The Howliday Inn

by Zoey Kane

  “It was a family-owned business that began to grow and do well for their employees…” Claire read on, paraphrasing, “About the second year of its operation, in 1936, there was a big bank robbery. It was said two robbers ran in different directions to get away. It was thought one came up this way and disappeared with all the loot. He was never found, but two large satchels filled with money were. The money was returned, and a five-thousand-dollar reward was given. The other robber was caught, went to prison, caught pneumonia and died there.”

  “Hm, that is interesting…” Zoey commented.

  A buzz from the elevator interrupted them, accompanied by Joseph’s voice coming through the intercom. “It’s me, ladies. I have a special delivery note for you.”

  “A note?” they said in unison.

  Claire jumped up from her white cushiony seat and jogged over to let him in.

  The door swished open to reveal him holding out a letter. It was folded closed in the same fashion Claire and her friends back in junior high often did when passing notes. Because of that, she half-expected to see some heart and BFF doodles across it. All that was written, however, was “KANES.”

  Zoey approached as Claire opened the letter and read to herself. Claire’s eyes widened before she pressed the paper to her teal blouse. “Oh my….” she declared.

  Joseph stayed standing there with a youthful curiosity and excitement in his eyes.

  “Whaaat is it?” Zoey tilted her head forward with big eyes.

  “Yeah, what is it, ma’am?”

  Claire paused and turned up the side of her mouth. “Lowe says that he talked to the Stiles family. He convinced them to set up an appointment to go to their farm and talk.” Then she teased her mother with a big, big smile and girlish excitement: “Aren’t you so happy?”

  “Help,” Zoey eeped. She didn’t care to hang out with those who looked more like the walking dead than werewolves. But a meetup had been her idea, and curiosity usually tended to win.

  “Seriously, you know we gotta do it.” Claire gave a shrug of a shoulder.

  Joseph put his hands over his smile. “Whoa, you two are actually going over to their place?” He dropped his hands and, amused, said, “Might want to bring some bug spray with you. And I’m not speaking of insects; I’m talkin’ about them!”

  “What time, Claire?” Zoey sighed.

  “We meet Lowe at the church at 4:30 and he will drive us over.”

  “Okay. But I’m telling everyone where we are, and calling home about it.”

  “Good strategy!” Claire folded back up the letter and put it into her jeans pocket.

  Joseph, now rubbing his hands together, said, “Ohhh, man, I can’t believe you ladies are actually going there.”

  “Would you like us to take pictures for you, our dear young friend?” Zoey smiled.

  “Naw, don’t do that.” His smile sunk into dead seriousness. “They’re superstitious about using technology. Wouldn’t want you ladies hurt.”

  *

  Zoey and Claire were on time but Lowe was already leaning against his 1967 Chevy station wagon hitched to a rusty four-stall horse trailer.

  “My car,” he told them, “will take us up the road, but we’re going to have to ride horses the rest of the way. As you might imagine, the Stiles family is not accommodating, even if their visitors are of their very own Rottenwood.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me,” Zoey responded, getting in.

  “Us,” Claire chimed in, scooting in beside her. “It doesn’t surprise us.”

  “Alright, off we go!” He slapped the hood before trotting to the driver’s side.

  They continued down Rottenwood. Lowe said, “Oly Stiles’ farm is farther down, at No Trespassing Way.”

  Claire said, eyeing the old buildings they passed, “I didn’t know there were any other roads out here.”

  Some residents walking around spotted the sleuths in the back of the vehicle, and a couple actually waved this time. The mother and daughter smiled brightly at them, happy to be genuinely received by them.

  Lowe’s station wagon crunched along the old dirt and gravel road as he explained. “It’s not technically a road… It’s a nickname. You’ll see…”

  They approached a brambled path with a leaning sign at its entrance: NO TRESPASSING. He pulled his rig over and they all got out, Zoey and Claire waiting for the horses that were already saddled up.

  “I’m glad we’re in jeans and tees, and sturdy shoes.” Zoey looked down at their boots. Their recent adventure at a dude ranch near The Lost Dutchman’s Mine had prepared them for a walk like this. The boots had been given to them by an admirer, and their soles were still in impeccable shape.

