The Ice Wolves

by Mark Chadbourn

  “Give me a hand! We need to barricade this!” Hellboy ordered.

  “It won’t be able to get in. Nothing can get in unless I allow it. This place is safe.”

  The voice was calm and measured, and came from a man in his early sixties, silver hair swept back, with piercing blue eyes that appeared as cold as the snow outside. Behind him, Brad and Lisa sprawled on the wooden floor tiles.

  With his words, the bestial sounds ended suddenly and a stillness descended. Peering through the window at the side of the door, Hellboy saw a dark shape disappearing into the blizzard.

  “Weird,” he said. Questions flooded Hellboy’s mind: was the werewolf trying to stop him reaching the Grant Mansion, or was it simply drawn to the area near the house and hunting? And was it alone? Concerned for Brad and Lisa, he turned to check that they were okay, only for Lisa to jump to her feet and jab a finger into his face.

  “You need to tell us exactly what’s going on here,” she said with annoyance that barely hid her fear. “And more importantly, how we’re going to get out of it. Is that thing going to be waiting out there for us?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m guessing yes.” Hellboy glanced back into the snow roiling around the gas lamp.

  “So we’re stuck here?”

  “For now. I’m guessing it wants the same thing I want. Whoever finds it first, wins.”

  For a long moment, everyone was silent as Brad and Lisa struggled to come to terms with their experience now the immediate threat had gone. The shock was clear in their faces, but Hellboy was impressed by how quickly it dissipated. They were tough. They still had plenty of questions, but Hellboy once again deflected them; it wasn’t the time, and he was afraid his lack of answers would only make them more scared.

  Frustrated, Lisa stepped to the window and considered their options, while Brad shuffled awkwardly to his father. “Dad.”

  “Brad. This is a surprise.” His hands held tightly behind his back, the man showed no emotion as he surveyed his son; until that moment, he’d made no attempt to acknowledge Brad was there. A palpable tension lay between them, and as he studied them Hellboy wondered what had driven them to such a fracture. Brad appeared to lose some of his hardness in the presence of his father, as though he were reverting to being a boy again. At the same time, a deep pain became more obvious in his face and his hunched shoulders.

  Cutting through the strained atmosphere, Hellboy introduced himself with a shake of the hand. “You’re William Lynch.”

  “You were hammering on my door yesterday.”

  “You didn’t let me in.”

  “No. I thought you would have got the message. I don’t want to be disturbed.” He eyed Hellboy curiously. “I know you. Hellboy, is that right?”

  Hellboy nodded. “We need your help, Mr. Lynch.”

  “Out of the question.”

  Having steadied herself, Lisa stepped forward. “Mr. Lynch, I’m Brad’s friend, Lisa Mafrici. We really do apologize for intruding, but this is a serious matter. Lives are at stake. At the moment, ours.”

  “I have important matters to deal with here.”

  “More important than saving lives?” Brad snapped.

  William fixed a forensic eye on his son and then said, “You haven’t changed, I see.”

  “Yes. Still disagreeable. A . . . what was it you called me last time? ‘Constant pain in the ass’?”

  Hellboy stepped in to stop the argument from escalating. “You weren’t too surprised by a werewolf trying to tear your door down.”

  “Live in this house long enough and things like that become less surprising than you might think.”

  Outside, the churning footprints had already been filled by the heavily falling snow. “We need to seal this place up like a fortress,” Hellboy said.

  “I told you, nothing can get in.”

  “We’re safe in here?” Lisa asked.

  William gave a tight smile. “I wouldn’t go that far. But you’re safe from whatever’s out there. I am the master of this house now. It does whatever I want it to do.”

  Hellboy eyed him curiously. “That’s a strange choice of words.”

  William gave a smile, but he would not discuss the matter further. Brad and Lisa cared little for what William was saying, but Hellboy could read between the lines: some kind of supernatural protection lay across the house—William would not be so calm after the werewolf attack if that was not the case. At least that bought them some time, Hellboy decided.

