by Dian Cronan
The O’Dwyre’s, catching sight of the smoke curling out of the long cold chimney, wandered up the hill and found the stranger cooking his breakfast over the fire. But there was no trouble here. There was no trespassing argument. Jason even made Derry, a bright twelve year old at the time, a cup of hot cocoa, and his father a strong cup of coffee, which they consumed together on the back porch as they drank in the predawn sky off the edge of the cliff. Though the O’Dwyre’s had not been the warmest people he’d ever met, Jason realized he enjoyed a little company. The conversation was light, but all Jason heard that mattered was “for sale.”
It took less than a week for the sale to go through. The historical society was elated to have a young handyman moving into the home, who would hopefully restore its previous grandeur and perhaps create a nice site for a bed and breakfast to bring some tourism to their troubled town. Oh, there were many who wished Jason gone as well, who warned him to leave well enough alone and to get out of Port Braseham while he still could, for nothing but death and sorrow awaited him here. But Jason was undeterred. He’d left a lifetime of death and sorrow behind him. He was immune. He went from one day to the next with no purpose, no plan, no want. But the second he took possession of Wolfhowl Manor, Jason felt a switch flip inside of him. For the first time in many years, he felt alive with hope.
Jason’s plans for the house were grand. He would heal the house. He would complete what the original owners did not. He would close up the scars of the previous fire. He would strengthen all signs of age until everything was shiny and new and strong. He would breathe in the fresh smell of new wood and remember his father. He would cook grand meals in the gourmet kitchen and remember his mother. Then he would find a partner, a wife, and start a new family, and this was how he would remember his rough and tumble brothers. This was how he would honor his family lost.
Jason started small at first. The drawing room had been completed with the original construction, but the floors were dull and scratched and the walls were bare and plain. He polished the floors and replaced the splintered beams. He added carved trims to the windows and to the back door. He sanded the original delicate carvings of the fireplace mantle and created window seats in the two bay windows overlooking the garden. He put in porch swings at the bottom of the front turrets, thinking fondly of sitting there one day with a nice woman and rocking quietly, sitting close with their heads bent together. He even hired a pretty interior designer from town to help with the finishing touches. Jason was a true builder, but knew nothing about interior design unless it involved carving wood.
One room at a time, Jason made his way through the house. Completing, restoring, creating anew. He began to thrive. He began to feel alive again. He opened himself up to the world. When he wasn’t working up on the mountain, Jason was a frequent and giving guest at church and was often seen around town, not only stocking up on materials, but chatting up young women of marrying age and helping older citizens with their chores. He became the most eligible bachelor in town, and to many, he was known as the Handsome Boy Scout.
Port Braseham itself entered a period of prosperous calm while Jason worked up on the mountain, as a kingdom would prosper under a fair and just monarch. The town began to grow, to make money, and yes, even take in some tourists from bed and breakfasts in the neighboring towns. The fish were returning. The crops were growing. The weather was fair and calm.
By the summer of 1963 the house was looking more remarkable than ever inside and out, and the townspeople began to wonder if their notion of a curse had just been some silly superstition after all. No tragedy had befallen this nice man. Flatlander he may have been, but to many, he was the savior of their town. He was the one who was finally able to bring happiness to the house, to the town. He broke the curse.
There was only one who remained staunchly convinced the curse lived on, lying dormant, waiting - waiting for the right moment to strike, the right moment to take all the townspeople had earned in one fell swoop. Oh, the storm was coming alright, and it was coming very soon.
Her name was Enit O’Sullivan.