  “No, this is no place to dress up,” Claire agreed, combing her loose brown hair with slender fingers as she stepped onto the path.

  Lowe brought a cream-colored, sleepy-faced horse down the ramp and handed the reins to Claire. “For you,” he said. Claire immediately mounted up, waiting for everyone else.

  Next, Lowe brought down the ramp a sassy chocolate Arab gelding, who was throwing his mane and holding his tail high. “He thinks he’s gorgeous,” Lowe said as he handed the reins to Zoey.

  “And he would be right.” She said with big eyes.

  “His name is Dancing Prophet. And Claire’s mare is Eaty, short for Eat My Dust.”

  “Oh, no…” Claire said, not one for wild rides.

  “Don’t worry,” Lowe said, shaggy brown hair framing a cute smile. “She’ll do whatever you want; she's very gentle. But if you need a fast start, she’s the one.”

  Lastly, Lowe brought out a tall and noble black thoroughbred. “This is Bounder, who can leap tall buildings with a single bound… and fences.”

  “Do you think we’ll be doing much of that?” Claire asked in a higher voice.

  “Naw. Here we go.” He turned Bounder in the direction of the scary Stiles’.

  “How do the Stiles get to the community meetings, Lowe?” Zoey wanted to know.

  “They walk.”

  “Of course they do,” she replied.

  “They must be very fit.” That was all Claire could think of to say.

  Zoey’s Arab had a gait that was like that of a smooth rocking horse, where you don’t feel all the bumps along the path. She had once ridden a stiff-legged horse, and she'd had to elevate herself off the saddle to keep from being thumped to death.

  “There it is.” Lowe pointed to a small house, maybe never painted, set back under trees.

  As they got closer to the shack-like home, an outhouse came into view. Rather than the usual half-moon cut-out, a full moon decorated the top of its door. The meaning didn’t get lost on Claire, who had to smile.

  The horses soon got tied up to a couple of trees. The porch planks creaked as they stepped up. Lowe knocked on the door and the Kanes' hearts began beating faster.

  “Hey, Oly,” Lowe called. “We’re here!”

  The whiskered old man opened the door. “We been waitin’ fer ya. Yer late!” He turned abruptly, walking away from the squeaky door.

  Claire looked at her watch, and mouthed to her mother, “Five minutes.”

  Back, closer to the kitchen area, were two picnic tables set with various tableware. “We eat at five!” The old man came over and took Zoey by the arm, yanking her to the closest table. “You sit there!”

  She readjusted her red shirt’s sleeve. “We didn’t mean to intrude on your dinner, Mr. Stiles.”

  “Yer invited. We don’t talk at food time!”

  Zoey shot a look at Claire, and said quietly, “No talking at food time.”

  Claire nodded. She, too, was tugged by the arm, and was sat across from her mom.

  “Lowe, you sit next to the outsider!” Oly pointed.

  Lowe took a seat next to Zoey.

  The rest of the family was sitting in the dilapidated living room, all eyes on what was going on, until Oly ordered, “Git to the table!”

  There was a holler, a
nd everyone ran to get places. When all were seated, they were quiet, looking at the patriarch. Oly eyed Zoey and said, “Pray!”

  “Do I pray to the moon?” she whispered to Lowe.

  “Pray to whoever you believe in.”

  “Dear Lord…”

  “LOUDER!” yelled Oly.

  “Yes, sir… Dear Lord,” she spoke louder, “we give thanks for this meal and for those who provided it—”

  “Enough! Eat!”

  All the family suddenly passed dishes with noisy clatters. A stack of meat was piled high on a serving board, with many hands snatching, scratching and tearing pieces from the bones. Like a flock of buzzards swooping in for a tasty highway carcass, there was soon nothing but a skeleton left.

  Lowe laughed, and forked pieces of meat from his own plate to the Kanes'. “I got some for you.” He also gave each a potato.

  Two hot pans of cornbread were then placed on the table. Zoey thought it looked wonderful, but the lady cook had dirty hands and fingernails. Actually, the whole family appeared unwashed, wearing clothes that were apparently worn to do many chores, as well as an occasional wiping off of a boy’s boogery nose.

