Wolfhowl Mountain

by Dian Cronan

  “I missed home.”

  “Texas?” I ask, confused.

  “No,” he says with exasperation. “It was just time for me to come home. She wanted me to come home. Okay?”

  “Who? Mrs. Bauer?”

  He sighs heavily. “Nevermind. I’m hungry.” He goes into the kitchen without another word. I don’t stop him.

  ***

  I’m not going to analyze Liam’s behavior. It’ll only make my anxiety spike, and it’s already skyrocketed after last night. I wander around the house for a while, picking up here and there, to distract myself from the feeling of being watched no matter what room I’m in. After a while, I check in on Mother, who’s snoring off last night’s alcohol, still wearing her cocktail dress. I’m not sure what time she came home, but the Volvo is parked crookedly out front and I’m just relieved she came home alone.

  Returning to my bedroom, I take down my torn canopy, fold it, and set it on the floor by the door so I’ll remember to give it to Letta later. Maybe I’ll walk it down there myself and apologize for my rude goodbye…and ask how things went with Liam last night. Maybe the Bauers can tell me why Liam wanted to come home so badly.

  Depressed, I curl up on the window seat and stare out at the darkening sky. The rain is in a lull for the time being, but judging by the clouds rolling in off the horizon, it won’t be long before the encore begins. Uncomfortable, I rearrange the throw pillows when I feel something quite unlike a pillow; in fact, there are five quite unlike-a-pillows digging into my back.

  The diaries! I forgot all about them. I grab a dirty t-shirt from my hamper and wipe each of the little books down. Each diary is leather-bound with a red cover and a pair of initials scrawled inside a small framed rectangle on the front. A. C., A. B., B. O., E. L., and the one from the fire room, left blank. I flip through each of the diaries, setting the blank one to the side, trying to decide which one to read first. Reading the diaries in chronological order is the only thing that makes sense, and A. C. has the oldest entries, beginning in 1849, so I start there.

  The diary belonged to Alva Callaghan, a seventeen-year-old girl who emigrated from Ireland with her husband, Eamonn, just before starting the diary. Alva’s neat cursive describes the heart-wrenching goodbyes to her large family after Eamonn decided their future lay in America. She wasn’t sure Eamonn was making the right decision, but she loved him and had pledged her life to him, so she’d follow his footsteps wherever they took her.

  The journey from Ireland was a long and difficult one for the couple. Alva was seasick the entire journey while Eamonn worked as a deckhand to pay for their passage. They eventually arrived in America and found their way to Maine, where some of Eamonn’s extended family had settled a few years before. The Callaghans established themselves in the then relatively new town of Port Braseham. In late October 1849, Alva wrote:

  Everywhere I look, I am reminded of home and all of the things I miss. In many ways, life in Port Braseham is very similar to Ireland. Everything is green. The grass is green. The trees are green. The houses are green. I should wish that my favorite color were green!

  There is the wonderful salty smell of the sea so near, which reminds me of home... I wonder how Mama is holding up without me. I wonder how my sisters are doing. Has Laura had her baby? Has Roisin married that dreadful James? I hope she chose Dylan instead! And is my dear brother, Keagan, being nice to his sisters? Oh, how I miss them!

  The move is made easier by Eamonn’s cousins, who have been so very kind. Although their house is small and they barely know us, they welcomed us into their home with open arms. Eamonn helps his cousin Seamus on his fishing boat, while I stay home to help Seamus’ wife, Rebecca, with their three energetic children, all boys: Thomas, Stephen, and Joseph – all under the age of eight. How Rebecca managed to keep up with them before I arrived, I shall never know! They are quite clever and mischievous. Just the other day I found all three of them on the roof with no idea how they got up there or how to get them down! I had to call over the pastor and his ladder, as Seamus and Eamonn were not due back for several hours and Rebecca, trusting me, went to the market and left the boys in my care.

