Wolfhowl Mountain

by Dian Cronan

  “She’s tellin’ people you’re possessed by the house,” Patty says. “Sayin’ that you tried tah burn the house down with us inside.”

  “Patty!” Shane hisses.

  I hold up a hand to silence Shane. “Oh? And why was my murderous plot unsuccessful?”

  “Too much rain,” Patty says.

  “Seriously? That’s ridiculous. She could at least use her imagination. What, I’m supposed to burn the house down because of what happened to the Boyle’s? Because crazy ol’ Enit tried to do the same thing?” I roll my eyes. “Anyone who believes that is stupid. Did she create some fantastical account about what happened to her in the basement too, or was that all a charade?”

  “She’s still not comin’ clean on that one.” Shane shakes his head and sighs. He uses a fake British accent to say, “‘Tis a mystery.”

  There’s another long silence. Shane and Patty look at each other while Letta stares at Eileen like she’s going to burn a hole right through her. Eileen, meanwhile, is laughing and talking loudly. She and Mary sit close together, sharing a private joke. Ronan leans in to add his two cents to riotous laughter. Letta looks like she’s going to puke.

  “Well,” Patty says finally, “did you find out anythin’ else ovah the weekend? What’d you do yesterday?”

  “Actually, I went up to the attic and I did find some curious things.” I tell them about the owners’ portraits, the empty portrait, and the boxes I found. I tell them about the gun in the Boyle’s box and the clothes that might’ve belonged to the Callaghans or Olenevs. I save Emily Lenore’s box for last.

  “There has tah be some mistake,” Patty says. “No one was there ‘round that time except the Boyles, and they didn’t have children. The historical society tried several tactics, but they couldn’t unload it on anyone after they died.”

  “Well, that’s not true,” Shane says. “There was a guy in the sixties. I think people forget ‘bout him because he kept tah himself and it was only him, no family.”

  I think back to the portrait of the single man. “What happened to him?”

  “He was a handyman,” Shane says. “Pop said he was independently wealthy or whatevah. The only place anyone ever saw him was the hardware store or church. He spent all of his time up on the hill, fixin’ this or that while all the women fawned ovah him. He restored a lot of it all on his own. But, like everyone else, he died up there.”

  Like everyone else.

  “Do you remember his name?” Letta asks.

  “Jonathan? Justin? Jason?” Shane shrugs. “Somethin’ with a J.”

  “So he didn’t use any of the diaries,” I say. “I think I figured out that the diaries we found each belonged to one of the women. I read Alva’s, the one with the letters A. C. on the front. I know from the file the realtor gave my mom that B. O. is Barbara Olenev and A. B. is Alison Boyle. But who’s this E. L.? None of the owners had those initials.”

  “There’s only one possibility,” Letta says. “Emily Lenore.”

  “The infant?” Patty says incredulously. “Hardly.”

  “Well, we don’t know what happened to her,” Letta says. “Maybe she was raised here in town by Eamonn’s cousin, just not in the house.”

  “Then why doesn’t anyone ever talk ‘bout her? Or her descendents? And how did her diary make it tah the house?” Patty lists one question after another. “Why does the box in the attic with her name on it have thins from the nineteen fifties and not the eighteen fifties?”

  Letta shrugs and gives Shane a wry smile. “‘Tis a mystery.”

  “Have you read any of the other diaries?” Shane asks.

  “No. Only Alva’s.”

  “Well there’re three more right?” Shane says. “Barbara, Alison, and this E. L., whoever he or she is.”

  I nod.

  “Let’s take a look at them tomorrow night,” Shane suggests. “We’ll each read one. It’ll be a diary party!” He laughs.

  “That’s a good idea,” Letta says. “Maybe that’ll get us some answers.”

  Yes, I need answers, before it’s too late.

  ***

  I don’t see any of my friends after school. I catch a glimpse of Eileen, still surrounded by the popular crowd. For once, I avoid them like the plague, and leave through a back door. As I begin the cold walk home, gloomy and alone, I wonder where my friends are. Are they doing something without me? Did they intentionally leave me out? Maybe it has something to do with why Letta’s acting so weird. The isolation and depression of the day before begins to weigh me down again as I trudge down the sidewalk toward the dismal mountain.