  As Brad watched his father, anger suddenly flared in his face. “Why are you hiding away out here? Why are you trying to keep the world at bay?”

  Studiously avoiding his son, which only annoyed Brad further, William turned his attention to Hellboy. “You can stay a while, have a drink, warm up, feel free to enjoy the hospitality here. But then you have to leave.”

  “You can’t send us out there with that thing!” Lisa protested.

  “I’m sorry. But it would be a big mistake if I allowed you to stay.”

  “Of course it would,” Brad said.

  “As long as I get what I’m looking for, I’m happy,” Hellboy interjected.

  Glancing around the hall, Hellboy saw it lacked the signs of a lavish lifestyle that he would have expected in such a property. The mirror, coat stand, small desk, chair, and ornaments were all antique, but had the appearance they’d been in situ since they were first made. The wallpaper was ancient, the once-vibrant pattern faded. Flickering gas lamps provided only pools of illumination so that the place appeared oppressively gloomy, and where electrical fittings had been installed, they were so archaic as to be potentially dangerous.

  William escorted them to a gloomy sitting room with a heavily worn leather sofa and chairs in front of a fireplace where a few logs burned to dispel the chill. Mahogany paneling, sideboard, and small tables contributed to the sense of darkness infusing the very fabric of the building.

  “Nice place. You’ve certainly gone up in the world. A long way from Tanner’s Bar and men with grease under their fingernails,” Brad said.

  Hellboy saw Lisa surreptitiously dig her elbow into Brad’s ribs, but William didn’t appear to be offended. “Sometimes it’s important to leave home behind. You’d understand that, Brad.” He invited them to sit.

  Once he’d brought them fresh coffee, William stood at the window, watching the snow whip against the panes. “It’s cold,” he said in such a way that he didn’t appear to be talking about the weather.

  Lisa and Brad’s anxiety had subsided, but Hellboy could now see from their nervous glances outside that behind their brave faces they were still very scared.

  “You knew what you were buying when you signed the contract on this place?” Hellboy asked William.

  “Its reputation, you mean? The most haunted house in America? Of course.”

  “You just don’t believe in spooks.”

  “Oh, I believe.”

  “Have you seen any?” Lisa asked wryly.

  William stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, and then he returned his attention to the snow. “They named the square after the Battle of Louisburg,” he said. “1745. William Pepperrell led the Massachusetts militiamen in the sack of a French fortress and was made the first American baronet for his efforts. This is where Boston’s upper class used to live in the nineteenth century; did you know? There’s irony in there somewhere. The land the square’s built upon used to be called Mount Whoredom a century before the rich moved in. Of course, the rich, talented, and famous have always gravitated toward Beacon Hill. Louisa May Alcott, the author of Little Women, was one of them. John Hancock, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sylvia Plath, Daniel Webster . . . This damned city. There’s history all over the place. You can’t get away from the past.”

  “So you feel like you finally fit in with all the moneyed people?” Brad said pointedly.

  “I didn’t come here to be seen. And I never forget my roots.”

  “You spent enough time at
night school getting an education and ironing out the accent.”

  “Yes. I bettered myself.”

  Brad shrugged dismissively. “How much did this place cost? Twenty million?”

  “Fifteen. I got it at a knockdown price because of its history.” William gave an odd smile. “A bargain.”

  While William’s back was turned, Lisa made a face at Brad and said brightly, “It’s a lovely place.”

  “Why here, William?” Hellboy asked. “Over everywhere else?”

  William shrugged, but Hellboy continued to press. Finally William said, “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.” Hellboy watched William struggle with the secrets he had kept for so long, until a note of relief rose in the dour man’s features that he could finally unburden himself.