  I enjoy Rebecca very much. She is nearly twice my age, but she doesn’t talk to me like I am a child. She treats me like a woman, which I like very much. Being the youngest of seven, I was always treated as the baby of the family, and it is nice to feel independent. And, thank goodness, Rebecca is not quick to anger! When she arrived home to find the pastor and the boys on the roof, she merely laughed and patted me on the back.

  Caring for the boys has reminded me how very much I want my own children. Two boys and two girls; Joshua and Darren (after Father), and Holly and Emily (after Mother). I try not to bring it up too much as it bothers Eamonn to talk about wishes. I think he still feels like a young man, but he is nearly 37!

  Wow, seventeen and thirty-seven? I suppose it wasn’t a big deal back then, but something like that could get you arrested today. I flip ahead, looking for something interesting, and find a short entry with the first mention of Wolfhowl Manor in mid-December.

  We have just purchased land on the most beautiful hill in town! I can hardly wait, but wait I must. All we have is the land, but Eamonn has promised to build the most wonderful house to my specifications. It will truly be the House of Our Dreams! And to know it was lovingly built with my husband’s own hands fills me with great joy! How very lucky I am! I must write to Mother and tell her straight away!

  January through May are pretty mundane. Eamonn was a busy man, constantly on the fishing boat or working on the couple’s new house, but Alva could only lavish her hard-working husband with compliments, worshiping the ground he walked on. They moved into the incomplete house in April to give Eamonn’s cousin their house, and space, back. Seamus and Rebecca were expecting another child and Alva desperately hoped it was a girl for Rebecca’s sake.

  Alva continued helping Rebecca and began teaching piano lessons to help make ends meet. Then, something interesting – the first storm Mr. Lindsay mentioned in class. It was a severe thunderstorm in late May 1850. The storm had hail and waterspouts that, according to Alva, “ripped the corn crops straight out of the ground and into the sky.” It’s after this Alva’s diary starts documenting not only the decline of Port Braseham, but also her own descent into madness, and it’s such a deeply dark romance, I can’t put it down. As in many of the old romantic tales, it’s just as the couple nearly achieves complete happiness that their descent begins.

  Alva’s diary walks through the small events of summer and winter in Port Braseham. Through Alva’s thoughts, I begin to understand the devastation that first storm had caused to the town. It’s almost as if the residents of Port Braseham were experiencing their own little Great Depression. The town had built itself on farming and fishing, the only two things that didn’t seem to be available to them all of a sudden. People weren’t starving exactly, but times were difficult. As the months dragged along, Alva’s outlook on life became bleak.

  I’d been so excited to move into our own house all those months ago. But I never dreamed I much would change, how alone I would feel.

  Being with Rebecca and the boys is wonderful and exciting. There is always talking and laughing and the noise of the boys playing somewhere in the house or the yard. Neighbors visit and there are teas and strolls downtown. I am surrounded by an aura of contentment when we are together.

  But it is different up on this hill. Eamonn is gone more than ever, and I’m left with nothing but the constant lonely whistle of a breeze leaking through the unfinished frame of our ‘house’ and a silence so heavy it feels like its own presence. It gives one the feeling of being followed, shadowed from room to room by something that always remains in the shadows. Something heavy that lurks in the darkness.

  We are far enough from town that no one visits, not even Rebecca. She came up with the boys just once, but left almost immediately after, feigning illness. The boys themselves refused to even
enter the house, looking at it as if it were some… well, some monster, something to fear. I tried to reassure them, but they would only hide behind Rebecca’s skirts, as if they were all toddlers again. I tried to talk to Rebecca about it once, but her face became so pale and rigid that I let it go for fear she would faint.

  The lonliness I feel here is of the deepest kind I have ever felt. I truly feel that I am alone. From the windows, looking down on the town in the dark, one could almost be conviced it is deserted. That you are alone. Each day I feel a little more isolated from the world and a little more afraid of the future.

  But then, you know that, don’t you?

  The only subject that seemed to bring life and joy to Alva’s writing was the thought of children. During the long days that Eamonn and Seamus were out on the boat, Alva spent much of her time playing with Rebecca’s children and enjoying them more and more. The seed of motherhood had been planted deeply, and there would be nothing to stop her from having a child of her own very soon. She even began to imagine what such a child would look like.

