Wolfhowl Mountain

by Dian Cronan

  “Yeah, okay.” He crosses his arms, hunches his shoulders, and aims his bushy eyebrows down over his eyes.

  He’s mocking me. I uncross my arms and try to loosen my muscles. “I am not fired up,” I say, this time staring straight into his bottle green eyes, hoping that’ll be more convincing. Because I am good and fired up. I’m pissed at Mother, hate this whole stupid town, and I certainly do not want to talk to one of its very own country bumpkins about it.

  “I’m a good list’nah.” Smiling, he puts a cigarette between his lips and lights it with a fancy butane lighter with his initials carved into it. It’s a little frilly for someone as rough around the edges as Beckan, and I figure it must be a gift from his biker chick girlfriend.

  “It’s none of your business.” I cross my arms again.

  He shrugs and exhales some smoke into the cabin, making no attempt to blow it away from me. Rude.

  I stifle a cough. “Those things are bad for you, you know.”

  He shrugs again, but remains silent, waiting me out.

  I roll my eyes. “Whatever.” I throw open my door and stomp around the back to retrieve my bike. I’m determined to get it down without Beckan’s help, but he hops out and helps me anyway.

  “I can get it,” I say with a little snake venom.

  “Wouldn’t want you tah strain those pretty little balleriner legs.” Chomping his cigarette with his teeth, he lifts my bike out and sets it on the ground next to me, waiting for me to take the handlebars.

  I squint at him. “How’d you know I’m a dancer?”

  “You’re not just a dancah,” he says. “You’re a balleriner. There’s a difference.” The way he mispronounces ballerina is kinda cute, but I’m distracted that he seems to know so much about me.

  Mother enrolled me in dance when I was too young to even remember. As I grew older, I began to appreciate ballet more, and have exclusively studied it in my spare time since I was ten. But I haven’t said a word about it since we arrived, least of all to Beckan. How’d he know? Did he and his father rake through our belongings when they were “placing” them in our rooms?

  “Yeah, whatever.” I say, irritated. “How’d you know?”

  “I dunno. It’s the way you carry yourself, the way you walk,” he says. “My muthah used tah walk with the same...grace. That’s what Pop called it.”

  I blush and look at my feet. He’s been watching me walk? “Your mother’s a dancer?” I assumed some broad, as equally ape-like as Derry, resides in the little cabin on the side of the hill. After all, how could a woman with the delicateness and refinement of a ballerina marry a brute like Derry, or raise a rough-n-tumble guy like Beckan? He’s all muscle and dirt and grease. Someone raised by a ballerina should be softer, more intelligent.

  “She was,” he says solemnly. “She’s been gone a long time.”

  I know by his tone that Beckan doesn’t mean his mother ran off with some trucker passing through town. I understand his mother is in a place people don’t come back from. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

  Beckan shrugs again and scratches the back of his neck. His cigarette has burned down to the filter and he uses the fading ember to light another. I feel badly about how I’ve treated him. Less than twenty-four hours ago he saved my life. Don’t I owe him something? My mouth opens, closes, opens again. Beckan senses my hesitation.

  “Spit it out girl,” he says as he rolls the cherry out of his dead cigarette pockets the butt.

  My eyes on the ground, I speak to him as if I’m in confession. “I went to that diner by the beach. The Wharf Rat. These two fishermen started askin’ me questions about where I’m from. They thought I was a tourist or somethin’. When they found out I just moved here, they... they said I wasn’t welcome.” I roll my eyes, ready for Beckan to be shocked, to tell me that’s ridiculous. But he doesn’t.

  Beckan sighs and his shoulders sag. His serious eyes settle on me.

  I squint at him again.”You know why, don’t you?” I yank the handlebars of my bike away from him. “You know why those Wharf Rats said that.” Beckan starts to look away and I shout at him. “Well? Tell me!”

  “All right, calm down,” Beckan holds up his hands. “Geez.” When I’m calm, he shrugs again and spreads his arms wide, like he’s going to tell me something unbelievable.

  “It’s the house.” He says it so simply, as if those words should be enough, as if I know exactly what he means.