  “Before the revolution, this entire area was pastureland, apart from a few exceptions,” he began. “The estate of John Hancock, for instance. That was demolished to make room for part of the Massachusetts State House, and in the 1790s the south slope of the hill was developed for Boston’s richest families . . . Brahmins, they were called. It was around this time that Abraham Grant came to Boston. He’d already made his fortune, and he was looking to build a home. Rumor has it he walked all over Suffolk County trying to find the right spot. Yet strangely he bypassed many of the most glorious views in the district, or the best local amenities, to come here, to this very location. Why?”

  “So he could look down on the poor folk from his perch?” Brad suggested.

  William kept his focus on Hellboy. “The Chinese would call this an auspicious site. There’s a peculiar quality to this few square yards, a power in the land itself. At least that’s what Abraham believed. It’s said he consulted dowsers, seers, even a local witch, which in a God-fearing community like Boston in the eighteenth century was an extremely risky thing to do. Some say those qualities beneath our feet trap the spirits of anyone who dies here. Others say it gives long life and vitality to the living.”

  “What do you believe?” Hellboy asked.

  “I don’t believe in anything,” William replied with a note of bitterness. Yet he was clearly warming to his visitors. Hellboy guessed he hadn’t interacted with people since he had bought the mansion. “Let me give you the tour,” he offered.

  They followed him into the next room, a library, the shelves filled with ancient, leather-bound books. Beyond this was what should have been a drawing room, but it housed glass cases containing stuffed animals and birds, their beady black eyes fixed on all who passed through the room. The windows looked out onto a small but untended garden, as wild as nature intended in its tangle of brambles, overgrown hawthorns, and unruly yews, ivy sprawling across crumbling walls that separated the space from the adjoining houses. The covering of snow added a sense of peaceful order that it had not seen in a long time.

  “The house was designed by Charles Bulfinch, a local architect of some renown who lived in Mount Vernon Street and created some of the finest buildings you will see on Beacon Hill,” William continued. “But the Grant Mansion is different. This one he constructed to Abraham Grant’s very specific instructions. There are several sublevels underneath the cellar that all the other houses maintain, and you will notice that some of the rooms are slightly . . . awry. The proportions not correct. Walls and ceilings out of true, with windows at the back oddly sited. Abraham demanded all these things, though they would undoubtedly serve to disturb, unconsciously, anyone who lived here for any great length. He selected the construction materials. A particular kind of brick mixed with a particular selection of minerals. Wood from only one area—a forest he had identified in Virginia, not far from the Roanoke settlement. Glass slightly thicker than normal. You can see how it distorts what is outside, and how, for external observers, it distorts what lies within.”

  “So, he was eccentric,” Lisa said. “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Eccentricity is judged by other people. To the person involved, every decision taken is always rational.”

  “All right, what did Abraham Grant think he was doing with this house?” Lisa asked.

  “Creating a spell in bricks and mortar.”

  “Somewhere protected,” Hellboy said with a nod.

  “For reasons unknown, the creation of this house was Abraham Grant’s life’s work. It was more important to him than his children, his friends, his work. It was everything. And when it was completed, he simply retreated behind the door, rarely mixing with his neighbors or the incestuous society that was forming here on Beacon Hill.”

  “You’ve done your research,” Brad said.

  “Yes, I have. Knowing where you are is as important as knowing where you come from. Without those two things, you can’t find your way forward.”

  William trailed through other rooms hung deep in shadow, the décor and furniture speaking of a time long gone. There was a kitchen and a scullery, a cold conservatory, a study, and then upstairs a range of bedrooms, a nursery, bathrooms where the pipes clanked unremittingly when the taps were turned, and finally an attic room with windows that provided a view over all of Boston. The lights of the cityscape looked a world away, as though they were being observed through a telescope. The blizzard had dropped once again, but the fierce black clouds still churned over the entire area. Heavy snow blanketed the city as far as the eye could see.

  “Once he had constructed his fortress, Abraham Grant continued with the next phase of his work,” William continued. “On a handsome retainer, he employed many agents in many cities. Telegrams were dispatched, and he set them to work scouring the globe.”