  Thomas has the loveliest green eyes. Every time I see him, his magnificent eyes spill over with warmth and joy. If only our child could have such wonderful eyes, but Eamonn is very dark in complexion. There shall be none of Stephen’s fiery hair or Joseph’s porcelain skin – well, perhaps the porcelain skin. I am quite pale myself.

  Oh, each day I begin to think of being a mother more and more. It scarcely leaves my mind for a moment! ‘Why must you always hurry things?’ is what Eamonn always says, but I can only smile. Just wait until he hears that he is to be a father! Then he will understand! He will begin to think as I think: What will my son or daughter be like? Will they be warm and laugh often like Stephen? Or will they brood and cry like Joseph? If it is a girl, will she like pink? Will I have to force her to wear the little lavender dresses I will make for her? Will my son love being doted on and carried along atop his father’s shoulders?

  I will drive myself crazy with anticipation if we do not conceive soon! Or perhaps it is you that I will drive crazy!

  I keep reading about Alva’s visions of her child, of motherhood, of life in Port Braseham with her handsome family. Each entry is more detailed, more urgent, more desperate.

  Alva and Eamonn became pregnant in May 1851, exactly a year after the famous storm. At first, both were elated. Alva planned the nursery and did all of the things a young mother-to-be would do. Eamonn’s reaction was different. He was happy at first, but by August, Alva had decided Eamonn didn’t want a baby at all. He was always in a bad mood and snapped at her with the slightest provocation. She became depressed, but even in her depression, she made excuses for her husband. He worked hard, both on the house and on Seamus’ boat, but the fishing industry was suffering and he worried the house wouldn’t be done in time for the baby. In late August, she wrote:

  It isn’t his fault. It is perhaps mine, for asking so much of him during such a difficult time. It isn’t only Eamonn who suffers, but the town, for that strange storm last May – yes over a year ago now! – seems to have destroyed not only the crops, but also the soil to plant them in, and it has carried away every last fish. Every Sunday at church, I pray for the relief of the town. Rebecca says I am being too sensitive. There is ‘a normal ebb and flow to things,’ she tells me. ‘All will be well in the end.’

  I could almost believe Rebecca were it not for Eamonn’s strange behavior. He is always away from the house, either on the fishing boat praying for a catch or in town on an errand. When he is here, he stomps around as if he were carrying an elephant! He seems always to wear a frown and is more reserved than the man I married. It seems I can do no right by him. Dinner is never made properly. The house is always dirty and covered in sawdust – as if that were my fault! And to have seen the look he gave me when I came home yesterday with a small basket for the baby’s room! He must have thought it cost a fortune! I have asked him many times what is wrong, but he always says it is nothing.

  Perhaps I am only being paranoid. I know Eamonn thinks so. When I’m here all by myself, in this monstrous house, I feel odd. I feel strange. I have the sensation of being watched. Ha! I am laughing at myself. I know it is not possible, but it almost seems as if a ghost were here, shadowing me as I complete my daily duties, as I sweep or teach little Joseph to play piano. I have ventured so far as to ask Eamonn to try to be home before dark, but he feels I am acting a ‘foolish little girl. You take Seamus’ ghost stories for the boys too seriously!’

  As the weeks and months passed in Alva’s diary, it feels less and less like a diary. It’s more like she was writing a letter home to a sister or best friend. She told stories to a mysterious “you” and asked questions as if she truly expected an answer, and even sometimes, as if she’d gotten one. It increased as her pregnancy developed and her relationship with Eamonn became more strained.

  In September:

  Eamonn continues to be gone most of the day. He leaves before sunrise and gets home hours after sunset. I miss him even when he is right in front of me. He barely speaks anymore. I’m so lonely for conversation that I’ve started to talk to myself! Of course, I spend time at church and with Rebecca and the boys, but even Seamus is home more than Eamonn. I worry there is something he has not told me.

