Wolfhowl Mountain

by Dian Cronan

  “I wasn’t talking to anyone!” Liam huffs and stalks to his bed.

  “Mother,” I say seriously, “I heard him. He was having a conversation. I think –”

  “I’m really not interested,” Mother interrupts. “It’s late, you have school in the morning, and I have to work. Get back to bed, both of you.” Liam is already under his covers.

  “But Mother –”

  She cuts me off. “I don’t care, Rose. It’s late and I’m tired. Stop bickerin’ with each other and get back to bed.” She turns on her heels and leaves.

  “I’m sorry, Rosie,” Liam says. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

  I sigh. “It’s not your fault squiggle worm. I’m a little cranky, that’s all. But no more playing in the middle of the night. You need your beauty sleep.” I pinch his cheek, pull the covers up to his chin and turn out the light. “Goodnight, squiggle worm. I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  I slink back to my room feeling guilty. As I sink into my mattress, the wolf howls again. I can’t be sure, but this time he sounds like he’s directly below my balcony.

  Chapter Twelve

  History Class

  The next morning, I leave early to try and catch one of the O’Dwyres to ask about a deadbolt for the balcony doors and all the doors opening onto the lower porch. Just to be safe. Maybe if I have the guts I’ll ask them about the dead mystery woman. It didn’t happen that long ago, so Derry and Beckan must’ve known her.

  I climb onto my bike and I’m ready to kick off before I remember Liam’s with me. He’s playfully skipping along behind me, Spiderman backpack on and SpongeBob lunch pail in hand. He isn’t as graceful as I am on a bike – or on his feet – and I certainly don’t want him going down that steep incline. Hand in hand and walking on solid ground, I lead Liam down to the cottage.

  Beckan and his truck are nowhere to be seen, but Derry sits on the porch, smoking his pipe with a snoring Lady at his feet. Other than a few glances of his back as he shuffles away from the house, I’ve barely seen him since that first day. He’s made one or two small repairs to the gazebos and first floor windows, but still hasn’t made any moves on repairing the fire-eaten porch. The old grump is always unavailable, either tending to some small repair on the cottage or else in town on an errand while Beckan does the heavy lifting.

  “Hi, Mr. O’Dwyre,” I say, forcing a smile.

  “Ah ain’t nah taxi service,” Derry grunts in our general direction, but his eyes remain staring off into the distance behind me, fixed on the house. It gives me the creeps how he doesn’t even look at me when he talks.

  “Huh? Oh, no,” I say, deciphering his ape-like grunts. “We’re gonna walk. I was just wondering if it would be possible to get deadbolt locks installed on the balcony and porch doors. It would help keep things safer for...Liam.”

  Liam perks up next to me when he hears his name, much like Lady would’ve. Derry’s eyes stay focused on the same spot above my shoulder for so long I start to wonder if he heard me. “Mr. O’Dwyre?”

  “Ah don’t do inside repaihs,” Derry says slowly, moving his piercing stare to me. He gazes at me for a long time, as if inspecting me, like he’s looking for something, for some sign of...what? I’m unnerved by it, just as I was that first day.

  “Well it’s just a little thing –”

  “Ah. Don’t. Do. In-side. Re-pai-ahs,” he repeats more forcefully. His eyes leave me and I understand I’m being dismissed. He leans back into the rocking chair, patting Lady’s raised head gently and continues smoking his pipe.

  “Mr. O’Dwyre is really grumpy,” Liam says as we walk down the hill. “He’s kind of like you.” I frown with fresh guilt.

  At the bottom of the hill, we meet Letta waiting for us. Her dark hair is pulled back into a tight French braid and she wears a blue t-shirt over khaki shorts and a pair of flip-flops. Letta’s pretty in a quiet way. I bet she doesn’t even own a tube of concealer for her perfect porcelain skin. Letta smiles and waves, and I’m relieved there’s at least one person in this town who likes me.

  “Oh good! I was afraid I’d missed you. You must be Liam.” She smiles and shakes his hand. “I’m Letta. I’m pleased to meet you.”

  Liam furrows his eyebrows. “I’m pleased to meet you too?” He speaks self-consciously, not sure if he’s understood Letta, and I laugh.

