Wolfhowl Mountain

by Dian Cronan

  Alva retrieves Eamonn’s ladder from the corner where he had left it and sets it up in the middle of the room next to the bassinet. She is still a little short for the tall ceilings, even with the rickety ladder swaying under her weight on the uneven floorboards. She tosses one end of the rope over the thick beam and does her best to tie a sturdy knot. She tugs on the noose a few times, putting a little more of her weight on it to be sure it will hold her small body. It will.

  Then, without pause, without a look back at her daughter, without any thought behind her empty eyes, she slips the noose over her head and tightens it. A second later, she steps off the ladder and –

  ***

  I wake with a start, confused and unsettled. Where am I? I nearly stumble several feet to the floor before I realize I’m standing on the top step of a ladder set in the center of the fire room. It’s dark, but enough light filters in from the uncurtained windows for me to get my bearings. Looking down, I see a length of rope in one hand. Even in the semi-darkness, there’s no mistaking the shape of the noose. My fingers are red and sore, as if I tied the knot myself, rubbing my skin against the coarse fibers.

  I drop the rope and clamor down the ladder, breathing hard from the shock. Feeling a familiar warmth spread from my stomach and through my chest, I dash out of the fire room and into the bathroom, where I’m violently relieved of my stomach contents. My knees give way and hot tears roll down my cheeks. I fall away from the toilet and begin to sob.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  View from the Top

  I fall asleep on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor. Liam wakes me around seven when he comes in to use the bathroom.

  “Rosie, why are you on the floor?” He looks at me, his head tilted to one side like a curious dog.

  I push myself into a sitting position, glad the room isn’t spinning, though the way the rest of my body feels, it should be. I feel like I drank like a fish last night even though I hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol. I put a hand on my head and close my eyes for a minute, trying not to fall off the edge of the earth.

  “Rosie?”

  I open my eyes and slowly get to my feet. “Yeah, sorry kiddo. I don’t feel good. I’m gonna go lay down. In a bed. It’s all yours.”

  I stumble down the hall and fall into bed. When I next open my eyes, it’s after eleven and I have the house to myself. And although the early morning events frightened me, I’m glad no one else is around. I don’t have the energy to interact with anything more substantial than a muted television. I force some soggy cereal down my throat and take a long, hot shower. Eventually I wash myself, but I spend most of my time sitting on the bottom of the tub letting the hot-as-I-can-stand-it water cascade over me, engulfing me the way the icy waterfall had engulfed Adam.

  What’s wrong with me? I feel so gloomy, like a troll hiding under the darkness of a fairytale bridge. But why? Sure, the last year’s been tough on me, on my family, but I’d finally felt like I was adjusting to life here. It’s been three months now. I have friends. Yet I feel this overwhelming sense of depression. I find myself thinking about Dad more and more, when previously I’d done all I could to avoid thinking about him.

  Andrew Delaney was a quiet man. I’ve always wondered how he and Mother ended up together. Opposites must really attract because that’s what my parents were. Mother is boisterous and loud; she laughs freely and openly. She’s always been quick to any emotion, be it anger or happiness. But Dad was reserved. When he spoke, it was because he had something important to say. His voice was deep and melodic. People listened, really listened, when he spoke. He only laughed when something was truly funny, but even his laughter was more of a silent smile than a laugh. His face was sometimes like a stone, still and unreadable. Total opposites.

  Dad was smart too, not to say Mother isn’t. But he was smart in a different way. What did people always say about people like him? They’re book smart. He may have been an accountant, but I always thought of him as a mathematical historian. He loved math and he loved history. “You’d be surprised how often the two go together,” he used to tell me with a hint of a smile. He spent his days whiling the time away in a cubical over numbers that mattered to no one, but he enjoyed it because it was math. Then he’d spend his evening telling me some of the most exciting historical accounts he knew, many having to do with World War II, his favorite topic. I remember all those evenings sitting around the family room with the television turned off, listening with rapt attention as he wove his tales of deceit and intrigue. It’s those nights I miss the most.

