Wolfhowl Mountain

by Dian Cronan

  I notice the thin trail of smoke coming from the O’Dwyre’s chimney. Would Beckan’s mother still be alive? I would’ve liked her, I think, the happy, humming ballerina. Maybe Mrs. O’Dwyre could’ve even helped me with my ballet.

  A noise from below calls my attention away from the cabin. Our station wagon makes its way up the long drive, like an ant climbing its hill.

  I don’t know why, but I don’t want anyone to know I’ve been slinking around the attic. I head back down the spiral stairs, careful to latch the trap door behind me. I run down the attic stairs, close the door, and after a second’s thought, twist the key and stick it in my pocket.

  I’m coming out of the servant’s stairway into the kitchen when the front door opens. I skip across to the table and pull my backpack off the floor, using it to hide the sheets and the novel.

  Liam runs into the room first, heading straight for the fridge, barely noticing me. He pulls out the makings of a turkey and cheese sandwich, turning from the fridge, arms laden with ingredients. “Oh, hi Rosie.”

  “Liam!” Mother admonishes him as she enters the room. “We just ate!”

  “So,” he says, irritated. “I’m still hungry.”

  I look at the two of them. Liam looks healthy as ever. His cheeks are pink and his form is rotund. He looks like he’s gained a little weight since we moved. The next time he goes for a checkup, the doctor is sure to tell us he needs to curb his snack intake.

  Mother, on the other hand, looks terrible. Although she seemed to gain vitality and life after the separation, something’s changed since we came to Maine, to Wolfhowl Manor. Mother, who only a couple of months ago was so optimistic about a house that was “just a house” and about her new job where the head nurse was nice and understanding, now looks wan and depressed. Her face is drawn and gaunt. Her dress hangs on her body as it would on a hanger. She’s lost a few pounds just in the last week. The woman, who’d been so happy and full of energy just the other night, is exhausted. She has dark circles under her eyes. Her hair frays away from her head and out of the bun at the nape of her neck. She sits down in the chair across from me, putting her head in her hands.

  “Mom?”

  “I’m fine, sweetie,” she says with a pat on my hand. “I’m just tired.”

  “Did you get up early? Where were you guys?”

  “Church.”

  I shouldn’t be surprised. Mother is in her special church dress after all, but I am. “Church? Why?” We haven’t been to church as a family since Dad died. Mother’s gone once or twice for confession, and once that first Sunday after we moved, but that’s it.

  “I just felt it was time we go.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” I have no burning desire to go lean on my knees at church, but I feel left out.

  Mother looks surprised. “I tried, honey. You told me to leave you alone.”

  “I did?” I have no recollection, but I suppose it’s possible. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” She pats my hand again and tries to smile, but it looks strange on her sad face.

  “Where did you eat?”

  “Some old woman chatted us up after the service.” Mother speaks as if each word takes supreme effort. “Name of…” her eyebrows knit as she tries to remember.

  I take a shot. “O’Sullivan?”

  “Yes, that’s it,” she says. “Mrs. O’Sullivan, her daughter Laura, and her grandson Adam – he’s got a heck of a shiner. Must be a classmate of yours?”

  I nod slowly, reliving Adam’s fall into the water last night.

  “Anyway, she invited us over for lunch afterward and I didn’t feel much like cooking, so…”

  “She’s weird,” Liam says from behind the fridge door. “I didn’t like her at all!”

  “Liam!” I scold him. “That isn’t very nice.” He doesn’t reply.

  “Well, what’d she say?” I say, trying to hide my rabid need to know. “I mean, what’s she like?” Is she normal? Or a crazy old witch?

  “We can talk about it later.” Mother sighs loudly and then stifles a yawn. “I’m going to lay down for a while.”

  I watch her leave the room, disappointed, my eyes staring after her long after she disappears.

  I make an attempt at some homework before I begin to feel tired again myself. I try calling Letta to see if she’s interested in hearing about the attic, but no one answers.

  I shuffle upstairs and take a long nap.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Song of the Damned

  I sleep a long time without even being aware I’m asleep. In a blink, the faded sun disappears into a wintry evening. Dark clouds hang low over the sleepy town, and the rain is rat-a-tatting against the silent house.