  But of course, I don’t. “The house? What does that even mean?”

  “They think it’s cursed.”

  “Who?” I demand.

  “Everyone. The whole town. And if you live in the house, then you’re cursed too.”

  ***

  Cursed. How ridiculous! It’s so ludicrous I’d actually laughed at Beckan. Even now, remembering how serious he was, I’m shaking my head and laughing to myself. This is just perfect. As if I’m not enough of a pariah in this town because I’m from Texas, now I’m the girl who’ll bring a curse down on the entire town. Freaking awesome.

  When I got home, I discovered Mother had not only fed Liam, she’d even been to the market and stocked the pantry and refrigerator. I wasn’t in trouble for going missing because she didn’t even notice I’d left. Mother assumed I was sleeping in and then forgot about me altogether. I don’t know if I’m relieved or insulted.

  Mother fixes sandwiches for the three of us and we eat at the same kitchen table we used in Texas. The same table where Dad ate with us, in the empty chair across from Mother. The same table where we’d talked about our day, told stories, laughed... Now the table feels huge and empty, and my turkey sandwich is hard to swallow. I turn to the window and check out of the conversation.

  When Mother starts cleaning up, I tune back in. She’s babbling about going to the hospital in nearby Bar Harbor to talk to the head nurse about her first day. She landed a job as an intensive care nurse at the hospital via a phone interview a week ago. In typical Moira Delaney style, she didn’t iron out the details. I’m hoping for a lot of night shifts. It’ll keep her out of trouble – and out of the bars. Mother’s taking Liam with her and asks if I want to tag along and explore some of the sights Mt. Desert Island has to offer afterward, but I decline. I’ve had enough of the outside world for one day. I’m not going to press my luck.

  By three, Liam and Mother are gone and I’m staring at countless bags of clothes in my new closet. When I’d been hastily cramming my clothes into these same bags a few weeks ago, Mother bitched at me for being such a clotheshorse and went on and on about the shipping costs and how this move was already costing her enough. I cussed her out and screamed that this move was costing Liam and me a hell of a lot more than she could even begin to comprehend. It was an explosive argument, but I don’t feel the least bit bad about what I said. I meant every word then, and it rings especially true now that we’re the new cursed outcasts in town.

  I’d intended to tackling the arduous task of unpacking my room, but just as I’m getting into the mindset, I catch sight of that funny little box in the turret. I find myself wondering… Could it be a door? It’s the perfect little mystery to prolong my procrastination.

  My bedroom is on the front of the house and one of the tall turrets runs through the corner of my room, creating that odd little cutout I saw in the kitchen and dining room. In the middle section of the cutout sits this little door, like something out of Alice in Wonderland. There’s no knob, but the more I look at it, the more positive I am it is a door. I rap on it with a knuckle and the hollow thud of a hidden chamber beyond answers.

  I kneel by the door and run my hands around the edges, feeling a draft. Wedging my manicured nails into the tiny gap between door and wall, I pull, but nothing happens.

  I pull.

  I push.

  Wiggle.

  Pound.

  Pry.

  The only result is a broken nail. I cuss and kick the door with all my might.

  I hear something, I’m sure. A noise,
quiet and muffled, and it’s coming from behind that door.

  I can feel my heart in my chest and go at the door with renewed energy. I manage to get a whole fingertip between the door and the wall, and with one final yank, pry the door off. I fall backward, cradling the door in my hands. Throwing it to the side, I sit up on my elbows. The opening is pitch black and I peer into the darkness, prepared to greet whatever’s in there.

  And when I do, I scream.

  Chapter Seven

  The Search

  I’m glad no one witnesses my idiotic behavior. As soon I have the door removed, a huge black crow comes cawing out of the darkness. Its flapping wings flutter over me and I scream like a child for the second time in twenty-four hours.

  “I hate this God forsaken place!” I scream and stomp my feet. I cuss for a good thirty seconds while the dark beast circles the room.

