Wolfhowl Mountain

by Dian Cronan

  I don’t understand what’s happened to my family, how Mother could say those things. Who is that down there, wearing my mother’s skin like clothes? Mother and Liam are becoming strangers, sharing only a past, under this dilapidated, rotting roof. And they’re rotting away too. Will they become feed for the worms, like the rest of the families that’ve passed through the doors of Wolfhowl Manor?

  I leave my lights off. I walk over to the balcony and push the curtains aside, watching the lightning and the rain through a curtain of my own tears, waiting for the anguished moans of thunder to follow.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The Invitation

  I sit in front of the balcony doors for a few hours, watching the storm rage. Within minutes the power is out. I watch the lights in town disappear all at once, as if Port Braseham itself was swept out to sea. Mother calls out to Liam when the lights go out, but he insists he’s fine, still splashing around in the tub by himself. She doesn’t check on me.

  The thunder crashes against the eaves of Wolfhowl with unbridled fury. It’s the loudest thunder I’ve ever heard, like Zeus and Athena are bowling in the attic. The wind spins the weather vane on top of the O’Dwyre’s like a top, and the trees bow under its power, worshipping the weather gods. Pine needles and twigs fly against the windows and siding. I decide it’s time to move when rainwater starts trickling through the seams of the balcony doors.

  I’d put a few candles and a box of matches in my bedside table after the first storm. I’m not afraid of the dark, but I certainly don’t enjoy it so I pull out the candles and light them. Curiously, it takes several matches; the first few don’t light or immediately burn out. Old matches I guess… I set one candle each on my bedside table, a dresser, and the window seat. They light up the room about as well as my bedside lamp.

  Without my electric alarm clock, I’m not sure what time it is. The house is quiet aside from the storm. I heard Liam go to bed about an hour ago, and Mother’s door closed shortly thereafter, so it’s probably close to eleven. I should probably be in bed, but what for? It’s not like I have to go to school tomorrow. One more day of suspension. One more day of hell in this house. And then the weekend. It’s enough to make me cry again.

  My thoughts drift toTexas. I think about my supposed friends, and how they’ve abandoned me; out of sight, out of mind. I think about the cute pink tutus of my former ballet students. About Liam and how much he looks like Dad. About Dad. I feel the empty space in my soul created by his absence, and my eyes well up. I close my eyes and see his handsome face, sinking beneath the ruby red water.

  I start at a loud crack of thunder and blink away my tears. I don’t want to dwell on Dad, not right now, especially not after the dream.

  I pull out the pages Letta gave me, the crooked copies on thin library paper and the thicker sheets of official smelling textured paper she’d stolen. I shake my head, still surprised Letta could be so devious, and hoping Mr. Quinn won’t notice the missing documents.

  Grabbing Mrs. Carroll’s original file from from between my mattress and box spring, where I’d hidden it, I add the new information to the old. As a distraction, I organize the information by date, from oldest to newest, carefully setting Adam’s birth certificate on top.

  I let out a loud sigh of disbelief when I see Adam and Derry’s names together again. I can’t believe it. I wonder if Beckan knows Adam is his half brother. If he does, why didn’t he tell me at the lake? Not that he has to tell me, I guess. Adam doesn’t really have anything to do with the lore of the house, so it isn’t any of my business. And it’s entirely possible Beckan doesn’t know; he told me before that his parents’ marriage was happy, “peaches and sunshine.” An affair doesn’t jive with that. I wonder if Adam knows. Maybe he does and that’s why he’s so awful to me, because I’m friends with Beckan, the half brother who gets their father all to himself while he walks around like the bastard child with the scarlet letter on his chest.

  I put the growing file back under my mattress and retrieve Mrs. O’Dwyre’s diary. I feel a little guilty for not telling Letta about it, but that would be too much of a breach of Beckan’s confidence. Maybe I’ll tell her about it if I find anything important. I settle down on the window seat, in the flickering candlelight.

