Wolfhowl Mountain

by Dian Cronan

  Dreaming about Debbie was the first time I dreamt about something that hadn’t happened. Yet. It felt like I was seeing her awful future.

  Debbie was in the basement, pacing back and forth. She muttered to herself as if trying to convince herself to do something or not to do something. Her words were so unintelligible in the dream that I couldn’t be certain what she was talking about, but the wildness of her hair and the craze in her eyes pointed to nothing good.

  Suddenly, she made a decision, and she flew up the stairs from the basement, sailed into the kitchen and up the servants’ stairs to the third floor where Clark was working on the library. He had his back to her, working in the alcove at the back. It’s a cozy little reading corner with a red wingback chair resting in it. Clark had covered it with plastic to protect it as he worked.

  Debbie stalked quickly across the room, silent as a cat, grabbing the claw hammer from Clark’s toolbox as she went. He was so busy working and humming so loudly that he didn’t hear her. He didn’t even turn around when she slipped into the alcove right behind him and dug the hammer into his skull, painting the plastic with red on red.

  It was awful, what she did to him, the man I know she loves with every fiber of her being. As if to prove it, she sat on the floor and pulled his head into her bloodied lap. She cried loud and wretched sobs. Then, without even stopping to think, she picked up a shard of mosaic tile that he’d been using to create Debbie’s very own part of the house, a sign that read “Debbie’s Reading Corner,” and used it to slit her throat.

  That’s when I woke up. Right after she told me how very lonely she was.

  I spent an entire day thinking on it. Tell her? Don’t tell her? What would happen if I did tell her? More importantly, what would happen if I didn’t?

  I started to tell her about the dream like I was telling a joke, or as if something funny had happened to me on the way up the hill. We sat in the swing on the gazebo as we often did, Beckan playing on the floor with an especially long earthworm. As soon as I spoke the word “dream,” I felt her entire body stiffen next to me. Right then I knew I’d made the right decision in telling her. I tried to spare her the details, but she insisted on knowing everything. I did what I could, but regardless of the lightest vocabulary chosen, she was horrified by the time I finished.

  She tried to laugh it off, just as I had. “Oh, Cynthia, it’s only a dream!” But her smile was too tight and I knew she was shaken. Something had been happening to her inside the house, that much I knew, but she refused to tell me anything about it, even when I insisted that I wouldn’t criticize her for even the most ridiculous of things.

  She and Clark disappeared the next day like ghosts in the night. I felt a certain loss when we realized they had gone, but I was also relieved. If she was not here upon the hill, then certainly, she and Clark were safe.

  Chapter Forty

  Mine.

  I don’t finish reading Cynthia O’Dwyre’s diary. I can’t – it’s too terrifying. I can reconcile all the hard facts in the file, the pages of emotionless data. But it’s the diaries that give these women faces. All these women, these families, destroyed simply because they’d tried to make a home out of this cursed jumble of rotting wood. In the end, their only successes had been insulating themselves from the outside world, losing sight of reality and humanity. Disillusionment, depression, desperation; these were their prizes – closely followed by death, of course. And that fills me with a fear so thick it’s clouding up the atmosphere.

  The power is still out and the storm’s still raging. I gather the lives of Alva, Barbara, Alison, Emily Lenore II, and Cynthia in my hands. I hold them away from my body, as if by holding them any closer I’ll absorb their miseries through my skin. I carry my balancing act across the room to my open closet door and stack the diaries in a back corner. Then I methodically bury them behind shoe boxes, piles of clothes, sheets, towels, and other detritus. Then I close the closet door, tugging tightly to be sure no mystery draft pushes it back open. I’d lock it if I could.

  When I turn around, I’m met with a most unwelcome sight in the dim candlelight: the blank diary. I thought I’d gathered it up with the others. It sits innocently next to the candle on my nightstand, glowing in the flickering flame, as if to say Look at me.