  The crow flits into walls, the ceiling, the furniture, desperately trying to find a route of escape. The dumb bird darts into everything except the open bedroom door. I get up and slam my closet door shut before it can get trapped inside and crap all over my clothes. I swing a pillow around, trying to coach the crow into the hall.

  The bird senses sunlight from the bay window and changes direction, flying into the window at top speed. The solid thwack makes me flinch. The crow falls to the bench, its beak cracked and its neck broken. Panting as I swipe a few loose strands of hair from my face, I prod at it with a toe. It doesn’t move. I stare at it, waiting for any more damned surprises.

  When nothing happens, I consider how to proceed. The thought of a dead bird laying there to rot is unpleasant, but not as unpleasant as the idea of touching it, and finding some way to dispose of it. I turn my back on the bird and decide to worry about it later. Maybe Liam will do it for me when he gets home. Or maybe I can call... No. Beckan already thinks I’m prissy enough.

  I cautiously return to the dark cavity in the turret. I take off one of my sneakers and toss it into the abyss, hoping to stir any remaining crows or bats or...whatever. I poke my head inside when nothing happens.

  The space is the same shape and size as the gazebo below, missing only the swing. It’s damp, and as my eyes adjust, I see scrawling on the wall. I grab the light from my nightstand and plug it in closer to the turret so I can shine the yellowy light inside. The scrawling is actually a child’s crayon drawings: a little red dog, a big gray airplane, and a stick-figure girl with a pink dress and brown wavy hair. They’re signed with the initials E. L., which sound familiar, but I’m not sure why.

  Playing the light around the walls, I gasp. Three of the walls are covered by more colorful drawings. There’s a church with a crooked cross at the top, several houses with children playing outside on green squares of grass. There’s a blue bay with small sailboats, and a redhot sun overhead. Buildings sit along the water, all white blocks with small black doors. Reading some of the signs, including one reading Wharf Rat, I realize it’s a drawing of Port Braseham. I see the main road now, with its pastel Victorians standing like silent sentries as the road winds past the church and toward other buildings.

  Hmm… I back out of the turret and go to my balcony. Pulling the curtains aside and looking down at the town of Port Braseham, I realize the drawing is a map of Port Braseham as seen from this very spot! I look back at the little door. What a strange secret little room.

  The turret offers nothing more. A few cobwebs and some bird crap. That’s it. No secret passageway. No more crows, or even a bird’s nest. There isn’t even a hole where the crow could’ve gotten inside. How’d it get in there in the first place?

  I sit back on my heels. Why am I so disappointed? What did I expect to find? This is a house, I remind myself. A regular old house, just like Mother said, albeit with a strange floor plan. This isn’t the Adams Family mansion. It’s not Rose Red. It’s just a house.

  Beckan had said it’s cursed. But I’m a logical person and my rational mind recognizes there’s no truth to this preposterous idea. It’s just myth. Conjecture. A spooky story for townspeople to tell to children hugging hot chocolates around campfires. But... the idea originated somewhere, right? At some point in time, something happened here to start that rumor.

  Now that is an interesting question: What happened here?

  I officially abandon any pretense of productivity and succumb to my morbid curiosity. If I’m going to be rejected by society for living in this eyesore, I want to know why. The house itself might have something to offer up, full as it is of the previous owners’ junk. In the last twenty-four hours, I’ve been in the kitchen, the dining room, Liam’s room, and the upstairs bathroom. (Let’s ignore the fire room for the moment.) The question now is, where do I start?

  I decide on the basement. After all, all things creepy start with the Indian burial ground in the basement, right? Wolfhowl Manor has a basement, but it’s so stupidly large, and has so many damn doors, I’m not sure where to look for it. I start in the only place that makes sense – the foyer, the nucleus of the house, from which all things spread out.

  I remember the only doors in the dining room go to the kitchen and the porch, so I begin in the room opposite, the living room, which is a mirror image of the dining room. Two stained glass windows on the front, the gazebo cut out in the far corner, and a set of glass double doors leading to the porch. This side, happily, is not damaged by fire or sagging with mildew. Looking out onto the side yard, I see the blades of grass glowing in the afternoon sunlight. It’s dotted here and there with rose bushes and patches of what used to be a vegetable garden. Beyond that is a thick sloping forest of skyscraper pines, red spruces, and beeches. A few wispy clouds float above. I can’t stifle the contended sigh at this sight releases. I again admit to myself the beauty of our new little perch. At least on the outside.