  Nearing the forest that leads me home, I hear music. At first, it’s indistinct and intermittent, arriving and disappearing depending on the direction of the wind. I find myself at a street corner and turn, compelled to follow the strange music. As I near the source, I realize not only is the music coming from the grand organ of Port Braseham’s only church, Saint Perpetua Our Lady Martyr, but the song being played is a familiar one – it’s the song from my dreams. The song of Mrs. O’Dwyre. The song Mother hums to herself.

  I follow the music, in a trance, across the parking lot, and through the heavy doors of the church. The door slams behind me, but I barely hear it over the song emanating from the large copper pipes. Somehow, the sound of the music coming from the organ, echoing around the great dome of the church, makes it sound distinctly more ominous than ever before, and my knees turn to jelly.

  I pass through the entry hall into the nave, my tunnel vision focused on the organ at the end of the aisle, set off to the right of the apse between the altar and confessionals. The huge organ huge dwarfs the church around it. The pipes sail straight up to the edges of the dome. The light of an overcast sky barely makes its way through the tall stained glass windows lining the nave. Hundreds of candles have been lit, throwing the organ into a sinister, shadowy glow.

  On the bench of the organ is a diminutive woman, sitting like a doll, zealously working the keys. Her gray hair is plaited down the back of her plain black dress, swaying with each attack at the keys. Although the organist is most certainly playing the song from my dream, I’m used to hearing it as a slow, low and cloying hum. But here it’s a feverish, urgent hymn belonging at the height of action in The Omen. It certainly doesn’t belong in the House of God.

  All this time, I’ve been drawn down the aisle, toward the organ. The sound commands me, demands I come closer and listen with rapt attention.

  A second woman mists out of nowhere. She’s sitting in the front pew, listening quietly to the song. I can only see the back of her head, resting above the back of the pew. Her long white hair is in a tight bun at the base of her neck, but some unruly strands resolutely resist and stick straight out. I know when she turns around, I’ll see familiar milky blue eyes, unseeing yet seeing at the same time.

  The last note of the song resounds throughout the church, assaulting the far reaches of the dome before dissipating. The organist slouches away from the keys and stretches her gnarled fingers. When the octogenarian turns around, she’s surprised to find a new audience member.

  “Well, hello deah,” she says with a warm smile. “And who might you be?”

  “Oh, don’t be so numb, Dottie,” says Enit in a raspy whisper of a voice. “You know it’s Rose Delaney.”

  “Well, yes of course,” Dottie says, turning to Enit, “but I was tryin’ tah be polite.”

  Enit waves a dismissive hand at Dottie and then pats the bench right next to her. “Have a seat, Rose.”

  I find myself doing as I’m commanded. I stare at the woman up close for the first time. The wrinkles in her face are deep canyons with tiny spidery ravines splitting off all over the place. Her skin is slack, hanging from her jowl and covered in sunspots, age spots, and freckles. Her own hands are twisted with arthritis and covered in shiny burn scars. I look into those milky blue eyes again, and I know this woman has lived a hard life.

  Dottie gets up from the organ benc
h and stands for a moment before coming to other side of me. She rubs her old knees slowly and smiles. “My ol’ prayer-handles get pretty sore if I sit too long.”

  I nod, putting on a fake smile. I’m immensely uncomfortable yet rooted to the pew at the same time. My muscles are in a strange fight; should we stay or should we run? Unable to make up my mind, I start bobbing one knee up and down like a yoyo.

  “So, what brings you tah church this afternoon,” Dottie asks. “Not much happens ‘round heeah on Mondays.”

  “It was the music.”

  “The music, Rose,” Enit asks, “or the song?”

  I turn to Enit and feel my pulse quickening. The old woman says my name with such familiarity, like my own grandmother would. “How do you know who I am,” I ask. “I’m not trying to be rude, but aren’t you blind?”