  I’m unnerved by that lone blank diary. What’s it doing there? What does it want? I have a sudden desire the leave my room, to turn my back on the diary, afraid of what might happen if I open it.

  I open my door cautiously. The cavernous hall and foyer echo with the rumblings of the storm, lighting up like a strobe light in the powerful lightning. I step into the hall, carefully balancing a candle so as not to drip the burning wax onto my skin or extinguish the flame. Willing myself not to look down into the foyer and at those red doors, I scoot along the wall and make my way to Liam’s room.

  Liam’s asleep, snoring faintly, blissfully unaware of the storm. He’s lying on his side, cuddling a wad of the airplane sheets against his cheek, mouth open.

  Setting the candle on the bedside table, I gently lower myself onto the edge of his bed. I watch him breathe, try to hold onto the moment, commit it to memory so I can pull it back up the next time he acts like a stranger, my sweet little brother whom I vowed to take care of the moment he was born.

  Sitting there and watching him sleep so peacefully helps me start feeling sleepy. I stifle first one yawn, then another, and decide it’s time to lie down and hope for sleep. Before getting up, I bend down and press my lips lightly to Liam’s forehead.

  Mine.

  I leap back with a jolt, my lips burning. It feels like I’ve been electrocuted. Liam still snores quietly, as if nothing happened.

  I heard the word as sure as I hear Liam snoring. It hangs in the air, right there with us, in the very same room. It’s loud and sharp, as if someone stands right next to me. I recognize the voice because it’s the exact same voice I hear in my dreams. I know it’s Her.

  I’m terrified. My eyes dart around. I study the walls, the ceiling, every nook and cranny, looking for a presence. Willing myself to remain calm, I stand, retrieve my candle, and leave Liam’s room, closing the door softly behind me.

  I feel my way back to my room, sticking close to the wall. I’m even more determined not to look down into the foyer now, my nerves shot and my hair standing on end. I move as quickly as I can without spilling candle wax or stubbing my toe. As I pass Mother’s bedroom door, I hear muffled sobs from within. I consider consoling her, trying to understand the woman’s crazy mood swing only hours earlier, but when I remember the anger behind Mother’s eyes, I think better of it. Who’s to say she won’t throw me over the banister just for opening the door?

  Back in my room, the door closed and locked, I sit on my bed, hugging my knees. I stare at the door.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  Vigilant.

  ***

  The rain has stopped and the pastel glow of morning lights up my room. I look at my bedside clock, but the power is still out. When I glance out the balcony windows, I see Mother’s car in the driveway. Why isn’t she at work?

  I find the hall much as I’d left it early this morning, quiet and full of closed doors. I lean an ear against Mother’s, but hear nothing. I consider going in, but my thoughts quickly switch to Liam.

  He’s in the playroom, already dressed in a warm blue sweater, jeans, and matching socks.

  “Hi, squiggle worm,” I say after watching him play with that odd soldier set again. He’s pitted them against an army of Lego men and – I freeze.

  Liam has laid out his battle in front of the dollhouse from the attic, the miniature Wolfhowl Manor. How did it get to the playroom?

  “What’s going on,” I ask, just to test my voice, to see if it trembles. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Morning, Rosie,” he replies without looking up from his army men. “The power’s still out. Beckan says there’s no school. The storm was real bad. He said to te
ll you he’s out around town helping people with stuff. He said to tell you, if you wanted to know where he is.”

  I’m only half listening. The battery run SpongeBob clock hanging on the wall has both of Patrick’s arms between ten and eleven. I can’t believe I slept so late.

  “Wow, no school!” I try to get excited, to think of something we can do together, out of the house, but the thick haze of depression hangs over me again. “What are we gonna do today? We could go exploring around town. We could take a bike ride down to the beach and see what washd up in the storm… Ooh, or maybe we could go down to the Bauers and see about playing another game of Chinese Checkers. What do you think?” I’m desperate to find that brother-sister normalcy again, but Liam isn’t interested.

