Wolfhowl Mountain

by Dian Cronan

  This basement is no different than any other. Exposed floorboards above and a concrete slab floor below. Tiny windows at intervals around the ceiling. A few rooms have been hastily created behind the stairs at some point. In the farthest corner, I see the laundry closet with the new washer and dryer Mother ordered. They’re of the large expensive variety with a giant portal in the front of each machine so I can watch my underwear flop around for hours of mindless entertainment. Mother picked the cherry red versions to match her nails and lipstick.

  The door next to the laundry room is an incomplete bathroom. In keeping with the general atmosphere of the basement, this room absorbs the light, but doesn’t reflect it back. I barely make out the tiling on the walls and floor, completed in an old-fashioned black and white pattern. Pipes protrude from the floor and walls for a missing sink, tub, and toilet. Eye level with me is a large mirror with a spider web of cracks running throughout. A kaleidoscope of me’s wink back.

  A small weathered door is hidden behind the stairs. It takes several bouts of jiggling and cursing to wedge the swollen door out of the jamb. When I peer inside, I wish I’d turned around at the top of the stairs.

  The floor is pure mud. The concrete has been jack hammered away without much precision judging by the uneven cracks at the edges of the room. What remains is littered with decaying toys. An old red tricycle, an elegant dollhouse like something out of Little House on the Prairie, alphabet blocks, yo-yos, fire trucks, several creepy dolls missing various limbs. Every toy is caked with reddish mud dust. In a corner I see a patch of mud uncluttered with toys. The dirt floor is especially churned here. This is Wolfhowl Manor’s Indian burial ground. It’s more than a collection of junk from previous owners. Standing here staring at these things, I’m overwhelmed with nostalgia that almost brings me to tears. Someone hoarded these things down here not because they were in the way, but because they mean something; I’m sure of it. These aren’t trinkets. These are keepsakes.

  I have to investigate; the urge to know is strong. I move to enter the room and BANG! The door slams shut, nearly smacking me in the nose. I stumble backward. My heart hammers in my chest. I stare at the door. I repeat my mantra: It’sjustahouse.It’sjustahouse.It’sjustahouse.

  An old house, lots of drafts... That logic could rationalize the door slamming shut on its own. But it doesn’t explain the hand on my shoulder, the pinch of fingernails digging into my skin.

  I’m too terrified to scream. I run. I stumble up the stairs, down the hall, and scramble for the front doors. The firm and alien hand pushes against my back, propelling me out of the house.

  I tumble down the porch steps into the grass. I turn around in time to see the blood red doors slam shut with enough force to crack a pane of stained glass. The porch frowns at me disapprovingly. The crooked door frame’s slanted eyebrows glare at me.

  I can scarcely come to any other conclusion. The house is angry with me.

  Robyert and Barbara Olenev

  The First Owners: 1900-1903

  Robyert Olenev accompanied his aging parents to America in 1898. His parents desperately wanted to escape the poverty and persecution of Russian Czarist imperialism, but Robyert, who gladly parted with the Russian spelling of his name for the more Americanized Robert, was full of love for the free America. In Russia, his family had been poor and struggling, but in America, their fortune would change, just as the fortune of millions of immigrants had changed for the better. Or so he thought.

  The Olenevs settled in a New York City slum, sharing a tiny apartment with an uncle’s large family, who arrived a few years earlier. His uncle worked in a meat packing plant while his aunt stayed home with their five children and worked as a seamstress when she could. Robert worked at the plant with his uncle, but his parents were in their late sixties and too frail for manual labor, and his father couldn’t stomach the gore that came with slaughtering animals. So his mother, Viktoriya, began taking in seamstress work while helping his aunt with the children. His father, Grigory, started a pushcart business on the streets of the city, selling traditional Russian food like Okroshka or Varenyky. The menu depended on what he could afford at the markets each morning. Sometimes it was a nameless, rancid smelling mush, but it was cheap food and anyone hungry enough and poor enough would buy it. Usually the ingredients were stale and slimy, but if you made it just right, and used enough spices, no one would really know.

  It didn’t take long for Robert’s parents to fall out of love with their move to New York. They were still poor, and many times the prejudice against them made the persecution in Russia seem less troublesome. Robert, younger and more able bodied, managed to stay positive despite the difficulties. “Our luck will change,” he’d tell his parents. “We will be patient. Time and hard work, they will earn us our reward. You will see.”