  Enit smiles, revealing surprisingly few yellowed teeth. “You smell like it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the house, Rose,” Enit sneers. “You smell like it, like Her… So. Rose. What brought you here? Was it the music or the song?”

  I don’t understand what difference it makes, but I admit, “The song.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Dottie nods knowingly, like when the preacher gives the congregation a little bit of God truth, like “You should have faith in God because He has faith in you,” and everyone nods deeply, saying “Mm-hmm.”

  “Can I ask you,” I say, “what song is it? I’ve never heard it before.”

  “Never?” Enit’s shrewd tone chills me to the bone.

  “It’s a very old song, deah,” Dottie answers politely. “It used tah be quite popular, actually. But not anymore.” She sighs heavily. “No… not anymore.”

  “Why not?” I ask before I’m sure I want to know.

  “It’s the Song of The Damned,” says Enit.

  “Oh, Enit,” Dottie sighs. “Don’t be so cruel. You’re goin’ tah scare the poor girl.”

  “She should be scared,” Enit says stubbornly, turning away from us with a frown.

  “Rose,” says Dottie, “the song has a very long history in this town. You see, it was written by Alva Callaghan more than a hundred yeeahs ago.” She waited for my patient nod to show I know the name – of course I know the name. “She was a wonderful piano teacher. She wrote it for her husband, Eamonn. He used tah be a pastor heeah in this very church. It was meant tah be a tribute tah their new life heeah in America. They emigrated from Ireland, you know. Such a sweet song for a sweet couple. Of course, I’m not allowed tah play it durin’ services. Wouldn’t be appreciated, not these days. But, once in a while, ol’ Enit and I sit heeah and hum it together while I play.”

  The question is burning in my throat even though I think I know the answer. “Why aren’t you allowed to play it anymore?”

  Dottie is silent this time, so I wait for Enit to turn back to us, to explain what I so urgently need to hear.

  “Because of the deaths,” Enit says finally. “When Eamonn and Alva first died, the song was kept alive by the townspeople. It was a tribute to them at first, to play it during the services. They were important to this town. But, then the curse… Do you know the story of Bobby Flannagan, Rose?” I shake my head. “Well, poor Bobby Flannagan was around back in the early nineteen hundreds. History says he was a good boy, but he liked to get into a bit of trouble from time to time.

  “In nineteen-oh-five the house hadn’t been tended to for a while. The O’Dwyre’s were there of course, but they weren’t doing much because no one was living there. Bobby was actually good friends with the O’Dwyre boy at the time. They were about the same age. So Bobby, O’Dwyre, and a couple of other boys from town were being rowdy one night, and they dared Bobby to go into the house. He was the weak one, you know, and the other boys wanted to show they were stronger by teasing him. He wanted to be strong too, so he went through with the dare and went on into the house.”

  I can’t stifle my gasp.

  “Don’t worry, Rose. Nothing happened to him while he was inside,” Enit says, “except that he came out of it with Alva’s song stuck in his head. Now, that isn’t so unusual for a church-going boy, because the song was still being played during services back then. But Bobby told his friends he heard a woman humming the song when he was in the house. They thought he was making it up, trying to scare them. But he swore up and down that he’d heard it. Told the story over and over, told everyone he knew. Every time he told the story, he’d hum the song, but it sounded different than anyone had ever heard it before. It sounded threatening.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Well he died obviously,” Enit says. “It was a slow death. He got sick a few days after he was in the house and no one could figure out what was wrong with him. He lost weight, became pale and lazy. Wouldn’t get out of bed for no one. He’d just lay there and hum that song. Eventually he stopped talking altogether. He just stared out of his second story bedroom window and hummed that song.”

  “And then?”

  “And then he jumped out of the window.”

  “So,” I say, a rising sense of panic welling up inside me. “That doesn’t mean anything. One boy humming a song and dying. That’s nothing.”

  “Sure,” Enit says. “One boy means nothing. But then Bobby’s cousin Florence started humming the song. She got tired. She got sick. Then she jumped into a well and drowned. A few years later, and a few more dead children… That was the end of that. Alva’s song became taboo.”

  “Why are you even playing it then,” I say, “if it’s so deadly?”

