Wolfhowl Mountain

by Dian Cronan

  Wolfhowl Mountain

  Written By Dian Cronan

  For D. K. W. – thank you for everything;

  For my ever-loving and supportive family and friends – you made this dream possible;

  And of course, for all you readers out there – thanks for stopping by.

  PART ONE

  Prologue

  1851: How the Blight Came Upon Port Braseham

  As he tried to remember how that quiet, wistful tune went, Eamonn Callaghan’s mind wandered to sweet Alva. He had been so hard on her these last several months. He pictured her in his mind, standing limply, her petite body slouched around her swollen belly and her thin arms hanging at her sides. She stared at the floor, dark thoughts swirling in her eyes. So much had changed in such a short time. So much... Eamonn watched her heart break in her eyes each time he raised his voice toward her, each time he stomped angrily from the room. He didn’t mean it, but didn’t she know? Couldn’t she see? It was all for her, for the baby.

  But no, Alva did not understand. How could she? Eamonn had kept so many things from her that she could never understand the truth. But he had only wanted to protect her and the baby. Alva had become so delicate and he didn’t want anything to jeopardize her health with the baby coming. He didn’t want Alva to worry. And there was certainly no shortage of worries.

  The strange storm that whipped the coast early last summer destroyed everything they had worked for. Eamonn couldn’t pay his workers on the trawler or on their land because there had been no fish and no crops since the storm. He couldn’t afford to repair the damaged and unfinished east wing of the house, and Alva had wanted so badly for it to be ready for the baby. Rather than explain to her they were losing money, rather than admit he was relying on his cousin Seamus for their necessities, Eamonn let her spend freely on the baby and the nursery. It made her happy, and he so desperately wanted her to be happy.

  It was true Alva had asked what was wrong many times, but Eamonn was a proud man, so he lied. But the more he lied, the more curious Alva became or the more money she spent on the baby so every time he looked at his wife, Eamonn’s head reeled with resentment. It was Alva who had wanted this land and this house, and who constantly asked when it would be finished. Alva who was so desperate to fill the house with their children. Alva who spent the money they didn’t have. His resentment would build and build until he exploded at her, berated her. Nothing she did was enough to quell his growing bitterness.

  Yet Alva did not complain. She went about her duties as wife and future mother much as she had before. But the circles beneath her eyes grew darker and the red blush of life drained from her cheeks. Her rich, dark brown hair faded and was slowly being taken over by gray. She looked weak and sick, sometimes too exhausted to even hang the laundry on the line.

  Eamonn told himself she was exhausted from the housework and her pregnancy, from his outbursts. She was so exhausted in fact, that she started to have bouts of delirium, talking to herself or some invisible presence. He heard her sometimes in the nursery, or up in the library, talking as if to an old friend. “He does not know what he is saying,” she would say. “He is a proud man and things have been hard for him since the storm. Things have been hard on everyone since the storm. Things will be better once the baby comes. Things will be better. When the baby comes.” It was not until Alva accused Eamonn of hating the baby, of not wanting her or their child that he realized how cruel he’d become. She’d screamed at him, hot tears staining her cheeks as she threatened to throw herself into the Atlantic from the cliff behind the house.

  Eamonn took her in his arms and whispered, “Hush, Alva. Of course I want you and the baby! Of course. I love you both. I love you.” He rocked her back and forth, telling her he was sorry, that things would be better, he would be better. He promised her everything would be alright.