  It wasn’t until his parents’ deaths that Robert finally lost his optimism. After the new year of 1900, Viktoriya succumbed to influenza. By March his father, suffering from a broken heart, followed her. His parents had been together since they were bright-faced fifteen year olds and the world still seemed their oyster. Now they would be together for eternity. At thirty-one, Robert was an orphan in a foreign place. For the first time in his life, he felt alone and hopeless.

  It was Barbara Irvine who reinvigorated Robert and brought him back to life. She was a young seventeen with a sweet face and naiveté of spirit that defined affluent children. More importantly, she was kind and loved helping others. She dreamed of becoming a nurse or teacher, but from the time she met Robert, all she dreamed up was a house filled with their children and her happiness.

  Barbara and Robert met on the streets of New York after the death of his father. She was touring the city with some of her pretty cousins when Robert, lost in his world of despair, bumped into her and sent her reeling into the streets on her pretty little behind. Her light pink dress was soiled by a pile of horse manure and Robert was mortified. He apologized profusely in his broken English, but luckily for him, Barbara found his aloof nature and awkward apology charming. They began courting, quietly at first, for fear her family would not approve. When he proposed only two months later, their fears were confirmed. Barbara’s father absolutely forbade her to marry the Russian immigrant who was only after her inheritance. So, sick with Romeo and Juliet syndrome, Barbara defied her parents and the couple eloped.

  Craving a fresh start, the happy couple went north. Robert, with many fond memories of helping cousins on a family farm in Russia, had dreamed of having his own plot of land to fiddle with. He was sure planting crops and buying livestock would lead to the financial security they needed to raise a family. Barbara, full of young love for her husband, followed him to Maine, where they settled in a large home on a decent plot of land known as Wolfhowl Mountain. Barbara discovered the property listing in the back of a little known newspaper. The print was small and tiny, as if it was trying to stay a quaint little secret, and she found the ominous name to be one of its many charms. Robert found her enthusiasm for the property rather cute. It was relatively cheap and they could just afford it between Robert’s miniscule inheritance and savings, and the little money Barbara had in her own name. They purchased it sight unseen in May of 1900.

  For a time the Olenevs lived in the wedded bliss of the honeymoon period. They planted crops and bought cows and goats. They lived their lives for each other, completely unaware of the strange stares from the townspeople. They were oblivious that many ignored them, that they hadn’t made any friends, and that it was very obvious there was something dreadfully wrong with their idyllic home. The couple stayed blissfully ignorant until Barbara and Robert conceived a son in November 1902.

  It wasn’t until the pregnancy that the couple began to notice the strangeness of their perch atop the world. First, it was the land. Corn stalks grew without ears of sweet corn. Apple trees grew without a bounty of fruit. Then it was the animals. Milk from their cows came out sour and curdled. Meat they took from their bones
was bruised and inedible. Goats stopped eating and began to starve, dying off one by one. Then it was the stares. Women stared at Barbara. Sometimes it appeared they stared at her with a sad sympathy, and sometimes the glares in their empty eyes were full of hate and envy.

  Slowly, as Barbara’s belly swelled, she began noticing the lack of young and happy children in Port Braseham. The church playground was silent and empty. No stores nearby sold baby clothes and no seamstresses in town made them or quilted cute little blue or pink blankets. The youngest children at the small school were nearly twelve.

  One cool morning after church, strolling hand in hand, Robert and Barbara walked through the graveyard and made a chilling discovery.

  In a far back corner of the graveyard, covered in brown pine needles and lifeless rose bushes, were several granite gravestones that were not yellowed or rounded with age. Fresh flowers dotted several of them in recent memoriam.

  Barbara bent over one of the gravestones nearest the path and read the epitaph. Here lies our angel Kaitlyn. Born April 2, 1852. Died April 3, 1852. Robert kneeled beside her. Together they read first one, then another, and another.

  Sean, our angel. Born March 1, 1858. Died March 3, 1858.

  For Erin, our dearest child, called Home too early. February 14, 1852-February 18, 1852.

