Wolfhowl Mountain

by Dian Cronan

  Beckan’s smile fades. “Yes,” he says. “I knew her, and I know what happened.”

  “You do?” I say, powerless to hide my excitement.

  “Yes,” he says somberly. He holds the article between two fingers, rubbing the recycled paper gently between them. “The woman this article’s about, the woman who died here...was my muthah.”

  Hagan and Alison Boyle

  The Second Owners: 1933-1934

  Hagan and Alison Boyle deserved every bit of the romantic story they were capable of. She was heiress to a great fortune who deigned to take notice of a poor city boy in the family’s clothing factory. But they didn’t have the happy ending one would imagine. Quite the opposite in fact. Alison’s family took Hagan under their wing. They turned him from a pitiable custodian struggling to make ends meet into a successful businessman who eventually ran a factory of his own.

  Alison and Hagan were married six months after their first date, but the marriage was over by their fifth anniversary. Under the stress of infertility and the daily stresses of the family business, their passion for one another failed. If only they’d left each other, they might have avoided their fate inside Wolfhowl Manor.

  The more successful Hagan became, the more captivated with the world of business – and money – he was. After two hard years working his way to the top, he was able to hire a manager to take care of the daily factory business. He then spent the majority of his time making lucrative business deals over martinis and Alison whiled away her hours as a rich but bored housewife over double martinis. Though the couple did spend time together, it was usually in the company of several friends over many double martinis. Eventually this lifestyle led them both to stray into the arms of lovers, but alas, did not lead them to divorce.

  In 1933, Hagan decided they needed to get away from the city lifestyle, away from their nightly parties and drinking binges, and grow up a little. He thought they might dry out in a nice summerhouse, which if nice enough, would become their full time quarters. Perhaps they could find a way to rekindle their love and youth. Through a friend, Hagan learned of the property on Wolfhowl Mountain. Although the house had been unoccupied for thirty years, there was a caretaker and Hagan was assured it was perfect for the couple to use as a city escape for a while. There was plenty of room to entertain guests and being so close to the water, Hagan’s eyes were full of yachts and beach parties. Hagan bought the property sight unseen, and without consulting his wife, in April 1933.

  Alison didn’t spend much time involved in her husband’s monetary affairs. As long as she didn’t have to lift a pretty little finger and they had enough money for her pretty little things, she was sated. It was this that kept her from protesting when Hagan announced he was packing them up and moving them to Port Braseham, Maine to take up residence in their new summer home out of the city. She idly hoped she’d find the caretaker attractive and Hagan would find something to do with himself, like a hobby.

  It wasn’t until they arrived at Wolfhowl Manor they realized their terrible mistake. The original construction had begun to rot, creating gaps for drafts and holes for rats. There was no hot water, when there was water at all. Though the view was stunning, the sea was hardly accessible from the house. Hagan’s dreams of reconnecting with his still beautiful yet emotionally unavailable wife through balmy jaunts on the beach and leisurely sails along the shore were dashed. The way she glared at him that first night sealed the fate of their fractured marriage. Once they settled in, Alison was more interested in the view at the bottom of her martini glass than her once doting husband and was bored to the point of lethargy.

  It didn’t take long for their partying lifestyle to find the Boyles in Port Braseham. Aa month after their arrival, friends started arriving unannounced. Hagan had greatly missed the empty interactions of his friends, with whom he had nothing in common but money, and craved an alcohol-fueled adventure in the absence of his wife’s love.

  Speaking to police after the couple’s death, their friends would reflect that they’d seen quite a change in the fun loving couple after they left the city. Though it was true they often did their loving separately, there was no actual discord between them. Hagan and Alison were perfectly aware of each other’s transgressions and, though they may not have approved of them, accepted them. They still knew how to throw a party and have a good time. However, the couple who fought over almost nothing prior to the move, fought over nearly everything afterward. Alison kept track of every dime Hagan spent. Hagan kept track of every drink Alison consumed. Alison complained about every failing of the house and the caretaker’s failure to keep the house up to her par while Hagan complained it was her fault for spending so much time in the caretaker’s cabin. Things between the couple had been unbearable since at least July 1933, a fact confirmed by some of the townspeople who occasionally saw them in town.