  “Eat everything on your plate,” Zoey advised Claire quietly, when no one was looking as they were busy eating. Claire nodded.

  The cook handed Zoey a jar of what looked like yellow Crisco. “Pig lard,” she said with a small smile “…fer yer carnbread.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Zoey smiled in return. Then she spread lard on her cornbread.

  “Take more! We got plenty.”

  Zoey took a generous amount, planning on chewing with teeth only, no tongue, and then handed it to Claire, as the cook stood watching with pride. She, too, took a generous amount for her cornbread. The jar was returned and passed to the rest of the family.

  The woman server returned with cloudy water, pouring it into everyone’s pint jar. “Ya need a goodly amount of water ter digest yer food.”

  “Thank you,” Zoey and Claire said.

  By now, everyone seemed to have already devoured most of their dinner, and were taking an interest in the “outsiders.”

  The Kanes both choked down their water, which left a dirty aftertaste like the bottom of a ditch. To their horror, their hostess returned and filled their glasses again.

  “Thank you,” the duo said again.

  Claire felt a gurgle in her intestines.

  “You don’t have to drink all the second glass, only half of it,” Lowe commented. “Now burp! It’s a sign of gratitude,” he whispered.

  “What?” Zoey said, panicked.

  The family began to burp, almost in harmony, finishing by saying, “That was sure good!”

  Claire managed a burp that was loud and long. “It sure was.”

  All eyes turned to Zoey. She wanted to burp but there didn’t seem to be any bubble. Her face flushed. Not wanting to offend Oly, she wondered if she could beat it out of her chest, or maybe if she threw herself over the back of a chair… “Buurrrp! Oh!” Zoey hadn’t expected it all at once. “Mmmmm, good!”

  Lowe laughed.

  Smiles and approval went all around. Lowe had no problem burping and was very amused with the Kanes.

  “Daughters, clear the table,” Oly said. “Strangers, talk on.” He seemed to have mellowed some, leaning an arm on the table, facing Zoey. Gray eyes settled on her, deeply set in valleys ridged by sharp bones.

  “I don’t think we properly introduced ourselves.” Zoey ignored her increasing case of the willies. “Zoey Kane, and this is my daughter Claire.”

  “Don’t care… Git to business.”

  “Okay…”

  Lowe’s warm hand then hugged Zoey’s grip of the bench under the table. “Go ahead,” he said, his brown eyes kind and reassuring.

  She was trying to find where to start. “Do you, like the rest of Rottenwood village, say you are werewolves?”

  “People say we are, and fer a long time we know’d it, not bragging or taking credit to ourselves.” He was a humble man beast.

  Lowe added, “That makes them hereditary werewolves, which sets them apart from the rest of Rottenwood. I personally got bit. Long story I don’t talk about.”

  One of the teen boys said, elbowing his brother, “Filo an me tried transforming inner barn one night, but it dint work. All Filo did were turn red, with watery eyes.”

  “The moon weren’t full enough,” the other explained with a chuckle.

  “How are you related to the Stiles, past owners of the logging business?”

  “He’s our kin, cousin. What’s so impordent ‘bout them?” he asked gruffly.

  “I’m trying to figure out why that business went out,” Zoey said. “There are trees all over to log and mill.”

  “What’s thatta got ter do with Lupin’ people?!”

  Zoey kept on steadily. She didn’t know when she’d get cut off and thrown out. “When, Mr. Stiles, was it said that werewolves were first discovered in Lantern County? Did it start with the time of Stiles Logging camp?”

  “None of yorn business!” he said, getting surly.

  Tempering her voice to be extra kind and quiet, Zoey said, “Lowe said this meetup is gonna help find who killed off Clifford’s nephew.”

  Then Oly leaned in looking at Zoey with narrow eyes. Claire expected a growl to roll out of his skinny neck.

  “Come on, Oly,” Lowe cut in. “Now you know, when you need to find something out, you have to start at the beginning. People call your family werewolves, so Zoey has to follow down that path like the good hunting dog you have. We have to find out who or what is doing the killing, even if it’s by one of our own believers. Clifford is getting an eye of suspicion, as if he did it.”

  Oly seemed to find that reasonable and settled down. “In the beginning, there were bad blood with my cousins, and there were murder just outside the camp. That’s all.”