  And it’s those nights I thought of when my parents told me I was going to be a big sister six years ago. At first, I was happy, but then angry and jealous. Why should I have to share Dad with this tiny little thing? I was here first. I can admit I was a difficult and selfish child, stubborn too, and for the first six months of Liam’s life, I pretended he didn’t even exist. He was my parents’ imaginary child. It wasn’t until Liam was walking and talking, and after a lengthy conversation with Dad, that I began to understand my responsibility to him as his big sister. It was Dad who helped me realize I loved Liam so much, in some innate way I still don’t understand. But now…

  Now the protective bubble of my family is broken. Mother is returning to her alcoholism, Dad is six feet under dry Texas earth, and Liam is fast becoming someone I don’t even recognize… I feel a hollowness deep within.

  I dress warmly when I finally emerge from the steam-filled bathroom. The house has grown cold since the rain started and I know it’ll be colder on the upper floors. Since I’m sitting around by myself, I figure it’s the perfect time to check out the attic and widow’s walk without having to explain myself to anyone, if for no other reason than to provide me with a distraction from my depressing internal monologue.

  I stand before the short hall Letta and I discovered on the third floor, staring down it apprehensively. It’s a cloudy day, but the rain has paused and it’s not only frosty on the third floor, but dark. I don’t need the flashlight in my hand to see my breath fogging in front of me, but I take it anyway. I’m not sure what it’ll be like in the attic, or if there’ll even be a light. In my other hand I wield a broom like a weapon. Who knows how long it’s been since someone’s been up there. What if there are bats or spiders or…whatever?

  Just as I’m convincing myself this adventure can wait, I square my shoulders and muster up some courage. “C’mon,” I say to myself. “You’re Rose Delaney. You don’t back down from anything.”

  I start down the hall, taking my time as a cool draft wafts toward me from the open door at the other end. I look at the portraits again, taking in every detail. I stare long and hard at Alva and Eamonn. There’s no doubt now; it was Alva in my dream last night. I wonder if I’d dreamed so vividly of the young mother because I remember looking at the painting before, or if it was even a dream at all. Could it have been some kind of vision? Could my dream have been…reality?

  I almost laugh out loud at the absurdity of it. I’m not clairvoyant. It’s just a combination of this picture, reading Alva’s diary, and an active imagination. It’s just your imagination, Rose.

  I peer into Alva’s dead eyes. I’ve read the woman’s own words, yet I can’t fathom what came over her. Staring into their eyes now, this dreary dead-eyed couple, I feel sorry for them. Even though I know their fate, I still find myself rooting for them, hoping for a happy ending.

  I move to the next portrait, with the smiling woman and the man with the thick eyebrows. I know now that I’m staring into the faces of Robert and Barbara Olenev, the owners of Wolfhowl Manor after the Callaghans. I remember the brief article from the realtor’s file detailing the discovery of Robert’s body not long after Barbara’s death. The man who died of a broken heart after his wife’s untimely passing. I shake my head. I know what Barbara’s secret smile means. She was pregnant.

  I skip over the portrait of the flapper and her husband. Their tight, angry smiles remind me too much of my par
ents, too much of loud voices and angry insults. Staring into those smug faces will earn me nothing but sadness and resentment now – and I have more than enough of that, thank you very much.

  I take the time to gaze at the portraits on the opposite wall that Letta and I skipped, transfixed and terrified as we were by the attic door.

  The first is of a handsome single man wearing the style typical of the early sixties. Unlike the portraits opposite his, his smile is warm and genuine. I have no idea who this man could be. He wasn’t anywhere in the file I’d taken from Mother. Could he be the owner of one of the diaries? E. L. perhaps? He’s the first person I’ve seen in the portraits who looks genuinely happy. He looks comfortable in a pair of bell-bottoms and a loud t-shirt. He has a jean jacket slung over one shoulder and a hammer in his other hand. Even in the portrait, I can tell his hands are rough and calloused like Beckan’s. Here’s a man who’s good with his hands, who truly worked to earn his living. Was he the one who restored some of the previous beauty to Wolfhowl Manor alongside the O’Dwyres? I make a mental note to ask Beckan about him.