  Mrs. O’Dwyre’s diary isn’t the same as the others. It’s slightly larger, and it’s cover is black instead of red. Her initials aren’t embossed on the front. Instead, her full name is written in her own neat print on the inside cover. Cynthia Patton O’Dwyre. It’s clean and dusted, the binding well worn. I wonder who’s been holding onto it for so long, Beckan or Derry? Do they use it to remember the woman they lost, to hold onto her? Or did they use it to discover who their wife and mother really was after she was gone?

  I flip idly through the diary. Mrs. O’Dwyre started it around the time Beckan was born, but it’s clear by her writing style that she’d been keeping diaries for a long time. I wonder if this is one volume in a collection that sits on a shelf somewhere in the O’Dwyre cottage.

  Beckan was right; his mother was obsessed with the house. It’s clear her fixation started long before this diary. She wrote about it as if she and the house were old friends.

  Every time I look down at sweet Beckan, I’m filled with equal parts happiness and sadness. He is my dream, of course, but sometimes I feel haunted by the Hollisters. Debbie wanted so badly to have children. I wonder if they ever succeeded, if they ever came to know the joy that Derry and I know. I understand what they went through, just as many of the families in Port Braseham do. Infertility has created a great hole in each of our hearts that should be filled with the joyful laughter of children. Every year we watch our population dwindle and suffer, we watch the earth of the graveyard get turned again and again. So many children…

  I know it’s Her. Her sadness and misery creates all the misery for all of us here. Derry tells me not to believe in fables, that I’m smarter than the rest of “the idiots in this town.” But Derry, God love him, is the idiot in this case. I say that with love, because I love him with all my heart, but it’s foolish of him to deny what the rest of us know. He’s putting himself and our family in danger. By the time his stubbornness gives in to the truth, it might be too late.

  I worry for Beckan. He’s only a few months old, but does that mean he’s safe from Her? It’s hard to say. Children older than a year have been stolen from their parents by Her before. Her whims choose which child will survive and which child will die. And Beckan is so close to Her. How can I know that he is safe? She takes our children to punish us for a crime our ancestors committed against her, though none of us knows what that crime was.

  But I have one very good theory of my own. It’s the only thing that makes sense in a town where nothing makes sense.

  The house was built by the Callaghans, who themselves wanted a family so badly, especially Alva – or so the fable goes. It’s my belief that, as Alva’s wish for children grew stronger, the house grew stronger under Eamonn’s careful hands. It’s some kind of dark magic, truly. Alva’s strongest desire was somehow imparted into that house, and the house itself came alive with that desire. I think we stole Her child from Her, so She steals our children from us. Seamus and his wife stole Emily Lenore from the house, and She has not forgotten.

  I have nothing to support my theory. How could there be any evidence to support something so fantastical? Naturally, I have not spoken a word of this to Derry. He’s a practical man, a good Catholic man, and he wouldn’t approve of me spending my idle time dreaming up motives for a killer house who steals children. He’ll tell me, “It’s just terrible bad luck, terrible coincidences, and we all ought to move on and forget all about that house.” I want to believe him, but then I realize he must not even believe that himself. If he did, why would we still be here? Why would he continue taking money from the historical society? Why would he continue to take care of Her if we “all ought to move on?” I tried talking to him about it once, and only once,
but he became angry so quickly that I was frightened into obedience. I vowed never to bring Her up again… to him.

  Here the entry ends, leaving me confused. Who did Cynthia tell her theory to? I think it’s a very good theory, maybe more than theory. Cynthia knew Emily Lenore was spirited away from Wolfhowl Manor by Eamonn’s cousin, and that’s around the time when all the trouble started. She knew Shane Olenev, son to Robert and Barbara, died a few months after his parents’ own deaths. Surely, he’d been taken from the house when Robert’s body was found, so that could be considered another stolen child. And then there’s Emily Lenore II, who wasn’t stolen, but who ran away. If the house really is alive, wouldn’t it feel the same sense of abandonment?

  I keep thinking as I page through the diary, trying to find out who Cynthia talked to. My mind races and Mr. Lindsay’s face pops up. What would it look like if I compare a weather history to the events of Port Braseham? What would it look like if I compare it to the birth rate over the years? Would there be a correlation in the data?