  “No, thanks,” he says, knocking over a couple of Lego men with a soldier. “I’d rather stay here and play.”

  “By yourself?”

  Liam turns around finally, looking up at me impatiently. “I’m not by myself.”

  I suck in a cold breath, a wave of fear washing over me.

  “What’s wrong, Rosie?”

  I don’t reply. I can’t. He’s sitting here as if he’s playing a game with an imaginary friend, but he has no idea he’s playing war with an evil, calculating presence.

  I back out of the room carefully, last night’s threat still fresh in my mind. I take a long, hot shower and change into fresh clothes, hoping to clear my mind.

  Although I’m suspended, with Liam and Mother at home, it’s like a snow day. Snow days were fun back in Texas because they almost never happened. When the rare one came around, it was a wonderful free-for-all kind of day. I’d get together with my friends and we’d pelt snow at each other before it melted away and the sweltering heat returned. If we were lucky enough to know about the cancellation the night before, one of the boys whose parents were out of town would throw a late night party.

  Days like this are supposed to be fun, but I don’t feel any sense of adventure. I feel soggy, like the weather outside. I was serious when I suggested getting out of the house to Liam, but I’m also relieved he said no. I don’t feel like going anywhere now. I consider calling Letta, but we’ll just end up talking about Her, and for the first time that fills me with a healthy dose of fear – just putting my worst nightmares into words, saying them out loud… What if they come true? Like Cynthia O’Dywre’s dream about Deborah Hollister. Would it have come true if Cynthia had kept quiet?

  I need a distraction. I haven’t seen or spoken to Mother since last night’s argument. Remembering, I raise a hand to my cheek, feeling the raised scratch, proof I wasn’t dreaming. I can’t believe my own mother attacked me. The kind of anger in her last night was unreal. Mother’s always had a temper, and we’ve always had arguments, but mostly we yelled, cussing and hurling insults, practically spitting at each other. But Mother’d never been violent toward me – not since I was little anyway. I’m the one whose temper tends toward throwing anything within reach that I can take my anger out on. For Pete’s sake, I’m the one who stomped on another person’s head! And while anger is still a daily struggle for me, Mother’s been so much better at controlling her temper since the divorce.

  I’m sure Mother’s mood swings have everything to do with Her. She gleefully skips out of the house on the way to work every day. And every evening she comes home irritable and looking for a fight. Sometimes she smells like alcohol, a silent battle she’s been struggling with for years. She’s given in to Her, has allowed Her to slowly siphon away her will to live. How much time does Mother have left?

  Feeling a sense of urgency, I knock on Mother’s door and hear a weak “Come in.” She’s curled up in bed, her blankets wrapped around her body like a mummy. The longer the power is off, the colder it gets in our huge, cavernous house. I’m wearing a heavy sweater with a long-sleeved shirt underneath, and a warm pair of old cheerleading sweatpants. I wonder if I’ll have to get out my winter coat before the power comes back on.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Mother whispers.

  “Hi, Mom.” I cautiously approach her bed. She smiles weakly and releases some of the covers. I crawl beneath them and we lay facing each other silently for a few minutes. I know we’re thinking the same things as we evaluate each other. My, how tired you look my dear. My, how thin you are my dear. The easier to swallow you up my dear.

  “Mom, is everything okay?” I ask, testing the waters. “Last night was pretty scary.”

  “Last night?”

  “The fight we had. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you so angry. I swear I feel terrible that you didn’t know where we were, but you’ve got to believe me when I tell you it was a total accident.”

  “Rose, honey,” she stifles a yawn, “what on earth are you talking about?”

  “The fight we had last night.”

  Mother laughs, but it’s not a cheerful sound. It’s closer to a cougar’s cough, a creepy sound that sends shivers through me. “Sweetie, I don’t know what you’re talking about. You must’ve had another bad dream.”

  “You don’t remember?” I can’t believe it. Did Mother actually black out? Can she really have forgotten what she said? What she did? Flustered and confused, I change the subject. “Shouldn’t you be at work, or is the power out at the hospital too?”