Jason knew of strange ol’ Enit. They had met many times at church and she was always staring at him with those icy eyes, as if she were trying to look right through him, convinced his soul was dammed. He tried to be friendly to her, but she never did seem to warm to him. This is why, when Enit showed up on his doorstep on a nice afternoon in late April to ask him to dinner at her home, Jason was quite surprised. Perhaps the old maid had decided to bury the hatchet and get to know him, he thought. But if Jason had been hoping for a peaceful get-to-know-you dinner conversation, he was disappointed. What he got was more like a tarot reading. He had heard stories of the curse, sure. And he had even heard stories of Enit’s psychic babble. Had he actually considered any of it to be true? Of course not! His parents had raised a levelheaded and God-fearing son. This curse was nonsense, conjured up out of coincidence and accident. And this is exactly what he told Ol’ Enit.
Inviting Jason to dinner at her home had been a pretense. Instead of a nice seafood stew, what Jason received was a psychic warning about the curse and his impending death. Doomed, Enit had said in that spooky voice of hers. His soul was doomed. Just as Alva and Eamonn had been doomed. Just as Barbara and Robert, and just as Hagan and Alison. No, Jason would fare no better than these other fools. His only chance was to flee, and to do it straight away. If he was lucky, the house would let him free of its grasp.
Walking home from Enit’s, shoulders held high and chuckling to himself, was the last time anyone saw Jason.
Three weeks went by without the charming young man coming into town, but no one worried at first. Jason was close to completing his renovation of Wolfhowl Manor and all talk revolved around the party that would follow the completion. No one aside from the O’Dwyre’s and a few members of the historical society had been inside of the house for years. Surely, the townspeople told themselves, he was just being diligent in his efforts.
It was after his fourth absence from church that three of the local old biddies decided to check on him. Who was feeding him? Who was making sure he was taking care of himself the way a young man should? His mother was dead after all. He was working too hard. He needed a decent meal and some rest. Such a nice man like him should really think about settling down with a nice young woman from town, Catholic of course.
It was a sweet and dry late July afternoon when the three women made their way to the front doors. They knocked, of course, but were not surprised when Jason didn’t come to the door. The sound of a knock in such a cavernous old place was sure to be swallowed up quickly. It was no surprise to find the door unlocked either; this was Port Braseham after all. What was a surprise, however, was the discovery of Jason’s body in the bedroom at the top of the right grand staircase, recently re-carpeted in a lovely crimson. It appeared that, after securing the chandelier in the third floor library (he had taken it down to replace some of the missing crystals and dust the rest), Jason had stumbled off the ladder. His sturdy form fell easily through the fire-eaten floor of the library and into the room where all of the previous owners had met their deaths. But Jason had not hung himself, no. There was no suicide for this reformed man. Instead, he was impaled on his own saw.
“I warned him,” Old Enit said at his well-attended funeral. She pressed her lips tight as she leaned toward the person next to her with a nod. “He should have listened to me.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The First Diary
You aren’t good enough for him.
I start awake in the darkness, and my head connects with something small and hard.
“Ow!” Letta falls backward onto the end of my mattress, a hand on her forehead.
“What are you doing?” I’m rubbing my own forehead. “What happened?”
“Making sure you’re still breathing.” Letta folds her legs beneath her as she explains. “You passed out. You’ve been out for over an hour.”
“Re
ally?” I’m surprised, although my head does feel a little foggy.
“Don’t you remember?”
I try to remember, looking around in the dim light of the flashlights aimed at my bedroom ceiling. Beckan is hunched up on the seat of the bay window, asleep. I remember the search upstairs, finding the diaries, the power outage, and meeting Beckan in the foyer. Then I see the doors in front of me, and my heart sinks. “The doors…” My voice is barely a whisper, but Letta hears me.
“Yeah, they opened,” Letta says, quickly adding, “in the wind.”
“That’s not possible. Beckan locked them when he came in, remember? I watched him do it.”
“I know,” Letta says quietly. “You know… Beckan said you were screaming. I mean, we couldn’t hear anything from below, not over the storm, but…”
“I’m awake.”
“What?”
“That’s what I was screaming,” I say. “I screamed I’m awake.”
“Your dream?” Letta asks.