  There! It’s the entry where Cynthia relates her theory again, and who she told. It was written in the summer of 1990.

  Derry told me to forget about it. He knows me so well that I don’t even have to tell him my mind still wanders to Her every now and then, trying to discover the secrets that will save our town, our children. Beckan is three and he’s healthy, happy, a perfect little boy. Why must I dwell on Her? That’s what Derry can’t to understand. It’s because he isn’t a mother…and because he doesn’t have those awful dreams about what She's done.

  I nearly crawl out of my skin. Dreams? Dreams about what She’s done. Did Beckan’s mother and I have the same dreams?

  She consumes me so deeply lately. My eyes are always drawn to Her through the windows. My feet take me to Her boundaries when I take my afternoon walk. Yesterday morning, when Derry went into town to help Ms. O’Sullivan with some home repairs, I stole his keys and went inside for the first time on my own. I’ve been inside with Derry every now and then to help him or to bring him his lunch as he worked, but it’s been years…certainly not since Beckan was born.

  Stepping inside, that’s when I knew that I had to do something, that I had to find someone who’d talk to me about Her. It was the overwhelming sense of dread that overtook me. It started at the top of my head and trickled down through my nerves until I felt that my whole body had been encased by this depressing alarm, this icy feeling that something awful was waiting. I was only in the house a moment, my two feet just over the threshold when the feeling came over me, and I had to leave. There’s only one person in this whole town who might listen to me, who might understand me. So I waited several hours for Derry to come home. It was nearly dinnertime when he arrived. I created some story about a women’s meeting at church and left him a hearty dinner in the oven. I kissed his cheek and then drove directly to Enit O’Sullivan’s.

  Enit! Of course, of course it’s Enit. She’d tried to burn Wolfhowl down in the sixties. Certainly she’d had a reason, though the only thing she’s ever said publicly about the fire makes her sound like a crackpot. Even though Enit might provide Cynthia with some answers, it sure was taking a chance. Adam’s mother had to be pregnant by then, based on his birthday. She must not have known about the affair, or else she wouldn’t have gone there. It was probably a very good thing Cynthia hadn’t been honest with Derry about where she was going.

  Enit was certainly surprised to see me. At first she thought I was looking for Derry; she could think of no other reason for my showing up on her doorstep at eight at night. I haven’t talked much to Enit ever. I see her and her daughter at church, and I’ve exchanged pleasantries with them now and again, but that’s about it.

  Laura, Enit’s daughter, lives with her. She was there when I arrived, but left almost immediately. Being pregnant, she’s understandably tense. I desperately hope her child survives.

  Enit was pretty welcoming, especially considering why I’d come. When I confessed my true reason for visiting, she smiled and led me into her parlor where she does psychic readings. Honest! The whole idea makes me chuckle, but I can hardly criticize her when I believe in haunted houses. I’m surprised she makes any money at all, but she must do alright. Most of her business must come from tourists who pass through and think what a thrill it will be to get a Tarot reading or gaze into a crystal ball.

  Sorry, I keep getting off the point. Even now, as I write this, I’m so distracted by Her presence. I can’t see Her, but I feel Her, looming there on the hill. Like She’s watching me as much as I’m watching her.

  Enit listened to me without interruption as I explained my theory. Although Enit didn’t say much, I could tell she believed me, that she had maybe even had the same ideas about the house herself. Perhaps that’s why she tried to burn it down all those years ago. I tried asking her this of course, but she didn’t want to talk about the fire. I guess I can’t blame her. But I also asked her why she stayed. Why does she stay in Port Braseham, where she has become the butt of jokes? Where people whisper about her behind her back, and outright insult her when she’s right in front of them? Why stay? Her reply scared me to death.

  She said, “Someone has to keep Her in check.”

  I tell you, her words, her tone… It chilled me to the bone.

  I feel a chill reading the words too. Someone has to keep Her in check. Enit O’Sullivan. Why haven’t I given the woman much thought before now? I’ve actually been pushing the woman out of my mind entirely after that day at the church.