  “The power’s out?”

  “Mom! The power’s been out since last night because of the storm. They cancelled school. It’s almost noon!”

  “Oh?” She yawns. “Well, that’s nice. You and Liam can have a nice little break school then.”

  “Why aren’t you at work,” I ask more insistently.

  She shrugs. “I just couldn’t make myself get up today.”

  “Did you call in sick? Did you tell your boss you aren’t coming in?”

  “What? Oh, no,” she says, unconcerned. “I forgot.”

  “Mom!” I shout and she winces. “You have to call in! You’ll get fired!” I’m panicked. If Mother loses her job, we’ll never have the money to get out of this hellhole. We’ll be doomed.

  “It’ll be fine,” Mother says, stifling another yawn. “Now go find something to keep yourself occupied. I’m gonna take a nap.”

  I’m stunned for moment, but then get up. “Maybe if the power comes back on we can watch a movie together, as a family,” I suggest. “Toy Story or Monsters, Inc. or something.”

  “Sure, maybe.” She says as she rolls over and closes her eyes.

  As I turn to leave, I spy Mother’s diary on the nightstand, open to a new entry.

  I rush downstairs and grab the phone, thanking God it still has a dial tone. I pull out the Port Braseham phonebook, which is about ten pages, but realize the hospital in Bar Harbor won’t be listed there. Without power and the Internet, I can’t look up the number. I end up calling the number for the police department, which is also outside of Port Braseham because it’s such a tiny crap little town, but it’s the closest emergency station, so it’s in the book.

  When a Mainah accented woman answers, I ask for the number to the hospital in Bar Harbor.

  “Is this an emergency?” She asks.

  “No,” I reply quickly. “No, I’m…just trying to reach a relative who’s in the hospital.” I lie, because what am I supposed to say? My crazy mother’s too depressed to get out of bed, and I’m calling to make sure she doesn’t get fired, because if she does, we’ll all die, hanging in one of the upper bedrooms of our new house. Now, what did you say the number was?

  The woman gives me the number and offers to connect my call. I tell her that would be just wonderful. I’m on hold forever after a flustered woman answers, saying “Can you hold please?”and puts me on hold before I can reply. I guess it’s busy today, maybe because of the power outage, which means it isn’t just Port Braseham. That makes me feel better somehow.

  Eventually I get through to a Nurse Wanda, who thankfully knows Mother. I make up a lie about food poisoning and say Mother’s been throwing up all morning, or she’d have called h
erself. I make sure the lie is enough to keep Mother out of trouble, but not so serious her coworkers think she needs to be admitted to the hospital herself. Wanda thanks me, saying she and the other nurses had been worried since it isn’t like Mother to be late. Apparently, they’d tried calling the house, but couldn’t get through, and Mother’s cell phone went straight to voicemail. Wanda tells me to take care and make sure Mother drinks plenty of water.

  I spend a while putzing around the kitchen, rinsing some dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. I wipe the counter and the table and then sweep the floor and toy with the idea of mopping it too, but decide take out the trash instead because I can smell it from across the room.

  I grab my coat and carry the bulging bag through the back door and put it in the larger trashcan on the back porch that Beckan will wheel down to the bottom of the hill on trash day.

  Today’s weather is the coldest so far. The tall pines survived the storm, but lost most of their needles to the wind. Derry mowed the other day, so the porch is covered in a wet pelt of grass clippings. It’s grey and dreary, the sun a hazy orb behind the clouds.

  I stare out toward the cliff, which I’ve avoided entirely since I nearly jumped to my death that first day. The distant sound of waves crashing on the rocks below floats on the wind.

  I step off the porch into the soft bed of grassy mud, carefully picking my way to the cliff’s edge. I tell myself I’m just curious to see if anything interesting washed up in the storm, but in the back of my mind this feels false. I plod toward the cliff’s edge, propelled by some unseen force.