  As near as anyone could tell, the Boyles hadn’t actually been seen in town or visited by any friends since Christmas 1933. They became recluses, refusing to leave the house and sending the caretaker on their errands.

  On the early morning of New Year’s Day 1934 the townspeople saw, first a spiral of smoke drifting from Wolfhowl Mountain, and then great billows of black smoke sullying the pink sky. By the time the Bar Harbor Fire Department arrived, the entire north wing of the house was engulfed. It took hours to beat the flames into dying embers. The bodies were found a few days later as investigators sifted through the ashes.

  The original police report showed Alison Boyle shot her husband and then set the fire in a bedroom. She died of smoke inhalation while holding Hagan’s lifeless, blood-covered body. The cause of the fire is listed as unknown and the official cause of death for both parties was reported to be smoke inhalation. That’s what a lot of money can buy you if your daughter is heir to your fortune.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mrs. O’Dwyre

  Am unbearably long silence passes between us, Beckan still glaring at the article intently, as if he’s hoping to set it on fire with his mind and erase the terrible event. His green eyes flick slightly from side to side, reading the sparse details over and over. I try to think of something to say. I’m sure Beckan doesn’t want to talk about it, and I don’t know if I want the details anymore. It’s too grotesque for it to be so closely related to someone I know, to a friend. I haven’t had much interaction with death in my life and don’t respond to it well myself.

  “I’m sorry, Beckan,” I say finally. My words feel sharp and awkward in my mouth. “I-I didn’t know.”

  Beckan shrugs, finally looking at me. “How could you? It happened a long time ago.” I watch his glassy eyes quickly dry up, without so much as a sniff.

  “You don’t have to tell me about it.”

  “No, it’s okay.” Beckan hands the article back to me. “You’re going tah heeah ‘bout it soonah or latah. She’s part of the history of the house now I guess. One of its many victims.”

  “What happened?” I ask tentatively.

  “The details are still pretty fuzzy,” he says, pushing himself off of the bed. He paces between the door and the closet in long strides. “What we know ‘bout that day we’ve mostly guessed at. My parents were always a happy couple. They were high school sweethahts, even though Pop didn’t graduate. Pop had been livin’ heeah on the property his whole life and Ma moved in with him. Pop doesn’t talk ‘bout it a lot, but he always said thins were ‘peaches an’ sunshine’ until the Hollisters.”

  “The Hollisters?”

  “Owners of Wolfhowl back in the eighties,” he says. “Last owners before you. They weren’t heeah for long, but Ma took a likin’ tah the wife. They were newlyweds. Moved up heeah tah staht a family. They seemed happy, always laughin’ and dancin’ and kissin’.”

  “What happened to them?” I’m a little afraid of the answer.

  “Nothin’ actually,” Beckan says, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. He almost lights it, but then realizes where he is. “D�
�ya mind?”

  I don’t like smoking. It smells awful and looks stupid. But I figure Beckan needs it, and since he’s about to bare his soul to me, I point to the balcony. “Let’s go outside. But if Mother says anything, I’m throwing you under the bus.”

  “Fair enough,” he says with a small smirk.

  We step onto the balcony. Port Braseham explodes with light across the bottomless pit of the hill as the sun slips below the horizon. I close the doors to block out some of the bedroom light so I can watch the town twinkle as I listen.

  “So the Hollisters?” I say.

  Beckan lights his cigarette and takes several therapeutic drags before he replies. “They just picked up and left one day,” he says, the smoke flowing out of his mouth as he talks. “They’d been tryin’ tah staht their family, but the wife had a couplah miscarriages I think. Havin’ children’s always been kinda a problem ‘round heeah.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Anyway,” he sighs, “the wife got wicked depressed ‘bout it and they eventually left. They put it up for sale, but it ultimately went back tah the historical society. It wasn’t long aftah the Hollister’s abandoned the place that Ma became obsessed with it.”

