. “Removed?”

“Carefully,” I added. “Not by accident.”

We walked back toward the base together. That’s when I noticed a trail of pale sawdust leading away from the lighthouse and toward the parking lot.

Thin.

Deliberate.

Fresh.

It led straight to a maintenance cart parked near the visitor center.

Inside the cart sat a toolbox — and a receipt clipped to the handle.

Emergency structural repair consultation — CASH

I raised an eyebrow.

Bold.

Mr. Bellamy sighed. “That’s… not an official service.”

“No,” I said. “It’s someone creating a problem so they could charge to ‘fix’ it.”                                            

We followed the sawdust trail back to the lighthouse, where a man was already kneeling near the base, hammer in hand.

“Oh! You’re early,” he said, freezing mid-swing.

“Early for what?” I asked.

He glanced at the cart. Then at the lighthouse.

Then at the shims in my hand.

“Routine maintenance?” he offered weakly.

I shook my head. “You removed the supports so the lighthouse would tilt -just enough to scare people. Then you charged for emergency repairs.”

The man’s shoulders slumped.

“I didn’t think anyone would notice,” he muttered.

I looked up at the towering beacon above us.

Someone always notices.

 

Piper’s Perceptive Points: The lopsided Lighthouse:

In Willowbrook, everyone thought the lighthouse was just getting tired and leaning over for a nap. I knew better.

 

The Ground Work: The dirt under that tower was solid Maine granite. It wasn’t sinking. It wasn’t sliding. It was staying put.

 

The Foundation: No cracks. No leaks. If the earth wasn’t moving, something else had to be.

 

The Smoking... Wood?: The missing wooden shims were the real stars of this show. By pulling them out, our "repairman" didn't just tilt a lighthouse—he tilted the whole town’s bank account. He created a problem just so he could get paid to fix it.

 

The Lowdown: No storm, no ghosts, just a guy with a crowbar and a bad plan.

And today, the P stands for Perceptive.

“Thanks for stopping by the shore.”