  The final portrait is another young married couple who had to be living in the eighties based on her mountain of hair-sprayed bangs and bright pink and green eye shadow. Instead of woman in front of man with a hand on a shoulder, this couple holds a loving stance. He holds her in his arms with a tight bear hug and she has her own arms swung around his waist. Both wear genuine toothy smiles. This is what two people in love should look like.

  I think about the people who fill these portraits. How odd that all of the owners had chosen to have their portraits made and hung here. Such a deserted place, far away from where you’d entertain any company. And they’d all had their portraits made in the same location – in front of the intricate fireplace in the drawing room. Is it a coincidence?

  I’m certain these are the women who wrote the diaries we found. What made them all decide to write down their thoughts? To document the rise and fall of their lives here on Wolfhowl Mountain? Was this another coincidence? And why are all the diaries exactly the same? Where did they come from?

  I make up my mind then and there: there’s a presence here, in Wolfhowl Mountain. I’d idly entertained the idea of a ghost before. Perhaps Alva’s still hanging around, turning my family into strangers, reenacting what happened to her own family. Is it some kind of payback for her unhappy ending? But now, I’m not so sure it’s Alva. I’ve read nothing that speaks to the malice I feel when I’m alone in the house. I’ve seen nothing to indicate why the fire room is full of despair so strong it’s like a living entity. Did all of this strangeness and anger start with Alva? Or was she the victim of a presence that was here long before her time? Is there a true proverbial Indian burial ground pulsating deep below Wolfhowl Mountain? All of these thoughts give me the willies and I want to go back downstairs, but I came up here for a reason.

  As I approach the attic door , I see an empty portrait. The background is there, the detailed fireplace and floorboards, but there’re no people in it. That’s strange. Who would hang an empty portrait? And why? More questions to add to my already long list of questions about this place.

  Finally, I’m at the attic door. It’s old and cracked. Spider webs billow in the corners of the doorway from an invisible draft, and I watch one of the residents scuttle away. It’s been a long time since this door has been used. It has a lock, but the door lays open, a skeleton key poking out of the keyhole.

  I start, thinking back to the other night, as Letta and I huddled close together staring at the door. Hadn’t the door been closed on Friday night? But now it’s open, as if someone – or some thing – has recently passed through this portal to the unknown.

  Feeling my nerve weakening, I take a deep breath and force myself through the door.

  I’m immediately faced with a short set of rickety steps leading up into a dark gloomy mist. Thin shafts of weak light peak through cracks in the walls and roof. I make my way up the steps, careful to leave the door open, just in case I chicken out and need to make a quick getaway; it’s fairly likely at this point.

  My steps kick dust into the air and I cough. The small shafts of light aren’t enough to see by, and it’s too dark for my eyes to adjust. I set the broom against the railing and flip on the flashlight. Disappointingly, but somehow expectedly, there’s not much to see. Boxes are scattered throughout the large space, and everything is caked in eons of dust, but there’s nothing else of interest.

  I paw at some of the boxes half-heartedly and nudge a few with the toe of my shoe. Nothing’s labeled, and none of the boxes stand out as any older or younger than the others. There’s only one way to figure out what they contain, so I get down on my knees, pull a box toward me at random and open the flaps.

  This box surely belonged to the flapper couple. The items inside are soot-covered and layered with grime, but I recognize the long cigarette holder from their portrait. I also find an old-fashioned hand mirror with an intricately carved handle and a matching brush, a few strands of hair still clinging to the bristles. Both are made of gold and I wonder if the set is worth anything. I also find a few dirty scarves, several bowties of varying tacky patterns, a box of bobby pins, and at the very bottom, under a swath of dusty ivory fabric, a revolver. I’m stunned. Which one of them had carried it? And who – or what – were they protecting themselves from on their isolated mountain?