  Now they were getting somewhere. “Do you know if it was found out who killed whom?”

  “One of us were accused of murder over some money that weren’t paid back. The camp were cursed when we got ‘cused and bad things started we ain’t had to do with. That’s our story. We picked up our stuff and left that job.

  “I’ll tell you somethin’ else.” He slapped his hand down on the table. “The curse got worse with blood lust. And thater when people know’d a werewolf’s revenge took over the camp. It ain’t us. And we don’t know who done it. That’s why we’s even talkin’ to ya. Maybe ya kin find out all this stuff. Now ya know ever’thin’.” He sat up straight, like there really was nothing left.

  “One last thing,” Zoey pressed on, and Oly stiffened with suspicion. “Do you know why this area is called Rottenwood?”

  “Cuz of everthin’ goin’ so bad up inna logger camp, and cuz the village is built on widows’ grief. Ever’one move out.”

  “Thank you for dinner and your time, Mr. Stiles,” Zoey said.

  He gave a docile huff of acknowledgement.

  “May I go into the kitchen and thank your wife for the hearty meal?”

  “She ain’t my wife. She’s my daughter. And we don’t know if the true believer, Clifford, killed his bad-tempered nephew!”

  Claire stayed talking to Lowe while Zoey entered the kitchen. Oly’s daughter and her two girls were rinsing dishes in a tub of pale brown water. Louis Pasteur would be hyperventilating under the circumstances.

  “I just wanted to say goodbye,” Zoey said. They turned to look, and she spoke specifically to her hostess. “I wasn’t told your name.”

  “Sacred,” she answered with a thin-lipped, timid smile.

  “Sacred, your meal was delicious. Thank you for everything.”

  A sudden pink colored her pale cheeks.

  Zoey looked around the kitchen a little. Cooking was done on a wood stove. There were no doors on the cupboards. Then Claire approached. Noticing they were shoeless, she said, “It’s perfect weather for going barefoot.”

  “We don’t nee
d no shoes in any weather,” Sacred said. “We wear soles.” She went to a box and pulled out a type of shoe, the sole made from tire tread with torn material to keep it on the foot. “This is us winter sole.”

  “Very creative. Do you sew, as well?”

  “Used to. The treadle machine don’t work no more.”

  It occurred to Zoey that she was standing in the middle of a kitchen of three unusual women who might have been seen during the Great Depression. And she realized she was probably as foreign to them as they were to her. She smiled at the girls before going back to Lowe. They giggled in response.

  Zoey got an idea.

  When she returned to where the rest were still sitting at the tables, she said to the old man Stiles again, “You have granted Claire and me a great favor by inviting us to have a wonderful dinner with you and allowing us to ask a couple of questions.”

  “Three!”

  She continued, “It’s only right for us to respond with some gratitude for allowing us into your house at all.” Zoey and Claire were ready to walk out, but they had a last thought. “Mr. Stiles, who owns the property of Stiles Logging?”

  “Four! We do. All of it. We got papers when our cousins left. Lot of good it do us.”

  “Does your family still know anything about logging and milling?”

  “Five! It’s who we are. It all passed down to me and then me to my boys.”

  “Thank you. We’ll be leaving now. You have been a grand host.”

  “You think so? Hmph.” Still, he surprisingly seemed pleased.

  The horses were dropped back, unsaddled, and put into a paddock until Lowe returned to brush and bed them down. Then, on the return trip to their car at the church, Zoey told Lowe how she wanted him to help her. “Find a treadle sewing machine and several bolts of material from jean to non-wrinkle, usable fabrics, nothing fancy. We’ll pay for it. Then deliver it for us with our thanks. Would it be okay if you did that for us, Lowe?”

  “Sure, would love to,” he said, delighted.

  “Also,” Zoey continued, find out what the old man can use, some tool or something, and get that for him. Okay?”

  “Absolutely! Thanks for letting me in on that.” He went on to say, “Let me help you in any way I or we can.”

  “Thank you. I think you know best the personalities of the Stiles. Let me know if there’s anything else you think they might need, and do it on our tab.” She had an afterthought, “By the way, are the Stiles really werewolves?”