I nod as the terror returns, fresh and potent. That dream is where reality and ghosts collide. Is it real? How else can I explain the doors opening the first night I had the dream? And again tonight? The doors were deadbolted, I’m positive.
“I’ve had the dream several times now,” I say. “Each time it’s more vivid, more real. And each time I wake up right before I open the doors.”
“So you’re saying your dream came true?” Letta raises an eyebrow, dubious.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I just know what I heard.”
“What do you mean?”
“I heard a voice demanding to be let in, just like in my dream. And then… the doors opened.”
“Who do you think it was?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “But Liam’s had the same dream. He told me earlier.”
Letta sits up straighter. “Yeah? What’d he say about it?”
“He let it, whatever it is, in,” I said. “And he’s been acting weird lately. He kinda does what he wants. He doesn’t listen to me. Neither does Mom. I feel like they’ve teamed up against me or something.”
“Yeah, but that could be the stress of the move,” Letta says. I appreciate her half-full glass, even though we’ve been in the house nearly three months now. “He probably just misses Texas and stuff. It’s all part of adjusting – new friends, new routine, a strange new house. Real life always pops up in your dreams in weird ways. Who knows what dreams really mean anyway? Am I right?”
“Maybe.” Neither of us believes what happened tonight can be rationalized away so easily. Something made those doors open, but it sure as hell wasn’t the wind. Silently, we’re going through a door together, a door that leads to the other side. Walking through this door means we believe in something other. Something supernatural, something evil. And there’s no going back from that.
Letta smiles and squeezes my hand. “Don’t worry.”
Beckan lets out a loud snore and we both start. His eyes open, narrowly at first, but when he sees me sitting up, they burst open and he sits up. “Hey. What time is it?”
“After midnight,” Letta says.
Beckan comes over to sit beside me. “Are you okay?” His voice is laced with concern.
“Yeah,” I say, feeling my cheeks burn. “I’m fine. Embarrassed I’m such a chicken. I can’t believe I fainted.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he says. “I’m pretty good at carryin’ damsels in distress tah bed.”
Letta guffaws loudly, and Beckan blushes. I change the subject.
“I’m sorry you missed the storm party,” I say to Letta.
“Don’t worry, we didn’t miss anything. Ronan sent me a text while you were out. Lightning struck the Carrey’s barn, which is where we were supposed to go,” Letta says. “Set it on fire, despite the rain. They’re rescheduling it for tomorrow night at the park. It’ll be more fun there anyway.”
“Oh. Where’s everyone else?”
“Eileen bolted out the back door, running into the storm like an idiot when the doors opened,” Letta says. “Don’t worry – Shane and Patty caught up to her. She was a cold soggy mess when they found her, but they got her home. She still won’t say what happened in the basement.”
Beckan gives me a withering look dripping in I-told-you-so smugness.
“I’m glad no one got hurt,” I say, “besides myself, I mean.” Neither Beckan nor Letta smile. “Come on, guys. Stop being so serious. You’re freakin’ me out.” In truth, I’m still scared – scared of the doors, scared of this house, and scared for my family. I don’t understand what’s going on, but I’ve been counting on Beckan and Letta to be the voices of reason, not to encourage my ghostly fears.
“Listen, ‘bout what you said before you fainted –” Beckan starts.
“Alright,” I interrupt. “I know I freaked out. It’s not that big of a deal. Can we not relive this please?”
“I want to know why you said that,” Beckan says. “I’m awake. You said it over and over. You were screamin’, Rose. It scared me.”
I sigh. I want to tell him I’m scared too. Instead, I tell him about the dream. It’s a long time before Beckan responds. His face is unreadable at first, but then something seems to dawn on him, and whatever it is, it’s not good.
“What?” I finally ask, the pit in my stomach growing colder. “What is it?”
“My muthah,” Beckan says. “She, ah, had the same dream. Before she died.”
“Holy shit!” Letta exclaims, voicing my own shock. When Beckan and I jump, startled by her shout, she covers her mouth. “Sorry.”