  I frown at the dark red wallpaper suffocating the walls. At one time it’d probably been the same velvet red as the carpeting on the stairs, but it’s dingy with dust and age and reminds me of congealed blood. Mother decided this would be the TV room. The flat screen hangs on the wall between the two stained glass Saint Whomevers and our ratty old couch sits against the opposite wall. I sit, sinking into the flattened cushions, wondering why this piece of crap wasn’t left behind with everything else. There isn’t much left to this room. A few boxes of old family photos and a coffee table complete the tour. Blah.

  I move to the drawing room. A previous owner must’ve redecorated because it’s the only room I’ve seen so far that has a little class. The once glossy golden floorboards are scuffed and darkened by age, but the walls are covered in frilly wallpaper with white lacey patterns on a baby blue background. The large fireplace is more ornate than the one in the dining room. A leafy pattern is carved into it, like the porch railings out front. It’s too pristine to have been made by the same skilled hands as the ivy banisters, but maybe Ol’ Derry polished it before we arrived.

  I walk the length of the fireplace, dragging a fingertip along the mantle, creating a clean line in the dust. I knock an unexpected obstacle to the floor. Picking up the small gold frame, I see my parents’ wedding portrait.

  Mother wears the hairspray helmet common in the early nineties and a simple white gown with a hideous veil, an angry tulle monster trying to eat her face. The only bright side is it softens the bright blue eye shadow painted up to her eyebrows and her hot pink blushed cheeks pulled back to her ears. Dad is more classically handsome in a nice black suit and bowtie, very James Bond. He looks so happy. The cheap flash on the Polaroid camera reflects off of his perfect teeth and a smile tugs at my lips. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him smile like that. Liam looks just like him when he laughs.

  I fight the burning in my eyes. There won’t be tears today, not over him. In a burst of anger, I fling the frame across the room and it cracks into the floor behind a stack of boxes of more yet-to-be-unpacked Delaney family junk. Squaring my shoulders, I turn my back on two bay windows and stomp by the smaller window lo
oking out on the cliff, which I ignore. I pass through another door and find myself in the kitchen between the old servants’ stairway and the hall leading to the foyer.

  The hall has two doors leading off of it. The first is a tiny half-bath that has to be original construction. There’s a small washbasin low to the ground and an old toilet with a tank and a pull chain hanging near the ceiling. A skinny pipe trails down the wall to a toilet bowl, which is so short I’m sure my knees will touch my chin if I sit on it, which I won’t, because it obviously hasn’t been cleaned in ages.

  The second door puts me exactly where I want to be – standing on the precipice of a rickety set of stairs descending into inky blackness. I recoil from the musty scent and damp air floating up from the dark. A draft pulls a strand of hair loose from my ponytail with a sensation so much like delicate fingertips that I shiver.

  Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Putting my room together is certainly more productive… Oh hell, this is ridiculous!

  I slowly work my way down the stairs and into the dark pit, each step groaning more loudly than the last as dust and silt sift to the floor. In my head I repeat a ceaseless mantra: It’s just a house. It’s just a house. It’s just a house. I use the railing to guide my way to the bottom until a splinter lodges itself under one of my nails. Dammit! I suck on my finger. I reach the floor and grab blindly for a light switch.

  A dim light emits from one tiny bulb in the center of the vast space. It does almost nothing to beat away the darkness, nor does it calm my rising fear. Although fear isn’t exactly the right word; I simply feel ill at ease. There’s something not quite right about this basement. Something not quite right in how the walls lean away from the light. I reconsider going back to my room, but remember Beckan and his silly curse. I feel an urge to show him I’m not afraid like he is, that I’m stronger than he thinks. There is no curse. It’s just a scary story, local lore. There are no such things as curses. It’sjustahouse.It’sjustahouse.It’sjustahouse.