  I flip through the diary some more and finally find an entry explaining the dreams Cynthia mentioned before. I read hungrily, but I don’t feel any better afterward. I didn’t think it was possible, but I feel even worse, even more desperate for an answer.

  I might be able to hold onto my sanity if it weren’t for the dreams. The same ones, over and over. They are always exactly the same, not a single detail ever changes. And with each dream, my terror rises so that I can hardly contain it. Derry says nothing, but he knows me well enough to know that something’s wrong. And sweet Beckan, even he knows there’s something wrong with Mommy. He constantly asks me what’s wrong, and I’m forced to lie to him, my only child. He’s too young to understand and he deserves to hold onto that childish innocence as long as possible. I won’t be a party to destroying it.

  The first dream was about Alva. I’ve had several dreams about her and her life with Eamonn, but only one continues playing out when I sleep. It’s the one where she dies. To hang yourself… I can’t even imagine. And in front of your child! She abandoned life so completely. I can’t pretend to understand why she did it, but it would take a strong person to go on with life while experiencing the kind of despair and depression she was going through. (Post partum they term it now, but I doubt that was the true cause of her depression.) Every time I dream of her, I wake up in a cold sweat and I swear it’s days before I feel right again, as if I’ve absorbed Alva’s feelings and emotions just by dreaming of her.

  And how can I dream about her? How can I know exactly what she was thinking and watch the last minutes of her life play out in front of me like a movie? I used to laugh at the idea of psychics like Enit, but…is that what I am? Am I a psychic? Or am I just another crazy person who believes her dreams are visions? I swear I don’t know anymore.

  Between dreams about Alva, I dream about the Olenevs and the Boyles. The dreams of Barbara are so similar Alva’s, their lives and their emotions were so similar. Barbara gave up just as Alva gave up, abandoning her husband and her child. And poor Robert, just giving up after Barbara died. Even his love for his son couldn’t keep him on this earth. How awful.

  But the dream about Alison is the one I truly dread. She was so volatile, so hateful, so violent even before she moved into the house. I feel like a bad person even writing this, but I don’t know if there was ever anything about her to like! Spoiled and rotten from the beginning, but that doesn’t make what happened to her right. It doe
sn’t justify what she did, either. I can’t even write about the dream, about what happens in it, but every time I close my eyes, I feel the blood burned onto the underside of my eyelids.

  The next few lines of Cynthia’s neat print is obscured; the paper is bubbled and wrinkled as if she’d cried while writing. I feel for her. The dream about Alison and Hagan is awful. The continuing thunder reminds me of the loud crack of the gunshot Hagan never saw coming, and I remember how he’d slumped to the floor, slowly, his last moment of surprise and confusion frozen on his face for eternity.

  They keep telling me they’re lonely.

  That gets my attention.

  They keep telling me, right before they die, how lonely they are. At first, I couldn’t make sense of it, but I think I’m beginning to understand. I think I know what it really means, and in these pages is the only place that I would even dream of admitting it. Those women, Alva, Barbara, and Alison, they didn’t actually utter those words before they died. Those parts of my dreams are false. It’s Her, the house. She’s toying with me, doctoring these dreams.

  “I’m so lonely.”

  I’m meant to believe that these women, these ghostly women, are lonely. They want company. My company. It’s an invitation.

  “I’m so lonely.” It’s an invitation to die.

  I almost throw the diary across the room I’m so afraid. I see my father again, in the tub full of crimson water, staring at me. Begging me. I’m so lonely, Rose.

  I keep reading, hoping to find in Cynthia’s words the answer I so desperately need.

  That’s why, when I had the dream about Debbie Hollister, I had to tell her. She and I had become friends, you see. Both of our husbands were busy working on the house. I’m a stay at home mother for Beckan and Debbie was still unemployed, looking for a job nearby. It was nice to have a woman to talk to about womanly things. Derry is such a caveman sometimes and the women in town are so tightlipped and uptight. I’d come to enjoy talking with Debbie so much that I felt an obligation to tell her what I saw, what I dreamt.