Wolfhowl Mountain

by Dian Cronan

  “Rose,” Letta shouts, startled and a little frightened. “Get a hold of yourself!”

  “What in Gawd’s name, Rose,” Beckan says, struggling with my arms like they’re a couple of slippery eels.

  “You,” I hiss furiously as hot tears begin falling down my cheeks again. “You’re… you’re Emily Lenore the second. It’s you!”

  Enit peers around her daughter, her face livening up with a knowing smile. She puts a gnarled hand on Laura’s and motions for her to sit. “Well,” she says, sounding pleased, “I’m glad we’ve finally got that sorted out. Perhaps we can talk now, Rose. Really talk.”

  ***

  The front room of the O’Sullivan’s is cramped. Several rugs of varying patterns overlap each other in their race from the center of the room to the termite-eaten baseboards. An old radiator sits in a corner, clicking along as it tries to set one of the frayed ends of a rug aflame. Crooked shelves line one wall, filled from edge to edge with tacky bric-a-brac. There’s a pair of mismatching loveseats, a rocking chair, and two deep fabric chairs that swallow their occupants. Each seating piece is accompanied by a knitted throw hung over the back. A room full of old lady crap surrounded by more old lady crap.

  I force myself to take in all these little details to keep my mind from giving in to the inviting darkness. Despite the heat of my anger, I’m now cold, so very, very cold. I sit on one of the loveseats, leaning back limply and staring at the ceiling, trying to imagine what warmth feels like because I can’t remember anymore. Beckan sits next to me, an arm around my shoulders. Even as I want to lean into him for comfort, I lean away.

  Enit sits in the rocking chair across from me, eyeing me silently with her blind eyes. I avoid her strange gaze, unnerved. She stares into my soul, picking it apart, trying to come to some sort of decision. She said she wanted to talk, to explain, but she had to have her tea first, and of course, I had to be subdued, which was no easy task. My nerves are still frayed, twitchy, but at least the murderous red haze has retreated from my vision. If only I could get warm.

  Letta and Laura finally reappear from the kitchen with a teakettle and several china teacups on a tray. They’re smiling tightly, having evidently made some attempt at awkward pleasantries while preparing the tea. A plate of small cucumber sandwiches is also produced and I feel like I’ve been transported to Savannah or some other genteel southern society.

  Letta pours the tea and passes the cups around while Laura offers sugar cubes and cream. I try pushing my cup away, but Letta forces it into my hands with firm lips, nearly spilling it in my lap. Laura adds a couple of sugar cubes and a little cream for me. With the cup now full to the brim, I’m finally forced to sit up and confront Enit’s milky gaze. Sometimes I swear the old woman isn’t blind at all.

  Beckan sits stiffly, on edge, as he cradles his own teacup. I’m certain he didn’t know Enit’s true identity, and the realization had a strong impact on him. He takes a slow sip of his tea, eyes staring straight ahead, waiting just as anxiously as I am for the truth to be revealed.

  Laura and Letta finally sit down. Letta takes one of the swallowing chairs, looking like Alice in Wonderland, while Laura perches on the loveseat near her mother, ready to protect her again if necessary. In the moment of silence that follows, Letta’s stomach lets loose a loud, angry growl. Embarrassed, she reaches for one of the cucumber sandwiches, rethinks it and grabs three, then passes the plate around. I take one too, not because I’m hungry but because I can’t remember the last time I ate. I take a small bite, but it lodges itself just past my throat and threatens to reappear. I set the rest of the tiny sandwich on my saucer and then set the teacup on the coffee table.

  Resolved, I take a deep breath. “Well?”

  “Impatient, I suppose?” Enit says, almost playfully.

  My anger rises again, but it’s quickly overwhelmed by something else, something stronger: despair. My eyes water and I find myself begging the old woman. “Please,” I plead. “Tell me how to save my family.”

  Enit’s grim frown is seared into my memory for eternity.

  “Had you guessed?” Enit nods toward Beckan.