  “Obsessed?”

  “Yeah. Pop and I caught her starin’ at it a lot, just thinkin’ or… list’nin’.”

  “Listening? What do you mean?”

  He shrugs again. “Dunno. When Pop would ask her what she was doin’, that’s what she’d say. She was list’nin’.” He pauses to use his burned down cigarette butt to light another, and then flicks the dying ember into the darkening abyss of the front yard.

  “I think she felt a lot like the Hollister wife,” he continues. “She and Pop wanted more children aftah me, but they couldn’t make it happen. Doctor told her she was barren when I was real little. Said she was lucky tah even have me.”

  “That’s harsh.”

  “Aftah the Hollisters left, it seemed tah hit her pretty hard there’d never be anothah baby ‘round. She talked a lot ‘bout babies, ‘bout havin’ more, even though she knew it was impossible. There were a lot of conversations that began with ‘I wish...’ I can’t say it made me feel real warm and fuzzy. It was hard tah understand as a kid.” He falls quiet, staring off into the night.

  “What happened in the house?”

  Beckan clears his throat, takes another drag of his cigarette. “Ma liked tah take long walks. Said it helped her clear her head. So, when she disappeared the afternoon of Christmas Eve, we didn’t think much of it. It wasn’t until dark we really stated worryin’ because we knew the storm was comin’. We walked the property and called friends, but we couldn’t find her. We called the police department, but they don’t spend much time worrying’ about us up heeah on the hill. They couldn’t do much until the storm was ovah anyway.” His voice betrays a hint of bitterness.

  “Pop went out early the next mornin’, soon as the rain stopped, and walked the property again. He thought he saw somethin’ in one of the upper windows, so he went in. He found her up in the other bedroom,” he motions toward the fire room with his cigarette, “hanging’ from the rafters. Been dead a while, all night probably.”

  “Oh Beckan, that’s terrible,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry – I shouldn’t have asked. I –” I falter, unsure what to do or say. Is this a hug moment? Would he even want a hug from me? I study his face, barely visible now in the darkness, but the glowing coal of his cigarette reflects in his glassy eyes. I reach out and squeeze Beckan’s hand, an instinctual response. His rough fingers rub against my soft skin like sandpaper as they squeeze mine gently back.

  “I don’t pretend tah understand why she did what she did,” he says, “but I’ve made peace with it. Pop hasn’t been in the house since. I think he’s afraid of what he’ll see.”

  “He thinks it’s the curse, doesn’t he?” I ask, trying to keep the skepticism out of my voice, and Beckan nods. “What about you?”

  “Undecided,” he says and then takes a deep breath. “Sometimes when I’m in heeah, I think I hear her… Look, I’m not crazy,” he adds when he sees my skeptical expression. “She liked tah hum a lot. There was never an ounce of silence in our house unless Ma was asleep. And when I’m up here, turning screws, fixing doorknobs… sometimes I think I hear her humming’. But other times I’m heeah...and thins seem normal. Quiet. Like it’s any othah house. And then I staht tah think I made it all up because I miss her.”

  “Do you…hear her a lot?”

  Beckan hesitates, but then nods slowly.

  “Have you…” I shiver suddenly, momentarily losing my breath. “Have you heard her since we moved in?”

  Beckon nods again.

  “You aren’t afraid?”

  “I don’t scare so easy,” he says. “Even if the house is cursed, what am I supposed tah do?”

  “Exorcism?”

  He laughs. “Been tried before, believe it or not. You just have tah accept it and hope it doesn’t come aftah you.”

  His tone frightens me and I hug myself. The air is damp and chilly. All light has disappeared below the horizon, leaving us in the small bronze light filtering through the curtains. I feel weird. Something Beckan said has my guts churning, and something is rising to the surface faster than I can control it, like vomit. My mouth starts moving without my permission and I realize I’m about to tell Beckan something I haven’t shared with anyone other than my anger counselor. Something I vowed never to speak of again.

  Sensing my inner turmoil, Beckan flicks his cigarette over the edge of the balcony and leans on the railing. “Spit it out, girl.”

