Wolfhowl Mountain

by Dian Cronan

  I don’t know. I honestly don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I thought coming here was the right decision, but everything has been going so totally wrong since we arrived. I bought this house in this tiny little town because it felt like a quaint little project. Liam, Rose, and I – we could make this house a home together. Paint a few walls, replace a few boards. We could turn this place around and learn to enjoy each other again. I had thought that with time and hard work, Rose might forgive me. And now it’s too late. She’ll never forgive me. I can see it in her eyes. The second she turns eighteen, she’ll be out of here. And my little Liam will be all alone…

  I feel guilty as I read Mother’s words. If I’d paused for one minute to think about how she’s adjusting to all the change, I might understand why she’s so sad and withdrawn. But I’ve been so busy blaming Mother that I haven’t stopped to think how I’ve contributed to the problem. Even alone in Mother’s room, my cheeks grow hot with shame.

  The longer we’re here, the more blatant my mistake is. Coming here, leaving Texas, leaving my family... That was a terrible mistake. I was failing as a mother in Texas; why should it be any different in Maine? Work keeps me distracted well enough, but here in this house... I’m just sad. So terribly sad all the time.

  This house is cold and dark, always. I’ve felt my mood and body temperature sink with it. I dread the commute home. The last few weeks I’ve caught my knuckles turning white the closer I get to home because I’m so tense. I can’t continue to watch Rose spit hate at me. I can’t continue to watch Liam turn into some insolent little stranger. He used to be so sweet, so loving. I can’t continue on in this house. I can’t...

  Andrew would have known what to do. He was our guide, showing us the light through the tough times. I never gave him enough credit for that. He was so good with Rose and Liam. He was the one who brought control back to our home in the wake of Rose’s adolescent tantrums. He was the one who brought us back to earth. I’m more reminded of that here than anywhere.

  Of course, that keeps me wondering something I’ve been pondering ever since it happened – did the wrong parent die?

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The Descendants

  I close Mother’s bedroom door behind me, having spent the last twenty minutes putting the room back together, erasing all traces of my presence, my brain whirring almost audibly the entire time. Mother’s diary, her personal thoughts, Dad’s note…the future of my family.

  Suddenly the weight of all the things I’ve been trying to ignore is pressing in on me from all sides. The late afternoon sun disappears behind a cloud, and the dull rat-a-tat of rain begins. Darkness envelopes me, curls around my body, tightening like a vise.

  I turn toward the door to the fire room. It’s shut tight, but I feel the energy pulsating from within. The warmth of the room reaches out for me like tiny tendrils, vines curling around my ankles, my thighs, my waist. They tug at me. I remember waking up and finding myself on the other side of that door, standing at the top of a ladder with a noose in my hands, as vividly as if it had only happened this morning. I still feel the rope burn on my fingers though the marks have faded. I know it’s still in there, the rope, on the other side of the fire-eaten door where I dropped it. Waiting.

  Rose…

  My whole body turns toward the door. My feet pad silently down the hall. They move automatically, like a robot following a command, and for the first time I don’t fight it, see no point in resisting.

  Rose… I’m so lonely.

  The door looms closer…closer…I remember the dreams about Alva, about Alison, about Dad. The gun.

  What’s the point in resisting? It’s so tiring. Aren’t you tired, Rose? Don’t you want to rest?

  The warmth coming from behind the door feels like the Texas sun. Familiar. My skin tingles with the heat, blocking out the cold winter day outside, and eating up the coldness in my bones. It’s so nice to finally feel warm.

  Won’t you keep me company, Rose?

  With each step toward the door, my depression fades. The weight on my shoulders lifts, becoming lighter and lighter. There’s no reason to be depressed, not inside the fire room. There are friends in there, people who understand. They’re waiting for me. Alva. Alison. Dad.

  It’s nice in here, Rose. It’s warm and cozy. Your friends are here. We’re your friends.

  I’m in front of the door now. It throbs, beating in time with my heart. Soft voices call out to me.

  Rose… We’re so lonely, Rose. Come. Keep us company.