  Beckan lets out a deep breath and I feel his body relax. “Not initially,” he replies, absently rubbing his neck with his free hand while his other cradles the delicate teacup. “But when Rose told me ‘bout the diaries… I suspected. Can’t say why. Just a feelin’.”

  “Truth be told,” Enit says, “I was expecting you sooner. Or maybe I was just hoping. I’ve been carrying this secret for so long and I haven’t told my story in a long, long time.”

  “Other people know?” Letta is incredulous.

  “Well now, don’t make me sound like a gab, dear,” Enit says. “My daughter knows, of course.” She reaches out her hand and Laura grasps it, gives it a squeeze.

  “And Adam?” I ask. Laura and Enit exchange guilty glances.

  “No,” Laura says in a small, delicate voice. “Not Adam.”

  “Just Laura and…” Enit’s voice falters and I’m surprised to see the old bat’s confidence waver. “And Derry.”

  “Pop?” Beckan’s shocked. “Pop knows?” His teacup starts to tremble on its saucer and he’s forced to set it down.

  “Well of course,” Enit says matter-of-factly. “He had to be told. Without him, we wouldn’t have Adam.”

  “Adam?” Beckan’s voice grows higher each time he speaks.

  “Of course,” Enit replies, “Adam is your half-brother.” Her unseeing eyes watch carefully, her ears pricked, waiting to see how Beckan will react.

  I’d known Adam was Derry’s son ever since Letta had availed herself of the files at the historical society’s office. I’d assumed this would be news to Beckan and he’d be shocked or angry. But he doesn’t jump up and tell Enit she’s lying. He doesn’t shout or get angry. Instead, his eyes go wide for the briefest of seconds before his shoulders sag and he leans back into the loveseat.

  “You knew?” I ask quietly.

  Beckan sighs and shakes his head. “Not for sure. I’d suspected, but I guess… I guess I always hoped Pop was more faithful than that.”

  “Oh, but he was faithful,” Laura whispers earnestly, her eyes watering. Letta can’t stifle her snort and then looks at her feet apologetically when Laura glares at her.

  Beckan shakes his head, disbelieving. “I don’t understand how that’s possible.”

  “You will,” Enit reassures him. “You will. As soon as you hear the whole story.”

  Chapter Fifty

  The Story of Emily Lenore II

  My earliest recollection is in Her playroom, playing with Her dollhouse. You’ve seen it, haven’t you? Looks just like Her, down to the tiniest details. The wallpaper, the scuffs on the wood floors, the cracks in the windows even.

  I loved playing with it, imagining there were other…people I guess you’d say. But I wasn’t even aware what people were or that I was one of them until I was much older. I just remember being a little lonely, playing by myself. Oh, She was always there somewhere, this fuzzy entity in the corner of my eyes or a whisper behind my ears. But She couldn’t hug me, couldn’t warm me, couldn’t brush my hair or tie my shoes. So I always had this powerful sense of longing.

  For a long time I thought I was the only person, that we were the only things that existed. I didn’t know there was such a thing as Maine, or the United States, or Earth. It was just the two of us, me… and Her.

  It wasn’t until She tried to educate me, teach me a little bit of the three R’s, that I realized I was part of a whole world, that there were all these other people, creatures, the universe!

  There was a book she used to read to me, Adventures of the Wishing Chair. Two children find a magical chair that takes them on all these exciting adventures in amazing plaeces. Oh, it sounded so wonderful…but it also highlighted my growing sense of loneliness, this sense there was more and I was missing out on all of it.

  I made a doll, a little Mollie like the girl from the book
. She was a little playmate for the mini-me that I used in the dollhouse. I found a ball of string and some other odds and ends to fashion her from. At first, She was curious about what I was doing. And then She was pleased, proud even, that I had created something with my own hands. But once she realized what the doll represented – a friend – She became angry. Poor little Mollie burned up right in front of me, just disappeared in a puff of smoke. Nothing left but a scorch mark on the wood.