  “My dad is dead.” The words tumble out so quickly, and my hands fly to my mouth, as if stuffing them back down my throat would make it untrue.

  Beckan stays quiet, but puts a heavy arm around my shoulders. He squeezes my body into a half-hug and simply says, “I’m sorry.”

  A sob explodes from my throat, but I quickly stifle it. “I’m sorry,” I say, wiping at my watery eyes. “It just came out. I don’t mean to take away from what happened to your mom, but... I guess I’m trying to say I’ve been through what you’ve been through. I understand.” I’ve tried to deny it for so long, told myself Dad is back in Texas missing us, but saying it out loud makes it real. I let my weight slip a little and lean into Beckan, allowing him to comfort me in a way I’ve never let anyone.

  “D’ya want tah tell me what happened?” he asks gently.

  “I dunno,” I say honestly.

  The silence grows awkward and I feel the need to fill it with my voice. “My parents split about a year ago. Nothing had been finalized, but they were separated and moving forward with the divorce. It was toughest on Liam and Dad. They were so close, but Mother won temporary custody. Dad really went off the deep end after that I guess. It was hard for him. He really wanted to work it out, but Mother already had a foot out the door when she filed.”

  “And you?” Beckan asks. “How did you feel ‘bout it?”

  “Um...” Anger is all that comes to mind – blinding, white hot, all-consuming anger – which I beat down with every ounce of my self-control. “I dunno… I don’t want to talk about me anymore.”

  “Okay.”

  “He was basically living in a hotel,” I continue. “My dad, I mean. Mother commandeered the house. She didn’t want to see him, so she’d drop us off for visits. I let Liam run ahead of me one day. The door was unlocked...”

  “Poor Liam.”

  “Yeah. He found Dad in the bathroom.”

  “Bathroom?”

  “Yeah, in a tub full of red water,” I explain. “I don’t think Liam understood at first. He thought Dad was playing a game. It was a few days before he could really be made to understand, and even then... I don’t know if he really understands Dad killed himself.”

  “Sounds bad,” Beckan says sympathetically. “But Liam is doing okay. He’s a good kid. He’ll be alright.” His voice is calm and confident, as if saying it makes it t
rue.

  “I hope so.

  “And you?” Beckan asks again.

  “I’m just…angry,” I say. I grit my teeth and fight back the tears. I shake my head.

  “That’s okay,” he says. “But you can talk tah me in the future, if you want. And honestly, I know this is a serious moment and all, but I’m glad tah see your frosty exterior thaw a little bit.”

  “Gee thanks.” I smile up at him, and for a moment, we stand together, his arm around me, and it’s like I can feel a static charge between us. As I look into his dark eyes reflecting the bedroom light, I feel it build and build. And then –

  There’s a crunching of gravel as Mother’s station wagon pulls into the driveway and I pull away from Beckan a little too quickly.

  “She’s getting home late tonight,” Beckan says, glancing at his watch. “It’s nearly eight.”

  “Oh crap! Liam! I didn’t make him dinner! He’s probably died of starvation.” I reach for the doorknob, but turn back to Beckan and add, “Thanks. For talking.”

  “Anytime, Rose.” His eyes hold mine a beat too long and I know he means it, but there’s another meaning hidden in his tone. I look away awkwardly, twisting the knob and pulling the door open as Mother gets out of the car. When my eyes hit my bedroom, I’m shocked.

  My room is an explosion of my belongings. The closet door is nearly torn off the hinges and all of my clothes are strewn across the room. The canopy of the bed is hanging down with a deep slash down the center. The sheets are ripped from the mattress and hanging down over the edges. Something tore my bedroom to bits.

  All I can do is scream. “Mom!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Let Me In

  “Mom!” My fingers dig into Beckan’s arm. He’s silent, his mouth agape and his eyebrows nearly meeting his hairline. I hear Mother’s clumsy stomps on the stairs before she breathlessly bursts into the room. I run and cling to her. At once I’m met with the stench of alcohol and cigarettes.