  Letta bumps me with her shoulder as we begin our walk. “No ride from You Know Who today?”

  I roll my eyes as Liam skips ahead of us. “Oh har har. I’m not sure where he is this morning. I talked to Ol’ Derry for a minute though, and he assured me he’s not a taxi service. Stay out of the road, Liam!”

  “You wahlk. Me nah taxi.” Letta imitates Derry’s gravelly voice and deep accent perfectly. She laughs. “He’s such a caveman.”

  “You know him?”

  “No, not really. I mean, I’ve seen him in town, but I’ve never spoken to him. People around here talk about him though. Either he’s the king of town or the scum of the Earth. It depends on whose side of the feud you’re on. Oh hey,” Letta interrupts herself and pulls out a bright red cell phone, which I find strangely flashy for her Plain Jane style. “I was going to text you last night to see how you were doing, but I forgot to ask for your number yesterday.”

  “Oh...” My cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I don’t have a cell phone.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She shrugs and puts her phone away like it’s no big deal. I’m glad she doesn’t ask me why.

  “What she means,” Liam shouts over his shoulder, “is she used to have a cell phone.”

  Dammit Liam.

  “Used to?” Letta says.

  “Who used tah have a cell phone?” Shane, Eileen, and Patty, who’d been chatting at a corner, fall into step with us.

  “Rose apparently,” Letta says. “I’m sure there’s a story there.” She looks at me expectantly, one thick eyebrow slightly raised.

  I sigh. “Mother took it away when we were still in Texas.”

  “Why?” Patty asks, absently twisting a strand of her red hair around a long finger.

  “Oh,” I shrug nonchalantly, trying to play it down, “she decided I didn’t need a phone when I decided I didn’t need to respect her rules anymore.” I hope this is explanation enough. I don’t want to admit to them that I’d been suspended from school, which resulted in Mother grounding me for eternity and the loss of my phone, for getting into an argument with another cheerleader over a guy. I knocked the girl to the ground and stomped on her head during a basketball game. It seemed like a good idea at the time – the girl deserved it. You don’t mess with Rose Delaney’s man, but it’s starting to feel like it was more trouble than it was worth.

  “Well that’s not a big deal,” Shane says. “Find where she’s hidin’ it and take it back.”

  “Yeah, that might work,” I allow, “if she hadn’t driven over it with the station wagon a few times.”

  “Wow,” Eileen says. “Your mom was wicked pissed.”

  “Yeah, she does dumb stuff when she’s mad.” Just like me. I’d kill for that phone right about now, and although I still don’t exactly regret stomping on that bitch’s head, I do regret the consequences. If I still had a phone, I could reach out to my old friends and maybe feel a little less isolated.

  “You look nice today, Rose,” Patty puts in, sensing a change of subject is in order and I’m grateful. I thank her. Truth be told, I’d put much more thought into my second day outfit than my first. I’m wearing a loose fitting t-shirt over a pair of skinny jeans and white sandals. Although one of the shoulders of my shirt tends to slide down a bit, I’m hoping today’s outfit will prevent me from having to respond to “spook slut” for the second day in a row. I’m pleased Patty notices my effort.

  “No interest in Mrs. Brennan tellin’ you how desperate you are again?” Shane laughs.

  “Definitely not!”

  “So what’s on the agenda for today?” asks Letta. “Flying
under the radar or boldly accepting the spotlight with an incident as dramatic as to rival yesterday’s lunch?”

  I shrug as we approach the schoolyard. “I was hoping to fly under the radar, but trouble seems to find me regardless.”

  We migrate to a grassy patch in front of the school, where I stop and kneel in front of Liam. I tighten his backpack straps and ruffle his curly hair before he ducks away.

  “Listen, kiddo, have a good day, okay?” When he tries to trot off without a response, I grab his arm gently. “Hey, I’m serious. Have fun today... and you tell me if anythin’ is bothering you alright?”

  “Yeah, okay,” he says, blue eyes staring at his shoes. I release him and he runs off without looking back.

  “How’s your brother adjustin’ tah the move?” Eileen asks as we head inside.