  And that’s what growing up in Her was like. She was jealous and vindictive. I spent my time walking on eggshells, afraid of upsetting Her, of being punished. Oh, She couldn’t spank me. But she could lock me away in the turrets, or in the attic, which she often did. And it was so cold there, so cold. There never seemed to be any warmth about Her, not even in the summertime. She’d keep me away from the windows on the nicest weather days because that’s when the others would come out, the other people. In the winter, I’d chatter away, shiver, cry… but She never gave me more than an old threadbare blanket left behind by one of the previous tenants. Once I learned about fire, from one of the old encyclopedias in the library, I begged Her to light a fire on the coldest nights so I could be warm, but She refused. Fire was too dangerous, much too dangerous.

  Just as being near the window was dangerous. Going outside was dangerous. Yelling was dangerous. Reading anything other than the books She chose was dangerous… Oh the library! It was so wonderful! I wish you could’ve seen it when it was still gorgeous and gilded. I used to sneak down there when She locked me in the attic and page through all the books I could reach. Sometimes I’d pilfer a volume or two while She slept and hide them in the turrets for my next incarceration. That’s when I first found the diaries, where She’d hidden them from me on a high shelf.

  I confronted her about the diaries. That’s when she told me about the others. She allowed me to read the diaries and to ask her questions. I was about ten… not that I was ever really sure how old I was – I’m still not sure. She warned me the diaries were a cautionary tale; Alva and Barbara were lessons. Bad things happen to people who disobey Her. And for a long time the fear kept me in line.

  As I matured, as I became more woman than child, I began to doubt Her, to think there were things She didn’t tell me or that She skewed. I found an old book about the Revolutionary War. That’s how I came to understand freedom, freedom of thought and actions. And then of course, I became a teenager. Freedom was no longer something I longed for, but something I deserved.

  I think it was the diary that really set everything in motion. She’d forced me to start it to practice my penmanship. And I found that, although She was able to force me to write even in my most rebellious of moods, She could not control what I wrote. It became an outlet, someone to talk to if you will. A confidant. In the diary, I could write my innermost thoughts, my disappointments, my wishes, my angry thoughts…and She would never know what I’d written unless I wanted Her to. It was wonderful. I retreated to the diary more and more. It was the diary that put the wedge between us, made the idea of leaving even a possibility for me. The world seemed such a scary place, as She had told me…but that didn’t mean I didn’t want to experience it.

  And then I saw the plane… The beautiful, shiny, gravity-defying plane… And I knew I could leave Her. That I would leave Her.

  It was a year or more before the opportunity arose. One of the O’Dwyre’s, your granddaddy in fact, came up to the house to open Her up for a viewing. I’d seen him approaching from one of the cracks in the boarded up windows. I’d been hiding in the dining room for several days at that point, determined to find a way out. It was one of the only two rooms with no door She could use to lock me in, and it also afforded a good view of the hill where the O’Dwyre’s lived. They’d been showing Her off more regularly, looking for a buyer, so I figured waiting for them would be my only chance.

  I crouched in the shadows behind the front doors. My heart poundedin my chest and I held my breath while I waited for him to open the door. She was yelling at me the whole time, trying to distract me, to get me to stay. She told me how dangerous the world was, that I’d be begging Her to let me come back, that I’d regret leaving. I did love Her – She was the only mother I’d ever known, but I couldn’t stay. I didn’t want to die there.

  And then the moment came. O’Dwyre unlocked the door and stepped in. I bolted through the doors as fast as I could. They both yelled at me. O’Dwyre yelled something about homeless vagrants; She told me I’d never make it. But I didn’t stop running for anything. I just kept running…

  I stayed in the orphanage for three years, until I turned eighteen – or as near as they could guess to eighteen. I was hard to handle. I’d never been socialized. I didn’t understand how the world worked. I just cried and screamed in a corner for the first few days. The human touch was so sensitive that it was painful, and I had to wear special glasses in the sunlight for a long time. That didn’t help me much. The other kids loved making fun of me. Casperetta the Four-Eyed Crazy Ghost they called me, on account of the glasses and how pale I was. It was in those lowest moments that I thought of Her, thought maybe She’d been right.