  But the labor came, and then the baby, and… and nothing changed. The fish had all but disappeared from the coast and still no crops would grow on their land. Alva sunk into a deep depression and left the baby, constantly crying, alone in the nursery while she retreated to the library for hours at a time, and Eamonn didn’t interfere. Although Alva refused to speak to Eamonn or spend even a moment in the same room with him, there was no shortage of whispered words when she was in the library. So Eamonn spent as much time as possible in town looking for work as a handyman, getting away from the oppressive sadness that now infected the house like a pestilence. However, if he was honest with himself, what really frightened Eamonn was sometimes it seemed as if Alva’s voice wasn’t the only one he heard slipping through the cracks in the walls. Sometimes he thought a voice whispered back…

  Eamonn suddenly remembered the sorrowful notes he had been concentrating on and continued with his whistling. He pulled his coat tightly around his body, tucking in against the wind, toolbox swinging in his hand. He made a silent promise that he would be kind to Alva when he arrived home, that he would take her in his arms and kiss her as if it were their wedding day. He glimpsed for a moment that gleaming smile of Alva’s on the face of Emily Lenore, his beautiful daughter, as he lifted her tiny body from her crib to hug her and tickle her and delight in her cooing noises like a good father should. For a moment, only a moment, he felt real joy, felt his family could be happy again. But then, in a burst of cold winter wind, it was gone.

  The collecting dark clouds rumbled with rain overhead and Eamonn walked faster. Lightning illuminated the deep purple billows, and he was sure the sky would open up any moment.

  Reaching the top of Wolfhowl Mountain, where their house perched precariously close to the cliff’s edge, Eamonn saw the bane of his existence – Alva’s dream house – looming on the horizon. Icy dread filled the pit in his stomach and he tried warding it off, thinking of Alva’s smile and hoping if he were glad to see her, then she would be glad to see him, too.

  At last, the gates came into view. He stepped through and chained them behind him, the clinking disappearing on the wind as the distant church bells chimed six o’clock. He made his way toward the shed out back. He made a mental note to check on the east wing as he walked by to make sure the open walls were protected from the coming rain. How strange, he thought, that they would be getting rain this late in the year instead of snow. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Christmas Eve rain.

  Eamonn was passing the east wing as a light drizzle began to fall. He looked up at the gaping hole in the second and third stories as another barb of lightning illuminated the darkness. That’s when he saw her body swaying in the breeze like a ragdoll, hanging from the end of a rope.

  Chapter One

  The Delaneys

  August 2007

  I climb out of our beat up station wagon that has been the Delaney family home for the last five days. The crisp air of southern Maine is cooler than what I’m used to – although not by much – but anything is preferable to the broken air conditioning and recycled air of the Volvo.

  My knees ache as I swing my feet to the gravel driveway, but god does it feel good to stand! I want to stretch, to bend over and touch my toes, or listen for the sound of the rolling surf I’m told is not far off, but from the moment Mother turned the car into the great looming shadow of our new house, all I can do is stare. Standing before me is the most beautiful, yet most terrifying house I’ve ever seen.

  The strange Victorian hybrid eclipses the sun, sending the weed-strewn lawn into a chilly late afternoon darkness. It stands three stories tall, with octagonal turrets at each corner, capped off by sharply slanted roofs slicing open the clouds. Tall grass and weeds creep up the dilapidated wraparound porch. Ivy climbs to a second story veranda in thick green pipes and disappears around the side. The roof is missing a hoard of shingles, and severa
l others seem ready to fly away on the next breeze. It’s all angles, chipped paint, and rotten wood, sagging into the ground so that the front stoop frowns back at me. I feel as if this first meeting is meant to be seen in black and white, and I wait for the obligatory crack of thunder and burst of lightning.

  But there’s beauty in the old place too. The base of each turret forms a screened gazebo on either side of the porch, a sweetheart swing visible in each. The brittle railings have an intricate design carved into them, worn and softened by age. A few ramshackle stairs lead up to a set of wide double doors that look like they’re the only sturdy things left on the house, complete with a fresh layer of bright red paint. That’s odd, I think. Why paint the doors and nothing else?

  “Rose, honey,” Mother says, chasing away the dark skies and ominous thoughts. “You’re gonna catch flies with that mouth.” Her voice drips with the rich honey typical of the Texas drawl. She is pleased with my awe.