The silence weighs us down, keeps us quiet. The storm has died down to a tiny pitter-patter on the windows and roof. The house itself creaks and groans less, having survived the worst of the squall. Beckan gets up and walks to the balcony doors. He pulls the curtain aside and stares into the darkness for a while.
“You can see the smoke from the Carrey’s barn,” he says finally. I can tell from the way he licks his lips he wants a cigarette.
Letta glances at the clock. “It’s getting pretty late.”
“Yeah,” Beckan turns around. “You should get some sleep,” he says to me, his serious green eyes boring into mine. “I’ll take you home, Letta.”
“No!” It comes out louder than I mean it to. “Don’t go, I mean. It’s just I…” I don’t want to admit how terrified I am to be in this house alone. “What if I have a concussion, or gave Letta one when we conked heads?” I try to laugh, but my throat tightens and chokes it off. “Can’t you stay the night?”
“Sure,” Letta says. “I’ll text Mom I’m staying here. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” She crawls up on the bed next to me and leans against the headboard. “Oh hey, I meant to tell you,” she says, staring at the canopy, “My dad can fix that rip for you. He’s pretty awesome with a needle and thread thanks to his dry cleaning business. He does alterations too.”
“Thanks.” I’d almost forgotten about the ripped canopy and the attack on my room. It seems like forever ago.
Beckan stands anxiously near the door, wrestling with something inside his head. “Alright,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll stay too. Just tah make sure you’re both alright.” He comes over to the other side of my bed. His heavy frame sinks into the mattress and I fall slightly toward him. As if taking an unspoken cue, Beckan lifts his arm behind me and Letta huddles close to me on the other side so that Beckan’s hand grazes her soft, dark hair.
“You guys get some rest,” he says. “I’ll keep an eye on…thins.”
I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep after what happened, but I surprise myself by sleeping a deep, dreamless sleep.
***
I wake around eight Saturday morning to the sound of the large knockers coming down heavily on the front doors. Beckan’s disappeared but Letta lays on her side, curled up snuggly under my comforter. When the loud echoing knock sounds again, she starts awake.
“Someone’s at the door,”
I say. I’m groggy and my limbs are still heavy with sleep.
“Okay!” Letta shoots up with her usual pep, as if she’s been awake for hours. “I’m sure it’s my parents with Liam.” She skips down the stairs. I follow slowly, still rubbing sleep out of my eyes.
As predicted, Letta’s parents stand on the porch in the frigid morning air, all bright smiles and ruddy cheeks. They look exactly like Letta; small, pale, and cloaked in dark black hair.
“Sorry we’re so early, Rose,” says Mrs. Bauer, “but Liam was missing home this morning.” She puts a hand out toward me. “Andit’s also nice to meet you!”
“Oh, yeah, of course!” I shake hands with both of them.
“Did you have a good time last night?” Mr. Bauer, winking at Letta.
“You bet!” Letta says. “Listen Rose, you get some rest and relax today. I’ll give you a call later.” She winks and grabs her backpack and coat, heading out the door before I can even say goodbye as Liam dashes inside. He’s so quick that my goodbye to the Bauers borders on rude. I close the door and grab Liam by the hood of his jacket before he can disappear into the bowels of the house.
“Hold it, squiggle worm,” I say, pulling him into a tight hug. “I missed you!” Liam doesn’t hug me back, and when I look at him, I notice tear stains trickling down his face. “Hey,” I say gently as I take off his jacket and he sets down his overnight bag, “what’s wrong?”
He shrugs. “Nothin’.”
“Don’t you lie to me, Liam Andrew Delaney,” I say. “Now out with it. What’s going on?”
“I just wanted to come home,” he says. “It was just time for me to come home.”
“Why? You could have stayed with the Bauers a little longer if you wanted. Letta told me Mrs. Bauer makes great cookies.” I smile at him and pinch his cheek. “I bet she makes pancakes pretty good too.”