  My fingers are reaching for the knob, pulling its hot metal into my hand.

  Join us, Rose. It’s easy. It’s so very easy.

  Everything will be easy in there. There will be no more worry, no more sadness.

  I twist the knob.

  “Rose?”

  I snap out of my trance. The radiating heat disappears and I’m suddenly shivering with cold. Blinking rapidly, I realize how close I’d been to entering that awful room. I yank my hand back as if I’ve been stung. The cold dark, the heavy despair, falls back onto my shoulders like an anvil and I visibly slump.

  “Rose? Are you okay?”

  Beckan stands in the foyer, his hand still on the crystal knob as he pushes the door closed behind him. The sun’s out, streaming through the stained glass windows. The rain is gone. Was I sleepwalking again, driven by some crazy, vibrant dream? What’s the last thing I remember clearly, without the fuzzy gauze at the edges of my vision? Having spent the last several hours in my own little depressive cloud, I can’t be sure.

  “Rose?” Beckan says again, worried now.

  “I’m fine.” My voice is hoarse. I clear my throat and reassure him, “I’m okay.”

  “What’re you doin’?” His eyes are intense, his voice serious, like he knows exactly what I’d been about to do. “I’ve been knockin’.”

  “Nothing, um…” I look at the fire room’s door one last time, and turn away, trying to shake off the hold it has on me. Beckan meets me at the bottom of the stairs. “Just wandering around I guess.”

  “Bored, eh?”

  “Yeah, pretty much,” I sigh, grateful for an excuse. “What’s up?”

  “Well, I’ve got some work tah do up heeah,” he says, twirling a baseball cap around in his hands. “Figured I’d check up on you while I was at it.”

  “Making sure I’m not going crazy up here, huh?”

  He smiles. “Somethin’ like that.”

  There’s a moment of silence and I notice Beckan’s smile doesn’t reach his worried eyes. I can’t quite read him and I’m self-conscious. I realize I haven’t showered or changed out of my pajamas and probably look terrible.

  We both start talking at once.

  “Let me grab a shower and get dressed –”

  “Do you want tah get out of the house and – ”

  We laugh.

  “Look, I have a couplah thins I need tah do up heeah,” Beckan says. “Why don’t you take a shower while I do that? Aftah, we can get out of the house for a bit. Okay?”

  I smile back. “Okay, yeah. That’d be nice.”

  ***

  A little over an hour later, I follow Beckan out of the house and into his truck. He spent some time piddling around, fixing nail pops and creaky floorboards while I showered and changed. It’s still pretty cold out, so I’m dressed in a warm thigh-length red sweater, paired with my skinny jeans and boots. Beckan’s in his usual grass-stained jeans and a long-sleeved flannel shirt and a jacket.

  “How was your day?” he asks as he puts the truck in gear.

  I shrug and decide on a half-truth. “It wasn’t the worst day of my life.”

  “But it was close,” he says sympathetically.

  My false smile falls. “How was your day?”

  “Not bad,” he says and those green marbles of his fall on my dark eyes, and we lapse into silence.

  We drive for about twenty minutes, listening to the local blues station as Beckan taps his finger
s on the steering wheel. We wind our way out of town, down skinny two lane roads wending between the colossal pine trees. Beckan finally pulls into a small parking lot next to a grassy trail and turns the engine off. He winks at me before hopping out.

  I slide out of the passenger side. Beckan grabs a blanket out of the truck bed before coming around and taking my hand. I flash back to the first day we arrived, remembering his strong rough hands nearly breaking my fingers when he saved my life on the cliff.

  I almost ask Beckan what that wink or that smile was about, but then quash the notion. The mystery of it is kind of romantic, and it’s beginning to have an effect on me. I feel my body growing warm despite the cold air and energy replaces the depressive blanket that’s been smothering me all day. I grip his hand a little tighter as he leads me down the narrow grassy path.

  “Here we are,” Beckan says as we emerge into a clearing and nearly on top of a still and glassy lake. The water is surrounded by small mountains much like Wolfhowl, but these are much more beautiful. The trees have begun to change, and their flaming oranges, reds, and burgundies are reflected in the stillness of the water like a perfect mirror.