  Immediately my anger and resentment toward Mother for this ridiculous move comes to a boil. How dare she move me twenty states away from all of my friends, I think, clenching my fists and gritting my teeth to keep an outburst at bay. How dare she force me to live in some podunk town in this tacky fortress of darkness? The bile rises in my gut and I take a few deep breaths, like my anger management counselor suggested. I close my eyes and picture myself far, far away. I’m in a meadow overgrown with flowers and golden wheat. I can almost smell honey beyond a rim of tall cedar trees. Happy, happy, happy, I’m so happy, I think as I take another deep breath. Happy!

  It doesn’t work. Standing in the cool silhouette of this decomposing eyesore makes me homesick for the hot, sticky summers of Texas, and I glare at the ground, silently gritting my teeth. The rough squeakiness they make in my ears as they grind against each other comforts me a little.

  As I face my new house again, I see each door is decorated with a gigantic polished knocker in the shape of a cross, complete with an emaciated Jesus. I’m sure they meant something to the original owners, but in this day and age, it’s kind of tacky and a little bit creepy. Being a (mostly) devout Irish Catholic herself, Mother’s unlikely to have them replaced.

  “Can you get your brother out of the car, please?” Mother asks over the roof of the car. “I’m going to speak to Mrs. Carroll about the paperwork.” She turns away without waiting for a response.

  I look at the car parked behind the station wagon just in time to see the realtor climbing out. She doesn’t look like I expect. The annoyingly faint Maine accent that had been lilting over the phone at Mother the last few months had me hoping for a stout unpleasant redhead in an old beater. The real Nora Carroll steps lithely from a black sporty coupe. She’s dressed in a charcoal grey suit with a knee-length skirt and conservative heels. She wears gold in her ears, something shiny on her wrist, and the biggest diamond ring I’ve ever seen outside of a museum. If we were standing in the sun, the glint off of that rock would’ve blinded me. In truth, Mrs. Carroll is quite beautiful. I’m disappointed.

  Mrs. Carroll daintily shakes hands with Mother when I’m distracted by a smacking sound. I turn to see my five-year-old brother smush his freckled face into the glass of the back passenger window.

  “Rosie, can I get out now?” Liam’s cherubic voice is full of impatience. I stick my tongue out at him, but then release the beast. Five days in a car is tough on a five-year-old. Due to severe boredom, he’s had several naps today already and is now a ball of energy.

  “Wow!” Liam runs toward the house at full speed.

  “Be careful!” I shout, chasing after him.

  Up close, everything on the house is larger than normal, including the ornate stained glass windows on the first floor, colorfully depicting various religious scenes. They’re skillfully done, but need cleaning and several panes are broken and boarded up.

  The second floor is dotted with regular windows and rickety verandas, and the third with a few dormer windows. There’s storm damage on the heavy roof as it begins a sharp incline half-way up the second floor, coming to a point at a widow’s walk, barely visible from this angle. Most widow’s walks are decoration these days, but with the strange design of this house, I wouldn’t be surprised if this one is actually accessible. I make a mental note to check later. It might be a good place to hide out when I want to be left alone, which lately, is always.

  I try picturing the house when it was fresh and new. I imagine the smell of fresh wood and paint. It must have been stunning. I bet the townspeople gazed at it jealously from the bottom of the great hill.

  Then my heart stops.

  Black soot covers the entire right side, starting on a second floor verandah and extending over nearly half the house. What I first took for moldy wood and old paint is actually fire damage. How did the fire start? Was it an accident? Did anyone die?

  I lurch out and grab Liam’s hand as he’s about to put a pudgy foot on the porch’s bottom step. “Here, let me hold your hand. I’m not sure how steady these stairs are.” I speak louder than necessary, hoping Mother hears me, but she’s fully engaged with that realtor twit.

  We ascend the porch together, the steps creaking noisily under our feet. I keep a tight grip on Liam’s hand as he struggles to break free. “Let go, Rosie! Let go!”

  “Where’re you fixin’ to go?”

  “I wanna swing!”