  “What for?” Brad was distracted by the view. His old neighborhood was framed in the panes, away on the other side of the city, the memories still haunting.

  “Anything which had the whiff of the supernatural about it. Crystal balls, haunted skulls, magic mirrors, hands of glory, potions and powders, swords and knives, scrolls, books, and maps. Within a short time the neighbors reported deliveries to this house, often under cover of the night. Mysterious black carriages, men struggling with heavy, coffin-shaped boxes. The items exchanged hands quickly, and the delivery men were paid for their silence. You know how people like to talk.”

  “Where are all these strange objects?” Lisa asked.

  “Most of them are stored in the subcellars out of harm’s way. Out of the way of doing harm. You have passed some. They merge in quite nicely with mundane items, if you don’t know the history.”

  “So Abraham Grant turned this place into a storehouse of the world’s magical artifacts,” Hellboy mused.

  “And that was when the hauntings started.”

  Hellboy’s attention was drawn by a row of five old portraits on the wall opposite the windows. “Who are these?”

  William indicated the painting of a girl of about ten in the center. “That’s Abraham’s daughter, Sarah. The others are all descendants.”

  Hellboy studied them for a moment. “Portraits always creep me out. It’s the eyes.”

  Beckoning for them to follow him out of the attic, William went first down the gloomy, creaking stairs.

  “Abraham’s granddaughter, Eliza Grant, suffered the night fears terribly as a child. So much so, that her mother and father took her to see a doctor. She was convinced someone hid in the wardrobe in her bedroom and peeked out at her during the night, whispering terrible things. Eventually she had to be sedated. The nightmares calmed when she reached puberty, but she was always described as a strange woman, who’d sit for hours on end in that attic room, looking out over the city with a small pair of opera glasses.”

  “Spying on the neighbors?” Lisa suggested.

  “More like keeping watch. Searching for something that might be coming.”

  “Kids having nightmares,” Brad said. “Nothing out of the ordinary in that.”

  “She stayed in the house as an adult, never marrying,” William continued. “One evening her brother was coming to visit after a business trip in
Vermont. As he approached the house, he saw Eliza fleeing from room to room, her terrified face illuminated by the gas lamps. All he could say was that there was ‘a shadow’ pursuing her. He found Eliza dead, strangled, her face blue, her throat crushed, on the floor of the hall where she’d raced to get to the front door. The door, inaccessible before, had opened with her passing. The brother had heard her sickening cries as he tried to get inside. There was no sign of her attacker. Every other door and window was locked from the inside.”

  “You tell a good story, Mr. Lynch.” Lisa flashed a grin at Brad, but his expression remained grave.

  “That sounds pretty solid for a ghost,” Hellboy said.

  “Ghosts have been reported across the years, in the room with the stuffed animals, in the cellar, the nursery, the attic room—in fact, that’s where Eliza’s ghost was sighted, looking out over the city as she did when she was alive. But other presences have been reported here too. Demonic ones. Even beasts, like the ones that chased you here.”

  Hellboy perked up at this information. “A werewolf? Inside the house?”

  “There’s always been talk of some strange connection between this house and the wolves, from the earliest days,” William replied.

  He led them back into the library, where he carefully selected a volume off the shelves; the leather was fraying and silverfish fled from among the pages. He flicked it open until he found a pen-and-ink illustration of a wolf pack sitting in a half-moon outside a house resembling the Grant Mansion. “Local folktales talk about the night the wolves came to Beacon Hill. It was about a year after the house was completed, when Abraham was in the middle of his desperate search for occult artifacts. Under the full moon, the wolves were supposed to have visited the house and kept their vigil all night, and for the two nights after that. It was reported by several reliable witnesses.”

  Unsettled by the eerie mood, they considered William’s stories for a while, until Brad pressed, “All right, Dad, you’ve played to the audience and got your kicks. Can we find what we came for and get out of here?”