  Am I paranoid? And if not, what can I do? What would you have me do?

  Oh, don’t be ridiculous! I would never! I don’t know what I would do without Eamonn.

  In October:

  Eamonn is as frigid as the air outside. He only tells me he loves me when I protest he has grown tired of me. He no longer asks how I feel or after the baby. It is as if he doesn’t care for us at all.

  My heart is breaking, I tell you, just breaking.

  I wish you wouldn’t say such things, but perhaps... Perhaps you are right.

  By November, Alva’s depression equaled the size of her swollen belly.

  The baby moves inside me, but I feel nothing. I do not deserve this gift from God. I will be as much a failure at mothering as I have been at being a wife. I am not good enough for this child. We are not good enough for this child. We cannot even finish a house, much less raise a child! No, we are not parents. How could I have been so blind?

  This child deserves better. But who? Tell me, who will be the mother this child deserves?

  That entry sends chills racing down my spine.

  The baby was born a year to the day after Eamonn and Alva purchased their land. The first floor of Wolfhowl Manor was complete, and Eamonn finished the nursery and master suite, but only just. The third floor and the attic were coming along. Eamonn had been rushing to finish the necessary rooms before the baby’s arrival. For this reason, many of the rooms on the north side of the house were incomplete, including the room next to the nursery. The room next to Liam’s. The fire room.

  Alva’s depression worsened after the birth of their daughter, Emily Lenore. Convinced as she was that they were undeserving of such a wonderful child, Alva had a difficult time caring for her. She did all she could to avoid bonding with Emily Lenore, convinced the girl’s true mother would soon arrive and whisk her away to the life she deserved.

  Eamonn, distant though he was, became concerned by Alva’s deep depression. He called the doctor to visit them several times in the two weeks following the birth of Emily Lenore.

  The doctor! Can you imagine? The doctor cannot help us, because there is no help for us. Yes, I am certain now. So undeserving, as you’ve been kind enough to remind me. I’m merely a vessel. Emily Lenore’s true mother will come soon. I am sure of it. I can feel it inside me.

  Yes, her true mother is close.

  That’s the last entry in Alva’s diary, on Christmas Eve 1851. That rings a bell somewhere. What was it Mr. Lindsay told our class? The first annual Christmas Eve storm was in 1851. Yes, but something else still nags at me. Christmas Eve of 1851 is also the night the first owners, the builders of Wolfhowl Manor, died. Yes, that’s what it is.

  Ch
apter Twenty-Five

  The Storm Party

  Mother hasn’t come out of her room, clearly still recovering from a night of hard partying. She doesn’t protest when I ask about going out, but I hear the sadness in her voice. I wonder if the dark circles under her eyes are from a late night, or from crying. I feel a little guilty for being so wrapped up in myself. I guess I assumed the move would be easy on Mother because she was the one who wanted to move. Am I wrong?

  Liam spends all day in his playroom. I check in on him a few times to make sure he’s behaving and that his needs are met, but clearly my care isn’t required. When I check on him for lunch, he already has a sandwich in his hand. Sitting in front of his pudgy form on the floor is a set of dirty miniature soldier figurines I’ve never seen before.

  “Hey, where’d you find those?” I ask, but Liam merely shrugs and goes back to his little warring men. I wait for an answer, but when it’s clear I’ll get none, I leave him to his own devices.

  Around eight, right before Letta’s due to arrive to look at Alva’s diary and get ready for the storm party, I go back up to Liam’s room to help him get ready for bed. I find him in his bed, already washed, teeth brushed, and in his pajamas. He’s sitting Indian style with his chin in his hands and staring into Mother’s old rocking chair in the corner, as if something there holds his rapt attention.

  “Holy cow, squiggle worm,” I say. “I’m impressed! Look at you gettin’ ready for bed all by yourself!” I sit next to him with a smile. “So what’ll be tonight? The princess and her knight? The goblin and the gremlins?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I don’t need one of your stories tonight,” he says simply. His voice is so moderate and unreadable, it’s unnerving.