  Going through the other boxes leads to nothing of any real interest. I find some clothing that probably belonged to the eighties couple, and a few things that probably belonged to Alva and Eamonn. There’s a box of heavy tools, and lastly, one lone box made of sturdy pine with a label: Emily Lenore. This box, I know immediately, is special. It’s been hidden beneath all of the others, a diamond in the rough.

  I pounce on the box, expecting to find some infant clothes circa the 1850s, maybe a handmade doll from Eamonn’s skilled hands, or baby blankets knitted with love by women at their church, or perhaps an ancient photograph of the child.

  But these things are not inside this box.

  What I do find doesn’t make any sense. Emily Lenore was an infant in 1851. What happened to her after the death of Alva and Eamonn, I’ve no idea, but the items inside this box couldn’t belong to that Emily Lenore. What I’ve found are much more modern clothes and toys, probably from the 1930s or 1940s. There’s a copy of The Great Gatsby, which I not only love, but thanks to my tenth grade English class, also know wasn’t published until 1922. I also see Brave New World, which thanks to my eleventh grade English class, I know wasn’t published until 1932. It actually has a scrap of paper tucked into the pages like a bookmark. There are a few non-fiction titles related to aviation, which seems out of place until I find a set of bed sheets with little cartoon airplanes on them.

  Beneath all of these things, I also find one of the oldest Barbie-like dolls I’ve ever seen. There are some model airplanes that look like they were made from a kit, crochet hooks, and a few balls of colorful yarn. There are several other toys at the bottom of the box that, although older, definitely didn’t exist in 1851 or the fifty years that followed.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I mutter to myself. “It must be mislabeled.”

  I contemplate this box for a long time before finally removing The Great Gatsby and the airplane sheets, and replacing the lid. I put these items by my broom at the top of the stairs, and then turn back for my next mission.

  At the center of the attic is a set of wrought iron stairs, black paint peeling, metal spiraling several times upon itself before reaching a latched trapdoor in the ceiling. These I climb carefully, for they wobble slightly under me. I have to push all of my weight against the trap door before it flies up and flaps backward against the roof with a loud bang! The cold wind rushes in and squeezes me like a vise, throwing my hair around my face, making it difficult to see. Fighting the cold snap, I go up the remaining stairs and find myself on the roof of Wolfhowl Manor.

  The view from here is
astounding in the most beautiful and terrifying way. I’m not afraid of heights, but I’ve never been staring down from the top of a mountain before. I find myself holding onto the chipped white railing boxing the widow’s walk in with ashen, bloodless knuckles.

  I can see the driveway on the front of the house and I follow the twist down the hillside until it disappears into the tall pines of the forest surrounding the hill. The houses of the town, the little stores, the school, the church; all is visible from this vantage point, but they are also very, very small. I fight off a surge of tunnel vision and faintness.

  I turn around and find the other railing. Staring off the cliff behind the house and into the sea, I can see the small rocky beach below the cliff and the whitecaps on the tips of the waves as they assault the shore with their salty forces. The dark clouds hang low over the ocean and there’s only one boat out, way off in the distance. Whoever’s on that boat must be crazy. Today is not a day to be on a tiny ping-pong ball bouncing along in the stormy current.

  I stay on the widow’s walk for a while, thinking about Alva, and how she must’ve watched for Seamus and Eamonn’s boat from this very spot over a hundred years before. I try picturing this part of the coast crowded with fishing boats and trawlers, now dwindled to only one in a hopeless quest to make a living. To the north, way down the beach, I see the waterfront where I sat on the beach that first week. I can barely make out the roof of the Wharf Rat and its surroundings. I try imaging the area alive and full of ant-like people, buying and selling their wares. But even from here, the boardwalk looks derelict. With a frown, I wonder what kind of town this would be, what it would be like to live here, if none of the tragedies had occurred. What would be different if I’d found a town full of happy, small-town folk rather than these beaten down, curse-fearing wolves, scavenging for fish, for something to live off of, for a reason to be?