  “Where are we?”

  “It’s called Beavah Dam Pond,” Beckan says and points down the shoreline to a contour of muddied branches barely visible in the high water. “That’s the work of the beavahs down there.”

  I take a few steps closer to the water and drink in the beauty of this scene, a cool breeze biting at my ears and nose, turning them red. “It’s wonderful.” I turn around. Beckan has spread out the tartan-patterned blanket over the damp grass and produced a thermos from the inside of his jacket.

  “Heeah,” he says, gesturing toward the blanket, “have a seat with me.” I plop down Indian style, and Beckan stretches out his legs.

  “Spiced apple cider?” he offers, indicating the thermos.

  “Please,” I reply with a curious smile, still wondering what all this is about. I take the tin cup Beckan offers and sip cautiously. It’s hot, but delicious. “This is really good!”

  “Thanks,” he says, the smile returning. “I made it myself.”

  “You did?” I’m so surprised I almost start laughing.

  “Yeah,” he says defensively. “Don’t be so surprised.”

  “You just don’t seem the domestic type,” I say, taking another sip.

  “Oh, I’m not,” he says with a chuckle. “This is ‘bout the only thing I can make without stahting a fire. This and a cup of tea. It’s my muthah’s recipe.”

  There’s the traditional moment of silence that follows whenever we talk about our missing parents.

  “Well, it’s beautiful here,” I say finally, “and the cider is really good, but…”

  “Why are we heeah?” he finishes for me.

  “Yeah.”

  Beckan pauses and looks away before turning back and looking me dead in the eyes. “I have tah talk to you ‘bout somethin’.” His voice is serious, and I can feel the smothering blanket pressing down on me again, as if the house has followed us here. “I wanted tah talk tah you in private, away from…everythin’.”

  “It’s about the damn house, isn’t it,” I say quietly, staring down into my cider.

  He nods. “I want tah be a bit more honest with you ‘bout a few thins. You and I, we’ve talked some…but there are some other thins I could’ve told you soonah, maybe should’ve.”

  “Why now then?” I ask, trying not to get angry. “What’s the point?” We’re all doomed anyway.

  “I care about you, Rose,” he says, and I hear the sincerity in his voice.

  “You do?” I look at his face again and blush when I realize he’s staring at me.

  “And your family.”

  “Oh.” I’m disappointed somehow, and look away, hoping Beckan doesn’t notice.

  “And I know what you’re doin’,” he says, the tone of his voice forcing my eyes back up. “You’re meddlin’, and you’re diggin’, and you don’t understand that it’s puttin’ you, your family, and your friends at a terrible risk.” His gaze is intense, like a parent lecturing a child. “But I also know you’re stubborn.” I stiffen defensively. “I know you love your family, and you’re not goin’ tah stop until you understand the whole story.”

  “The whole story?”

  “You need tah stop diggin’,” he says, frustrated. “Stop stirrin’ thins up.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I know. What you really need tah do is leave.”

  “I can’t do that either.”

  “I know that too,” he says. “So heeah’s what we’re goin’ tah do, because I like you alive more than dead.” He finishes the rest of his cider in one gulp, grimacing as the hot liquid singes his throat. “First, you’re gonna tell me exactly what it is you and your friends have been doin’ that’s got the foundation of that place all stirred up. Then,” he sighs. “Well then, I’m going to confess a few things tah you that’ll probably answer a lot of questions.”

  I look at him expectantly, but he shakes his head. “You first.”

  “Well that’s not fair,” I say, rolling my eyes, but Beckan only shrugs.

  “Fine.” I look at Beckan with all the concentration I can muster and tell him exactly what I’ve been up to. I tell him everything that happened before he arrived the night we searched the house. The reading of the diaries. The story of Emily Lenore II – which he didn’t even balk at, proving that he’s been keeping a lot more from me than I thought. I’m also honest with him that it’s my desperate hope that, by understanding the past to the house, I’ll find some clue that’ll help me save my family from what seems a certain fate.