  “It’s still a pretty song,” Dottie says innocently. “The pastor and his wife are out of town. It’s the only time I get tah play it. Mondays are quiet ‘round heeah, so most don’t hear it.”

  “You shouldn’t play it at all!” I shout.

  “It’s safe heeah,” Dottie says, “in God’s House.”

  “So you believe in its power then,” Enit says to me. “You believe it’s the Song of The Damned?”

  “Of course not,” I lie. “I don’t believe in crap like that. It’s just silly superstition.” I’m desperate to believe Enit’s crazy, that she’s made it all up.

  “Are you humming the song yet?” Enit asks quietly.

  “No!”

  “You know what happened to ol’ Derry’s wife, don’t you?” Enit says his name like it’s a curse.

  I nod.

  “Then you know that she, too, knew the song,” Enit says. “That she hummed it.”

  “This is ridiculous!” I try to stand, but Enit lurches out and grabs my wrist, the arthritic grasp surprisingly strong.

  “Are you having the dreams yet?”

  “Let go of me!” I wrench my arm free of Enit’s gnarled fingers and grab my bag. My anger replaces my fear and I lash out at her. “And what about you? Are you immune, Mrs. Sullivan? You hum it! You hummed it sitting right here! You ain’t dead! What makes you so special?”

  Enit’s blind eyes grow cruel and she sneers. “No, Rose, I’m not special. I’m not immune.” She puts one burned and shriveled finger on her face, pointing to a milky blind eye. “That house has taken from me everything it can. But let this be a warning to you, girl. You are not immune. Your family is not immune. And if you don’t do something about it very soon, you’re going to join the rest in the cemetery out back. Your death is certain.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Reading Diaries

  Your death is certain.

  Enit’s words scare me so much I nearly faint on the spot. I barely manage to fight off the tunnel vision and flee the church, literally running away from two octogenarians. I try not to let Enit’s words bother me, to let them seep into my brain and wrap their smoky tendrils around my thoughts, but I can’t help it. The old git’s in my head. Enit’s words assault my brain as the downpour assaulted my body on the walk home.

  I don’t know how Enit knows about my dreams, or why they’d be so important to her. After all, they’re only dreams�
�� Right?

  And so what if Mother hums some old song? It doesn’t mean she’s going to die like Beckan’s mother. Like those children. It couldn’t mean Mother’s death is certain…could it?

  Unless you do something about it very soon, your death is certain.

  What exactly am I supposed to do? Enit was so cryptic, as if the mystery of it all makes sense to me, should make sense to me. She thinks I know exactly what my family is up against. Instead, I’m more confused than ever, and I can feel the old woman’s disappointment in me. I’m even a little disappointed in myself for letting the strange old woman down.

  As I near the bottom of the hill, still saturated with my heavy thoughts, I’m surprised to find Letta standing under a large black umbrella.

  “Hey,” she says timidly.

  “Hey,” I say coolly. A moment of uncomfortable silence passes between us.

  “Sorry I missed you after school,” Letta finally says. “I stayed after to see if I could talk to Eileen, figure out what her deal is.”

  “And?” I decide not to tell Letta about what happened at the church. The act of omission makes us feel even again.

  “No luck. She basically ran away from me. Anyway, I just got home and saw Mom and Liam were gone. I was on my way up the hill to see if they’re up there when I saw you. Wanna get under my umbrella?”

  I shrug, still a little angry. “Sure.” As Letta holds up the umbrella to include my much taller frame, the rain starts coming in at a slant so that she gets pelted from the knees down.

  We walk up the hill in silence, and are surprised to find Liam sitting on one of the porch swings with Mrs. Bauer standing behind him, lazily pushing him back and forth. Both are red-cheeked and warmly bundled.

  “Mom, what are you doing up here?” Letta asks.

  Seeing me, Liam slips off the swing and runs toward the front doors with his backpack bobbing along behind him. He stands anxiously by the knob, hopping up and down on his heels as he waits for me to unlock them and let him in.

  Mrs. Bauer shrugs. “Liam got a little homesick.”