  Here lies our sweet Clare, whom we were lucky to know, if only for the briefest moment. December 24, 1855-December 26, 1855.

  To our dear Aidan, we will always love you. December 25, 1854-December 25, 1854.

  Corey, who bore our sad curse, we will always love you. Born January 1, 1859. Died January 6, 1859.

  In all, Barbara and Robert discovered thirty-three infants buried there. Many of their mothers were also laid to rest close by. Robert knew his wife was a superstitious woman, and did his best to calm her thoughts, but he also knew he’d be unsuccessful. Barbara was convinced their child would suffer the same cursed fate as all of those infants in the graveyard. She was even more dismayed when she learned no one in town would discuss the dead children. Through her own determined digging, Barbara discovered there hadn’t been a healthy child born in Port Braseham since 1851. What had killed all of these children? Why were so many of their mothers also dead? Was God punishing the poor families of this town? If so, why?

  Though the last trimester of her pregnancy was fraught with worry, Barbara and Robert’s son, Shane, beat the odds. He was born atop Wolfhowl Mountain, happy and healthy the summer of 1903. Word spread through the town and though the townspeople were flabbergasted, they were also elated. Was the curse broken? Had this young, happy couple finally brought salvation to Port Braseham?

  Sadly, their joy was short-lived. Less than two weeks after Shane’s birth Barbara was dead. In a bout of depression, she hung herself in the one of the upper bedrooms. Robert was devastated. For a few months, he struggled with the farm, trying to make money and take care of his young son without his beloved.

  At first, Robert and Shane were seen in town often, at church or the market. Townspeople offered their condolences and their services. They volunteered to help him with his bright and healthy child, all too happy a baby had finally survived. But as the months went on, Robert came into town less and less. The townspeople were so concerned about Shane, so envious, they worried for his safety. When a few weeks went by without seeing either of them, a few representatives from church finally went up to Wolfhowl Mountain to make sure they were okay.

  They found Robert locked in his bedroom, dead from starvation. Shane lay in his crib in the nursery, happy and fed and well taken care of despite the fact that his father had been dead for several days. Robert was buried next to poor Barbara, and Shane was adopted by the pastor and his wife. Several weeks after Shane was stolen away from Wolfhowl Mountain, on Christmas Eve 1903 the child died... and the curse lived.

  Chapter Eight

  New Girl

  I didn’t tell a soul what happened in the basement, nor will I. I’ve searched for a rational explanation, and I’ve decided the slamming doors were due to a drafty half-repaired house with openings and cracks all over the place. And the hand... well, the hand I must’ve conjured up on my own. After all, I’d gone looking for something ghostly hadn’t I? I’m a (relatively) good, modern Catholic girl, and I don’t believe in spooks haunting up my house, unlike Grammy Delaney, who would’ve gone crying to the local priest for an exorcism.

  There is, however, one thing I can’t explain away – my fear. I know it’s a silly, irrational reaction to the dead crow and the creepy basement, but that doesn’t send the goose bumps away.

  I sit in one of the porch swings and sway idly for an hour before Beckan walks up the hill with his toolbox, intent on taking care of a few things from Mother’s honey-do list. How disappointed she’ll be to know that she missed him.

  When Beckan notices me approaching from the side porch, he smiles. “Long time no see,” he says. “How’s it goin’?”

  “Well…” Obviously, I can’t tell him the truth. “Mother and Liam are out runnin’ errands, so I thought I’d just hang back and enjoy the weather, take advantage of a little alone time.” I force a confident smile and shove my hands into my pockets.

  “Ayuh. I know the feelin’.” For a few seconds we look at each other, me trying to convince him everything’s fine, and Becakn tilting his head as if he doesn’t quite believe me.

  “Anyway,” I say to end the awkward silence, “maybe you can help me. Since you’re already here and all.”

  “Yeah? How’s that?”

  “Well, I had the balcony doors in my room open earlier, to let the fresh air in, you know? And a damn crow flew right in.” Beckan raises his eyebrows. Can he tell I’m lying? “I tried to steer it back out, but it flew into a window and broke its neck. Would you mind gettin’ rid of it for me?”

  Beckan stiffens. “Um…”

  He’s reluctant, so I try convincing him with my best southern belle routine. I pout subtly, a finger twirling a loose lock of hair. “Pretty please?” I ask in a sickly sweet Southern drawl.