  Beckan listens patiently. He nods in the right places and mutters the occasional “Mmm-hmm,” but says nothing more. Nothing about what I tell him surprises him. Nothing, that is, until I start talking about my dreams. That’s when he sits up straighter, when he looks in my eyes, and when he really begins paying attention.

  “She’s movin’ faster than I’ve ever heard of,” he says when I’m finally finished. “That first day on the cliff, I knew then she was stahtin’ early, but I never expected…” His voice trails off with his thoughts. “It’s too soon.”

  “Beckan?” I say, and he turns toward me. “I haven’t told anyone about those last couple of dreams. I mean, Letta knows about the first one, but not these, not the ones about the women. Please don’t tell anyone.”

  He shakes his head. “No, of course not. I’m glad you told me though.”

  The mood of our afternoon has taken a nosedive into the chilly water beside us, and both of us feel the gloom rolling in on the fog as the sun dips behind the mountains.

  “Well I guess it’s my turn,” Beckan says. “Look, I haven’t told anyone what I’m ‘bout tah tell you either. What I’m going tah tell you is not common knowledge outside of my own house, and if Pop ever finds out I told you, he’ll kill me.”

  I nod and scoot so close to him that my knees brush his thigh, determined to hear every word.

  “Let’s talk about the daughter of Eamonn and Alva first,” he says, “Emily Lenore Callaghan. You of course know what happened tah her parents, but not a lot of people know what happened tah Emily.”

  “You do?”

  “I do,” he says matter-of-factly. “Aftah the funeral for his cousin Eamonn, Seamus Callaghan moved his family out of Maine and down into Massachusetts somewhere. He took Emily with them because they were her only family on this side of the Atlantic.”

  “Why’d they move?”

  Beckan shrugs. “It could have been for a fresh staht or tah find a better place tah fish. Or it could be tah hide from the embarrassment of two suicides in a Catholic family. It’s hard tah know for sure. But I do know they changed their last name from Callaghan tah Murphy.”

  “Maybe it was embarrassment then.”

  Beckan shrugs and continues. “So, they moved out of Maine, changed their name and stahted a new life. Emily grew up believ
in’ Seamus and his wife were her parents. It wasn’t until she was fifteen that one of the boys let the truth slip. When she confronted the only parents she’d evah known, only tah have her worst fears confirmed, it was tah much for her tah handle and she fled. Ran away.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  “Don’t know. What I do know is she pops back up in the historical records in 1881. That yeeah, on Christmas Eve, she gave birth tah a son out of wedlock.”

  “Bet that didn’t help her any,” I say dryly.

  “It didn’t do her any favors, no. It didn’t help stabilize her life any either. Aftah she realized no one was goin’ tah take her and her illegitimate son in, and havin’ no desire tah return tah the lie she led with the Callaghans, she dropped her son off at a church and disappeared into the mist. She was nevah heard from again.”

  “Okay…” I squint at him. “Beckan, I get the feeling what you’re telling me here has a point, and that I’m meant to understand something about what happened to this family, but I’m going to need more help than this.”

  “I know,” he nods. “Be patient. So, Emily Lenore abandoned her son at a church, which then sent him tah an orphanage not tah far down the road. Unfortunately, he was never adopted. He was released when he was eighteen.”

  “Alright…”

  “So,” Beckan continues as the sun finally disappears over the fiery tree line, “Emily Lenore’s son went tah the only othah place he knew – the church where his muthah abandoned him.” He stops and stares pointedly at me, as if he’s trying to send me a telepathic message.

  “So,” I say, “are you trying to tell me that I should know what church you’re talking about?” His nod is almost imperceptible. “You can’t be talking about Saint Perpetua!”

  “Oh but I am.”

  “Okay… So, Emily Lenore abandons her son here in Port Braseham, where he’s unlucky enough to stay in the orphanage, and he returns to Port Braseham at eighteen. Then what?”

  “He gets a job. The only job available in this town in 1899. The only job no one else wants.”