  “Okay, okay! Stop yankin’!” I let go of Liam’s hand and follow him as he bobs along to the gazebo door. The screen is torn and hangs down from one of the top corners. The door itself has come off its hinges and is simply leaning against the doorway. I slide it to the side and poke my head in, grabbing Liam’s arm to prevent him from going inside just yet.

  The swing seems okay. It’s newer than the rest of the house. I tug on one of the chains. The ceiling doesn’t come crashing down and the chains seem sturdy. I picture another family enjoying this spot, an older married couple sipping iced teas as they swing slowly. Grandchildren playing in the front yard, trying to catch lightning bugs in mason jars… I’m both charmed and irritated.

  The paint is peeling and the wood is splintered. The door opposite, barely hanging on its hinges, leads to a side porch. There’s an old rag on the floor and a few cobwebs in the corners, but no spiders are home right now. An old wasp’s nest, dried up and empty, lingers in a corner.

  “Alright, squiggle worm.” I pick Liam up by the armpits and set him on the swing, struggling a little bit. He’s a little heavy for his age and my ballerina legs can hoist him fine, but my scrawny arms wobble. “Have at it.”

  I stand behind the swing, looking out at Mother and Mrs. Carroll while I push Liam. They walk toward the house in deep discussion, about the sale I assume. Mrs. Carroll has several papers in one hand and a pen in the other. They pause at the hood of the station wagon to go over the documents.

  Mother’s long and severely straight red hair is pulled back into a ponytail. It looks dull in the shade, but her pale Irish skin and green eyes are as bright as ever. I hate to admit it, but she looks better than she has in years simply because she divorced my dad. Since the split, I’ve watched her come alive again, gain control of her stubborn Irish temper, and smile more – real smiles, where your eyes smile too. She seems truly blissful. And that. Fills me. With rage.

  The divorce had the opposite effect on Dad. He was devastated and steadily became more emotional and erratic, often on the verge of tears. It’s a terrible thing to see a grown man cry and beg, especially if he’s your father. His emotional instability made him completely inaccessible to me and Liam at a time when we needed him most. Liam’s too young to understand, and sometimes he cries at night because he wants Daddy to read him a story and no one else will suffice. I sometimes lay down with him until he falls asleep.

  My feelings are… complicated. I love my father, and I miss him so much, but I can’t be around him and his depression. It only makes my own worse. Alternately, I’m kinda happy to see Mother enjoying herself again, but fully
appreciating that is difficult since I pretty much hate her right now. Mother’s temper might be under control and her complexion is clear, but at the cost of our family. And now here I am, forced to pick up and move to some silly island because Mother’s in a hurry to move on from her stale marriage, and all right before my senior year of high school – which, I admit, is my biggest complaint.

  When my parents first separated, the courts said, at sixteen, I was old enough to choose to stay with Dad if I wanted. And I might’ve made that choice if Dad had gotten counseling, but he refused. And what about Liam? Liam isn’t old enough to choose, and the courts awarded custody to crazy Mrs. Delaney. She might be happier, and she might’ve joined a program for alcoholics, but that doesn’t make her a better mother. She’s always worked long hours as a nurse, often on the night shift, but now she’s home even less. Experiencing a mid-life crisis brought on by the divorce, she acts like a single college girl. She goes to bars at happy hour (recovering alcoholic who?) and comes home late (if at all). She flirts with younger men, and dresses like my classmates. Just thinking about it makes my stomach turn. And I’m not going to let Liam be subjected to our mother’s ridiculous impulses without a buffer. It’s only a matter of time before she starts bringing street trash home. But this new town, Port Braseham on Mount Desert Island, is small. The realtor told us it’s a tight-knit community, founded on Irish pride and Catholic principles. I hope all the men in this stupid town are old, wrinkled sailors who smell like fish and believe in marriage before pleasure.

  “Eww, look!” Liam’s shout breaks through my angry haze.

  “What?”

  Liam hops to the floor, the wood beams creaking loudly. I bring the swing to a stop and watch as he kneels into a corner. When he turns around, he’s holding the longest, fattest slug I’ve ever seen.