  “Well, I thought he was adjusting fine, but...”

  “But?” Shane says.

  “I dunno. He seemed really happy once we got here,” I say. “He had some trouble before we left Texas. The divorce, you know? Then yesterday I caught him in a, lie yet he refuses to come clean, and last night I caught him talking to himself in the middle of the night.”

  “Talking to himself?” Letta says. “About what?”

  “I’m not sure. I only heard part of it. But he’s never talked to himself before. I’m afraid he’s regressing, that he needs someone else to talk to.”

  “Are you sure he isn’t talkin’ tah a ghost?” Eileen says.

  “Seriously?” I laugh.

  “Hey, I’m not ‘fraid of the house,” Eileen says, “but that doesn’t mean I’m not a believer.”

  ***

  I spend the first half of my day doing my very best to melt into walls and avoid notice. Unfortunately, I do not avoid the notice of that old bat Mrs. Brennan (wearing an exact replica of the dress from yesterday in a different pattern). When my shirt slips off my shoulder and my black bra strap is visible for a split second, Mrs. Brennan feels the need to let everyone know good Catholic girls don’t wear black underwear. This, of course, is followed by Mary Donovan repeating her spooky slut declaration from yesterday, boldly and loudly this time. Foiled dammit.

  During the garbled morning announcements, I hear what I think is an announcement about cheerleading tryouts coming up in the next few weeks. My heart flutters. I’d had a lot of fun as a cheerleader back in Texas, despite the incident. I wonder if joining the cheerleading team here will help me acclimate...or cause more drama than I need right now. It would certainly eat up some of my boredom. If Mother even allowed it, and that’s a pretty big if.

  At lunch, I follow my new friends to a small courtyard where students are allowed to eat outside. The weather is a bit cooler than yesterday and a nice breeze keeps us comfortable in our spot under a birch tree. I successfully avoid a repeat of yesterday’s excitement, though I catch Ronan’s head peaking out a window, his eyes scouring the courtyard. I turn my head away to hide my face with my hair and wonder… Is he looking for me?

  My day remains boringly sedate until I get to history class, arriving with a small collection of faces I’m starting to recognize, including the brooding blonde boy from homeroom. Mr. Lindsay, a small man with a kind face, ignores the strangeness of my presence that my other teachers always call attention to. He treats me like I’m anyone else and not That Girl from That House.

  “Good afternoon class!” Mr. Lindsay greets us warmly, and without the telltale accent of one born and raised in Maine. I wonder where he’s from and how he ended up at this tiny dot on the map. “How are we this second day of school?”

  There’s a dull attempt at a response from a few students, but most just stare at him, waiting. Yeah, yeah, Teach. Whatever.

  “Well don’t all start talking at once about your great love of history!” Mr. Lindsay chuckles to himself. “Now, I know we don’t all love history as much as I do, but this should be your favorite year. This is the year you get to learn all about the great state of Maine!”

  There’s some grumbling and someone behind me mutters, “Again?”

  Though I’m used to being on the honor roll, I don’t love all subjects. My second favorite subject is English because I love reading, but hate the constant writing and analysis. My favorite subject by far is history. I love learning new things, be it about the history of the United States or basket weaving. It’s all interesting to me, thanks to Dad, the great historian, who managed to make any history lesson exciting. He’d studied history in college, and although his job as an accountant had nothing to do with it, he put it to good use with his kids. Some of my favorite memories are of spending evenings with Dad while he regaled us with great narratives of the Mexican-American War or dangerous missions into the Congo by explorers never to be heard from again.

  “By the end of the year,” Mr. Lindsay continues, undeterred by his students’ disinterest, “you’ll be well versed in how the two thousand islands off our coast were formed, the battles of the war-torn Mimacs of New Brunswick, what the Vikings have to do with our colonization, our role in the French and Indian War, and the strange weather pocket that is Port Braseham and what it has to do with the failure of our fishing industry.”

  Weather pocket? My brain reaches up and plucks the words from the air. Some of the articles from last night were about the severe weather Port Braseham has experienced since its establishment. I raise my hand, but Mr. Lindsay is already turned away, scrawling our first assignment in his chicken scratch handwriting onto an old green chalkboard. He has a small balding spot on the back of his head and chalk on his shirt collar.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Lindsay?”