  But then the fire happened. I read about it in the paper, but it wasn’t very detailed. Two people died, who I later learned were the Boyles, and I thought She was dead too. One whole wing of the house had been damaged. I didn’t think it’d be possible for Her to recover. So, when they released me from the orphanage, I left town. Didn’t even say goodbye, just disappeared like the ghost they all thought I was.

  I spent a long time traveling. I got as far away from Her as I could. I finally got on a plane. I spent explored the south. I went to Canada, Brazil, and finally, Paris. I saw all the great sights I’d read about in books. I did all the things I’d dreamed of doing, yet… I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t full. I still felt that sense of longing. I eventually understood that the longing I felt was really Her, calling me home. I ignored it for many years, even had Laura in the hopes of putting Her behind me, of filling the void. But it didn’t work. So, eventually I came back to Port Braseham. I didn’t know what my goal was, if I was going to return to Her. I just wanted to come back, be near Her, and see if I could sort it all out. That’s when I came to understand the local ‘curse.’

  I looked into Her history, trying to understand what happened from a different perspective. I learned what really happened to the Boyles, about their terrible downward spiral. I came to a better understanding of the demise of the Olenevs and the Callaghans. Slowly, from the townspeople and from my own experience growing up inside Her, and my knowledge of the diaries, I came to realize the truth about Her, a truth no one else could understand – She’s evil. A manifestation of evil that conquers all.

  And then along came Jason McBride. He was a wonderful young man, so full of life. He brought such hope to us because he seemed untouchable. She was going to let him be, let him live. We were so desperate and held onto this hope like a bunch of idiots. Jason was being drawn into yet another of Her traps. I tried to warn him too, but he wasn’t interested in my “old lady crazy talk.” And so he died. Oh, they’ll swear up and down it was a construction accident, but don’t be fooled. She killed him as sure as She’s killed all of them. Jason wasn’t going to give her a family, wasn’t going to give her children. So She killed him.

  That’s what she wants. Children. It took me a long time to understand how such a thing as Her could exist, could be. But I finally realized what She wants, what She needs, is children. I spent a lot of time thinking about what I’d read in the diaries, and what I’d learned from the townspeople. I spent many hours staring at the names of mothers and children in the graveyard. Here is what I finally realized:

  Alva and Eamonn poured their souls, their very being, into Her as they built Her. Alva’s eyes looked at the house and thought of filling it with their children. Her desperate need for children someway, somehow seeped into the eaves and floorboards of the house. It oozed into the walls and furn
iture. What Alva wanted became what the house wanted. The house came alive with Alva’s dreams and desires. But then the baby was here and Alva couldn’t take care of her, or wouldn’t. Perhaps she suffered from postpartum depression. And then she died. And Eamonn died. And Emily Lenore was left up there all alone. Someone…some thing had to take care of her…so the house took over, and She was created.

  But then Eamonn’s family found Emily Lenore, took her away from the house, stole Her reason for existing. And She’s been punishing the town for it ever since. Stealing their children because they stole Hers.

  After Jason died, I was depressed. I felt responsible. I was the one who left Her. I was the one who’d unleashed Her upon the town once more. Shouldn’t I do everything I could to stop Her?

  I left a note for Laura. Said my goodbyes. And then I went to Her.

  She knew I was coming. I could hear Her calling to me. It started raining. The moon was behind the storm clouds and it was dark. The town was blanketed in a silence that only happens around Christmastime.

  When I got to the top of the hill, the doors were open. She was calling me in, welcoming me home. And in a way, She was right. I was home. I’d intended to stay there with Her, to die there. It was my hope She would accept me as her final victim and we could go into the dark beyond together, and no more would have to die.

  I collected the diaries first. I buried them in the basement, buried the souls of those women beneath Her. Buried the women who had made Her…Her. Then I went to work on the fire.

  I’d intended to take every last bit of Her down with me. I went to the library first, caressed the old spines I’d left behind. She began to coo in my ear, to lure me back in. I could read all the books I want, have all the time I want. All I had to do was stay. She almost convinced me, too. But I thought of Jason, of the women, the children. I knew in my heart She had to be destroyed or no one would ever be safe. When I resisted, She became angry, knocked a shelf over, pouring my precious books all over me.