by Dian Cronan
By late August of 1934, Alison’s bitter depression permeated the atmosphere of the house, finally breaking any will Hagan had left. The couple became hermits, using Beckan’s grandfather as a personal errand runner. They avoided town and sent any visitors away. The couple, really no longer a couple, spent each day wandering throughout the house like ghosts, avoiding each other and refilling their glasses. There was no hope left for them.
Hagan has made a fool out of me, and the life we lead. He has stolen my life from me, my what-might-have-been. If only Father had hated him when I loved him. If only I had left him before we came to this godforsaken little town. If only… but no. It is too late for ifs. It’s too late for us.
It’s too late. He will be sorry for what he has stolen from me. It’s time we make him PAY.
This is the last entry in Alison’s diary. When I look at the date, I see it was written on December 29, 1934, two days before the fire that took both Alison and Hagan’s lives. On the next page of the diary is not an entry, but rather a drawing. It’s a crude deptiction of Wolfhowl Manor engulfted in black ink flames. In the front yard lie two stick figures with x’s for eyes. One holds a gun in its dead hand…
I wonder about that fire… and about the gun in the attic.
Chapter Thirty
Barbara’s Diary
I close Alison’s diary and look up. Letta, Shane, and Patty are still bent over the other diaries. While we were reading, the sun sank below the horizon, and it’s grown dark. As the moon rises, so does my depression.
“So, find anything interesting?”
“Maybe,” Shane says.
“Definitely,” Letta says, and our eyes flick to her. She shakes her head with a wide smile. “Uh-uh. You first.”
“Alright,” Shane says. “Shall we go in chronological order then?”
“I think that puts you first,” I say, “but let’s refresh what we already know.” I reach into the drawer of my bedside table and take out Mrs. Carroll’s file, to which I’ve added the travel magazine article. I flip through until I find the news article dealing with the deaths of the Olenevs.
“It’s not much,” I explain. “The Olenevs moved here in May of 1900. Barbara died in childbirth the summer of 1903, and Robert was found dead the following Thanksgiving Day, due to starvation or a broken heart, depending on who you talk to.”
“Well, I think we can enlighten you on that a little bit,” Patty says, “but we’re also goin’ tah have tah tell you that Barbara didn’t die in childbirth, if this diary’s correct.”
“You’re kidding.”
Patty shakes her head, “Nope. Not only did the birth of their son, Shane,” she stifles a giggle and elbows Shane, “go just fine, but she was writin’ in this diary aftah his birth.”
“And then?” I ask.
Patty shrugs, “Your guess is as good as ours.”
“So, we have a news article with incorrect information,” Letta muses, practically to herself. She hurriedly scribbles something in her copious notes. “Alright, let’s hear it. What happened to the Olenevs?”
“Well the diary doesn’t staht until 1901,” Shane says. “The first entry is from July. It’s mostly ‘bout the reason they ended up heeah tah begin with.”
“It’s so romantic,” Patty clasps her hands over her heart with a dippy smile.
“Right,” Shane clears his throat. “Anyway, he was a poor Russian immigrant whose parents died aftah they moved tah New York. Barbara met him on the street with a bunch of her girlfriends –”
“Listen tah what she wrote!” Patty snatches the diary from Shane and begins to read in a wistful tone of voice.
He was just walking along in his little pit of despair, taking notice of no one – that is until he bumped into me and sent me sprawling into the street. I landed in a pile of horse manure! Can you imagine? The girls gasped at first, but of course, they then began to laugh. And how could they not? I even began to giggle myself.
Robert was quite mortified himself. He helped me to my feet and did the best he could to apologize, but it was very difficult to understand his Russian accent. Fortunately for him, I found his boorish attempt at an apology cute. I knew right then that I wanted to know more about him.
“It was love at first sight,” Patty declares, looking up from the diary with misty eyes.
“Yes, well there was no happily evah aftah for them, was there?” Shane retorts, taking the diary back. “They were engaged two months aftah they met, but her family was against it. They told Barbara they’d disown and disinherit her if she ran off with Robert, so of course, that’s exactly what she did.”
“They eloped and ended up heeah,” Patty explains. “Robert grew up on a farm, and thought they’d have a happy life in the country, raisin’ crops and animals.”
“Barbara wrote she would’ve followed Robert anywhere,” Shane says. “She’s the one who found the newspaper ad.” He flips through the pages and then hands the diary back to Patty to read.
“Grand Victorian home for sale,” Patty says, resuming her reading tone.
‘Extremely affordable. Lots of land. Needs minimal work. Perfect for families! Inquires should be sent to etc., and etc.’ I told Robert it was fate when I first found the ad in the back of the newspaper – some strange chronicle that found its way to us in the mail by mistake. It was in tiny print and hidden among other ads that looked more important, almost as if whoever printed the ad didn’t actually want anyone to see it! This is what made me tell Robert it was meant to be. I told him this was what God wanted for us, and He had left it up to us to make it happen!
“If she only knew,” says Letta sadly.
“It didn’t take her long tah realize her mistake,” Shane continues. “I suspect the spell broke right ‘round the time she stahted the diary. She has these few good memories at the front, like she was tryin’ tah remember how happy they used tah be.”