  He turns around with a warm smile, excited about the first question of the day. “Yes, Rose?”

  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised he knows my name. “What did you say about strange weather?”

  “Ah, I was talking about the strange weather pocket that seems to surround us here in Port Braseham.”

  “Could you elaborate?”

  The effect is immediate. It’s as if all of the air has been sucked out of the room. Desks creak as my classmates lean forward.

  Mr. Lindsay smiles. “Of course! Keep in mind I’m not a meteorologist, but there’s a significant history to our weather pattern here.” Mr. Lindsay’s eyes come alive, just like Dad’s used to. “Here’s something you should keep in mind before I get too far: The state of Maine has fewer thunderstorms than any state east of the Rockies. On average, Maine has about twenty thunderstorms a year across the state – unless you include Port Braseham.”

  Mr. Lindsay lets the pause pass slowly with a raised eyebrow. “Port Braseham has nearly thirty thunderstorms a year, all of them devastating to the land. Each storm leaves the coast devoid of fish, many of them skimmed dead from the surface the day after. Crops are drowned, uprooted, or otherwise destroyed. Just as the sea seems to recover, another storm befalls us. That’s exactly the kind of weather that crippled our fishing industry in the 1800s, an industry this town was founded on.

  “Other strange weather events include strong windstorms that literally carry the crops away, making it difficult for farmers to survive around here. The soil’s usually barren anyway, but just as we seem to get a few ears of corn or a few fields of wheat, a storm rips most of it away. This, in turn, causes livestock to die of starvation. Now, it isn’t like this every year. We may have several years of calm between these devastating events. It is a cycle, but it’s not a reliable cycle. By that, I mean it doesn’t have a predictable pattern. We don’t know when the cycle will occur, just that it will. It’s a hot topic in the world of meteorology.”

  “What about Christmas Eve?” Turning, I see it’s the blonde boy who’s spoken, his voice as sullen as his expression. I wonder what he’s so depressed about.

  “I’m glad you asked! I almost forgot the most perplexing weather event of all,” Mr. Lindsay says, “the Christmas Eve Thunderstorm. Every year without fail, we have a severe thunderstorm on Christmas Eve. It comes wi
thout warning, it’s strong enough to knock out the power, and it lasts sunset to sunrise. Considering how rare thunderstorms are in the winter, how especially rare they are in Maine, and the fact that we have one every year on the same day is both exciting and perplexing.”

  “How many years has that been happening?” I ask.

  “Well, as near as we can tell,” Mr. Lindsay says, looking away from me, “it’s happened every year since 1851. It all started on the Christmas Eve when Wolfhowl Manor’s first owners,

  the builders of it in fact...died.”

  ***

  After history, I keep my mouth shut for the rest of the day. I’m tired of being stared at, and it’s pretty hard to get away from people in a small school.

  My determination to consider the house as just a house is wavering under the sheer faith the people of Port Braseham have in the supposed curse. So convinced are they that Wolfhowl Mountain is cursed, they actually believe it controls a continental weather system. They haven’t made me a believer – yet – but I’m certainly curious. Maybe I can find some evidence to disprove all of this silly superstition and cure the town of their blind belief in something so sinister and ridiculous. And even though I think that’s about as likely as me sprouting feathers, I’m going to do more research for my own piece of mind. I want to find out what’s really behind the story of Wolfhowl Manor.

  I walk home with Letta and Shane. Eileen and Patty disappeared into the shop classroom with a gaggle of the geekier looking kids.

  “Robotics.” Shane says. “Brains ovah beauty... Not to say they aren’t pretty – I didn’t mean... ah never mind.” His cheeks are beet red.

  Letta laughs and pats Shane on his scrawny shoulder. “So Rose, how was day two?”

  “Eh.”

  “Eh?” Shane says bemusedly, as if I’m speaking a foreign language, and his red eyebrows furrow over a blanket of freckles. “What is eh?”

  “Less bad than good?” Letta guesses. “Evenly good and bad? Bad, but not as bad as yesterday?”