  Beckan rubs his neck and looks toward the doors anxiously. I’m about to ask what he’s so worried about, but he finally agrees. “Ladies first.”

  “My hero!” I smile, leading the way.

  There’s just one problem when we reach my room. The crow’s gone. It’s disappeared.

  “You sure?” Beckan asks when I turn away from the bay window.

  “Yes, I’m sure! D’you think I made it up?”

  “Maybe it was just stunned,” he says, but I can tell he doesn’t believe me.

  “No way,” I insist. “If you’d seen how hard it hit the window… It was dead.”

  Beckan shrugs. “Well, if there’s nothin’ else, I’ll be in the kitchen working on those squeaky cab’nets for your muthah.” He shuffles off, but not before throwing me one of those that-crazy-girl looks over his shoulder. I’m starting to feel a little crazy myself.

  ***

  I spend the rest of the afternoon unpacking and cleaning my room, trying to keep my mind off of the hand on my back and the crow that wasn’t there. Even though Beckan’s in the kitchen and all sounds of his presence are silenced by the walls of Wolfhowl Manor, knowing I’m not alone makes me feel better.

  Mother and Liam return with takeout pizza for dinner. Beckan is just finishing changing out the hinges on the old cabinets and spraying WD-40 on the new ones to keep them limber when Mother breezes into the kitchen to fawn over his handiwork. She tells him his muscles must be tired, while gently massaging them, and insists he stay for dinner. I’ve lost my appetite.

  Beckan insists he can’t– a little hastily, if you ask me – slipping his arm out of Mother’s grasp, and leaves.

  We again arrange ourselves around the kitchen table. I pretend to listen as Mother drones on and on about the hospital and their afternoon gallivanting around Bar Harbor. When she finally asks me how I spent my afternoon, I say, “Oh, I unpacked a little,” and leave it at that.


  ***

  Fortunately for my sanity, the next two weeks fly by without any more ghostly occurrences. I stay busy, helping Liam and Mother unpack and put the house into some kind of order, while Beckan and Derry putz around the grounds, following up on Mother’s growing list of wishes and repairs.

  Derry spends all his time working outside the house, I’ve noticed. He mows the lawn and turns the garden over because Mother insists on a place to plant things, even though she hasn’t spent a second in gardening gloves for ten years running. He also does a lot of staring at the fire-eaten portion of the porch, and the burned shingles and siding, but he doesn’t seem to have a plan.

  On the inside, Mother keeps Beckan busy. After he fixed the cabinets, she decides she wants them refinished with a touch of honey. Then she has him hang pictures, trinkets, and curtains. She has him fix squeaky door hinges and give the bathrooms a good scrubbing, despite my reminder that the O’Dwyre’s aren’t our personal butlers. But Beckan is polite, insisting it’s no problem. Mother supervises him at every turn, of course, bringing him sandwiches and lemonade like a good hostess. Ugh! It makes my stomach turn over.

  Mother’s to do list keeps me busy too. When I’m not unpacking my own things, I’m unpacking Liam’s or Mother’s, or sweeping or cleaning or washing dingy wallpaper. I retreat to my bedroom whenever possible to avoid watching Mother’s shameless flirting and get away from her newfound even keel attitude; both are equally sickening.

  Liam keeps himself busy too, and he’s adjusting and enjoying himself here. The last year has been so hard on him, but lately he’s all sunshine and rainbows. He loves his large new room with an attached playroom for all of his toys, and since I spoil him, he has a lot. The front yard is big enough for him to tool around on his bike and play fetch with Lady.

  Although Liam is a little afraid of Derry, he takes an immediately liking to Beckan. He follows him around like Scrappy Doo, constantly talking, asking questions, and boasting about his own impressive five-year-old abilities. Liam goes to the cottage to play with Lady and see what Beckan’s doing whenever he can. Beckan lets Liam tag along on his errands into town. Beckan takes my brother’s unabated admiration in stride, tolerating Liam’s constant presence with a smile, and even with a little enjoyment. Sometimes he’s here so late that it’s Beckan who takes Liam up to his room and regales him with exciting bedtime stories that beat mine by a mile.