“It stahted slowly,” Patty explains. “At first she stahts complainin’ ‘bout all the work the house needed; the deaths of Alva and Eamonn left it incomplete. Robert took on some of the work himself, but he also spent a lot of time workin’ the land. They had some fields of corn and some apple trees, some cattle and chickens.”
“The first harvest was fine,” Shane adds. “They were actually able tah sell their produce and meat ‘round town. Barbara thought the people in town were a little odd, a little private for her tastes, but she didn’t think anythin’ more of it. She chalked it up tah the ‘charm’ of our little town.”
“But,” Patty says excitedly, “the followin’ yeeah, in the summer of 1902, everythin’ changed when Barbara realized she was pregnant. Listen.” She clears her throat and begins reading again.
I feel them staring at us constantly, their eyes following every step we take when we are in town. Have they always been staring at us with such hateful eyes?
Robert thinks I am paranoid, or at least, he did. Yes, he thought I was quite paranoid until we took a stroll around the churchyard a few days ago. The cemetery was filled with gravestones belonging to children! There were nearly more infants resting their sweet heads there than adults. And many of their mothers lay in rest there as well, and the dates of death… They were the same.
Now I know what it is they are thinking. I know why they hate us. It is like you said – they are jealous… and that makes me very afraid. Jealous and desperate parents are a very dangerous thing… And you know something about that, don’t you?
“So,” Shane says, “Barb and Rob take a stroll through the graveyard and realize what everyone in this town knew then and knows now: life heeah isn’t very lucky for women or children.”
“And then she becomes supah paranoid,” says Patty. “She stahts worryin’ she and her unborn child will end up in the same graveyard. She worries somethin’ will happen during the birth, and both she and her son will end up dead. Tah make matters worse, as she got farthah along in her pregnancy, things stahted tah go wrong with the farm. Listen
.”
Robert says the animals have caught something, some sickness, but I don’t know of anything that would cause all of the animals to stop eating, stop drinking. They aren’t dying of an illness. They are losing the will to live. They have given up. Imagine! An animal, just giving up… I wouldn’t have believed such a thing possible if I had not witnessed it myself.
And the crops! Robert can think of nothing to explain the crops. The corn stalks grow, but there is no corn. The apple trees blossom with rotten apples. Have you ever heard of such a thing? What will we do now? How can we raise a child if we cannot even raise a chick or a plant?
Shane sighs. “Barbara became obsessed. She stahted doing her own research; talkin’ tah anyone who would talk tah her, lookin’ through old newspapers at the library. She read ‘bout failed harvests going back several yeeahs, all the way back tah 1851. She realized there hadn’t been a healthy child born in Port Braseham since Emily Lenore Callaghan; each died at birth or at a young age. Those who survived were plagued with illness. She couldn’t figure out what happened to Emily though.” He leans back against the cool glass of the window behind him and crosses his arms. “She became convinced the town had done somethin’ wrong in the eyes of God. Why else would He be punishin’ all the townspeople like this? She begged Robert tah sell the property, to take her away ‘from all this death,’ but he refused. All of their money was sunk intah this place. They had tah stay.”
“And on top of all of that, she continued to worry ‘bout her baby,” says Patty. “She made Robert call the town doctor up heeah several times before the baby was born. The doctor eventually told them he wasn’t going tah continue tah ‘entertain the whims of a young, hysterical woman.’ She called him a quack because she knew somethin’ was wrong with her child. There had tah be, because of what she saw in the graveyard, and what she found in her research.”
“But,” Shane interrupts, “of course, there was nothin’ wrong. Little Shane was born and everythin’ was fine until –”
“Until ‘bout two weeks aftah he was born.” Patty snatches the diary back up and flips through the pages. “This is her last entry, in mid-August of 1903.” She clears her throat.
Robert refuses to call the doctor up the mountain again. Shane is fine, he keeps saying. The baby is fine, and I need to stop worrying and learn to enjoy him… our child. But I can hardly enjoy him when I am certain something is wrong. Perhaps not today, not tomorrow, not next month… but before long, he will be dead, like all those other poor children. Robert will wish he had listened to us then.
I felt compelled to go down into the basement last night. I cannot explain it, but I could not ignore The Calling. It pulled me out of bed in the middle of the night, and I went down into that dark space with only a candle to light my way. As I descended each step, my mood descended also. I became angry. It was an overwhelming sensation of bitter hopelessness.
I sat in the middle of the basement on the damp floor, dirtying my nightgown because I was commanded to. I sat. I listened. I thought. I cannot explain it. This is when I had the Epiphany.
What Shane, my dear sweet boy, needs is a real mother. He needs someone who can ensure he will grow, and live, and become a handsome, hardworking young man like his father. Yes, that’s what he needs… And I know exactly who it shall be.
And she is close… Yes, you are very close, aren’t you?
Patty closes the diary and looks up. I’m staring with my mouth open, thinking how similar Barbara’s last entry is to Alva’s. Letta’s smiling.
“What are you smilin’ ‘bout?” Shane says in an accusatory tone.
“Me?” Letta says. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to. Certainly very tragic.”
