The flashing smile of a lighthouse flickers across tar-black water. Every 10 seconds it blinks, each spark illuminating a window in a house where a woman seems to pace. Her feet never quite touch the floor.

They call her Rue, a name pulled from a Ouija board by a group of Lane Community College students decades ago. She’s the resident ghost at Heceta Head Lighthouse, completed in 1894 and among the most picturesque on the Oregon Coast. Believed to be the wife of a former lighthouse keeper, Rue suffers from a broken heart; it’s said her daughter drowned and is buried here. She inhabits what was once the assistant keepers’ house, where she means no ill intent as she floats down halls, raps on walls, and misplaces guests’ belongings. (For what it’s worth, the lighthouse’s volunteer historian has found no one with a similar name, though she’s heard her share of stories.)

Today, the old quarters are a cozy bed-and-breakfast with six rooms that range from quaint to stately. The inn offers a daily wine and cheese social, a seven-course breakfast, and, as recorded in the guest book, spectral brushes with Rue.

I have a strong fear of ghosts. As a child, I’d wake and feel like someone was watching me. In college, I dreamt a fortune teller said a ghost was following me. But my love of lighthouses is greater; in 2022 I even got married at one. So, with a stomach full of bats and butterflies, I decided to book a room.

On a gray and somewhat gloomy day, my husband and I pulled up to the Queen Anne–style house near Florence. Its red roof, manicured lawn, and white picket fence recalled Norman Rockwell, but inside was all turn-of-the-twentieth-century coastal melancholy. Black-and-white photos showed former lighthouse keepers, expressionless. In another shot, a little girl stood next to her doll, scowling at something beyond the camera. A lighthouse keeper’s coat and cap hung in one corner, while an upright piano sat in another. Sundry artifacts—a ceramic bacon platter, a World War II dog handler’s patch, a stone cat sitting sentry by a fireplace—caught my eye.

Rob, the housekeeper, greeted us and showed us to our snug Cape Cove room, just big enough for a quilt-covered queen bed, antique dresser, and chair. (Down the hall was a shared bathroom with a porcelain clawfoot tub providing views of the historic Cape Creek Bridge.) “This room has the only access to the attic,” Rob said with a wink.

The attic, I knew, is where the paranormal party happens. Rue is well-known to enjoy rearranging furniture up there. In 1975, a worker cleaning an attic window claims to have met her; he fled and didn’t return for several days, refusing to reenter the top story. I flipped open the guest book in our room and read one entry describing Rue appearing in the chair and another about a strange tapping on the walls. Spooked, I had my husband cover the bedroom mirror.

After wine and cheese hour, we swaddled in blankets on the charming wraparound porch and watched waves break on the nearby cliffs. We cooked dinner in the guest kitchen, and, as night fell, took a walk to the lighthouse itself. During the day, anyone can follow the half-mile paved trail to admire the 56-foot-tall tower and its massive Fresnel lens. At night, it’s a unique treat for lodgers. Standing in the darkness and sleet, the solitude sunk in, and as the beam sliced through fog, the wind whispered that it would be safer inside.

The bed was dreamy, but I still woke—was that broken glass scraping across the floor, broom bristles scratching? I welcomed the morning, when we gathered with other guests around a long dining table. The

menu for the seven-course breakfast changes seasonally, with efforts to source ingredients from the area; we ate crab cakes with herbs from the onsite garden, pumpkin bread, quiche, sausage, and whipped cream–topped fruit.

We also swapped Rue reports. The young woman staying next to us said she’d heard furniture moving. An older man mentioned the bang of a door downstairs. His wife said she’d had to take a Tylenol PM and was ready to leave.

As we packed our bags in our room, the bathroom lights started to strobe. My dubious husband blamed old wiring. I’m not so sure.