“What happened to her if she didn’t die in childbirth?” I ask.
“I think you know,” Letta says.
I remember the noose in my hands and begin rubbing them absentmindedly. Yes, I think I know what happened to Barbara Olenev.
“I don’t understand why the article says she died in childbirth,” Patty says.
“I think a certain amount of doctoring of the articles in that file occurred,” Letta explains, “if only to keep the outside world from knowing the tragic history of the house. The town couldn’t deny Barbara died, surely her body is lying up there in the churchyard. But they can cover up the means of death, perhaps the date also. Not many people back then would buy a house where two women killed themselves.”
“What happened to Shane?” Shane asks with a funny look. “It sounds weird tah say that.” He chuckles, changes his mind halfway through, and coughs instead.
“Don’t know,” Letta shrugs and makes a note. “I think there’re a lot of things we’ll need to research after tonight.”
“You’re still smiling,” I say. “Why?”
“Because I’ve got something that’s going to make your hair stand on end.” She holds up the diary of E. L. “The diary of Emily Lenore the second.”
“What, like Henry the Eighth?” Shane asks.
“Sort of,” Letta says. “This Emily Lenore is not actually related to Emily Lenore Callaghan, or at least, I don’t think she is. In fact, she doesn’t even have a last name. She was adopted by the house.”
There’s a prolonged silence, as if we aren’t sure we heard Letta correctly, and are waiting for her to repeat it or provide an explanation.
But I don’t need Letta to explain what she means, because I suddenly know. Everything, I think, is about to make a whole lot of sense.
Chapter Thirty-One
Emily Lenore II
There’s a commotion as Shane and Patty bombard Letta with questions.
“What does that mean?”
“What are you sayin’?”
“What, like this house is alive or somethin’? Come on! That’s crazier than ol’ Enit!”
“Who is she? Where did she come from?”
I sit silently, listening but not listening, thinking, analyzing.
“Just relax a minute!” Letta shouts.
“Relax? Woman, you better staht answerin’ some questions,” Shane shouts back.
“I will, I promise,” Letta says. “But right now, shut your traps and listen.” She waits for Patty and Shane to collect themselves.
“Alright,” Letta says when all is finally quiet. “Emily Lenore the second started her diary in 1927 when she was ten. She didn’t write in it often, but her entries increased with her age and with her frustration at being trapped in this house.”
“Trapped?” Patty interrupts. “How?”
Letta looks at her with the measured patience I often see in my teachers. “Look, I don’t know how to explain it in a way that’s going to make any sense. Let me read some of the diary entries first. I think that’ll answer your questions.” Letta opens the diary and begins reading, slowly at first, but then with interest, emotion, and the measured rhythm of an author indulgently reading a few pages aloud.
My name is Emily Lenore, and I am ten years old. I am starting this journal because She says I am to practice my writing skills. Today my prompt is to tell you about myself, but that is hard to do because I don’t really know a lot about myself.
I grew up here. Here is inside of my mother, this house. She loves me and takes care of me. I remember nothing before Her, and I knew nothing before Her. My birth mother did not love me and did not want to care for me. She brought me here to my True Mother, because she knew I would be safe and cared for here. That’s what I’m told anyway.
I guess I believe Her. Why would She lie?
Who is She? She is a voice inside my head, kind of. She tells me She loves me. She makes me food, and clothes me, and plays with me. I can’t see Her because She is not an actual person in front of me (not that I’ve seen many of those either), but I see Her when I look at all the little pieces that make up this house. I see Her in the carved wooden furniture. I see Her in the tears along the wallpaper on the stairs. I see Her in the light the stained glass throws on the foyer f
loor. Sometimes, when I think about how I would explain Her to a stranger, to an outsider from that town that I sometimes see from the windows, I think of Her as a spirit. I can’t see Her, but I can hear Her and I can feel Her, and I know that Her presence is all around me and inside of me.
I know and understand that this is not a normal situation. I’m not stupid. I may never have been allowed into the outside world, but She believes it is important to know about it, and has explained many things to me. It helps that I like to ask a lot of questions! I know that most people have a mother and a father. I know that most children go to a school to learn. But I am special and fortunate (that’s what She always says). She loves me and She protects me by keeping me inside of Her, which I guess I understand. The outside world is a dangerous place filled with criminals and violence, after all.
I spend a lot of my time reading and learning about the world. She has a great library on the third floor, full of hundreds, maybe thousands, of books. History, mystery, plays, crime… lots and lots of books on crime…
When I grow up, I want to be an explorer! I want to see the ruins of the Maya. I want to drink coffee in Paris. I want to go on a walkabout in Australia. But She cautions me against such silly, dangerous dreams.
I can’t go far away. I can’t leave Her here by Herself. If I love Her, She says, then I must stay. And I do love Her. She is my mother. So I guess I have to stay. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t dream. She cannot tell me not to dream.
“That’s her first entry,” Letta says, and then when she sees Shane’s mouth open, she adds, “Just wait, don’t ask me anything yet. It gets better.”
“Does bettah mean creepier?” asks Patty.
Letta doesn’t answer. Instead, she picks up the diary and continues to read.