  I haven’t slept this hard or this long since Dad died. A few days worth of wrenching sobs has a way of siphoning your energy away from you until you feel like Hitchcock’s chocolate syrup circling the drain. It’s strange he only died in May and yet, it being late October, I still remember every minute detail. It isn’t dreamlike, as many memories are. It’s crisp, clear, like the glass of a lake or my reflection in the mirror. It might’ve been yesterday I looked down into the bloody water, that I heard my own scream as if from far away.

  “He doesn’t have his glasses on. He needs his glasses.” I remember saying that many times to the paramedics. To the police. To Mother. To my shrink. “He’s blind without them. How will he see anything without them? Where are his glasses?”

  People who commit suicide are thoughtful, I’ve learned. Dad had neatly folded his pants and shirt, setting them on the toilet lid. On top of his clothes, he had carefully creased his underwear and socks together. And on top of his socks were his glasses, neatly folded, lenses up. They were shiny and recently cleaned. He’d folded and piled all of these things nearby, as if he’d planned on needing them soon. He might’ve just been taking a bath. He was just taking a bath and he’d need his things, his glasses, after he toweled off.

  It’s after eleven when the frigid air in my room wakes me. I get a blanket and wrap it around me. I consider checking in on Mother and Liam, but it’s dark and the front door is out there. I’m not going to go into the hall, not at night. Not in the dark.

  Instead, I shuffle over to the balcony doors. It’s raining heavily, but not as wildly as the previous nights. I eye the town, trying to see its lights through the fizzy rain, then look where I know the edge of the forest to be, now merely a line of shadowy giants in the darkness.

  Movement in the shadows catches my eye. Even in the blackness, I recognize the silhouette of a wolf. It sits on its haunches and stares up at my balcony. It stares at me. It stares into my eyes.

  And then it howls, long and loud. There’s no doubt in my mind; this is a warning.

  I retreat from the window and return to bed. I sit under my mountain of covers and stare at the clock for a long time, watching as each minute passes. My nerves are frayed, on edge, making sleep difficult. And even when my eyelids begin to feel heavy and my eyes begin to burn, I fight sleep, afraid of what’ll happen. Of what I might see. Of what I might do. Each blink becomes longer and longer. Until, finally, all is black.

  He’s in the porcelain tub with the cheap curtain open, pushed aside as if he’s ready to get out. His khakis and dark blue t-shirt are folded on the toilet seat. The stark white of his socks looks even whiter against the tiles and paint of the hotel bathroom, yellowed by years of visitors. White toilet, white walls, white tiles, white curtain, white sink. Everything white, except for the water. Even my father’s skin is a bleach white compared to the blood red of the water.

  Everything is clean. Not a thing is out of place or smudged or wet. It’s just the water that needs cleansing.

  I stare at my father’s lifeless form lying back in the water. The crook of his neck cradles the edge of the tub and his submerged forearms float freely under the surface. His eyes are closed. He could simply have fallen asleep in the bath. Even with the red water, that
was my first thought. I should wake him up before he drowns.

  I sit on the edge of the tub, looking at my father’s face. Peaceful. I reach a hand down into the water and splash it up onto his face to see if he’ll wake up. It’s all a joke; an awful, awful joke.

  But, no. This is no joke.

  “Daddy?” My voice is whiny, like a little girl’s. “Daddy, are you okay?”

  Suddenly his eyes open. His body shoots up out of the water and his hands grip my shirt, leaking the blood red water onto me. He yanks me toward him, so close our noses are almost touching, and I’m nauseous with the irony scent of his blood.

  “I’m so lonely, Rose!” He shouts. “I’m so terribly lonely!”

  He holds up a razor from beneath the red water, its edge still dripping with his own warm blood.

  This time his voice is a desperate whisper. “I’m so lonely, Rose.”

  Suddenly I’m screaming in Mother’s face. I grab her wrists, which are in the process of shaking me awake, and shove them violently away.

  “Rose!” Mother says, confused.

  It takes me a few seconds to get my bearings. My room. My mother. Bright sun coming in the windows. No bathtub. No bloody water. No ghosts.

  “Sorry, Mother,” I manage, my heart still hammering in my chest. “I’m sorry. I-I was having a bad dream.”

  Mother nods with a hand over her own heart. Clearly, I’ve frightened her.

  “It’s alright, honey,” she says and then takes a deep breath. “I wanted to wake you because I’m getting ready to leave for work. I didn’t want you to oversleep again.”

  I check the time. “Crap!” I hop out of bed and run to my closet, searching for an outfit before hopping into the shower.

  Mother follows me and leans against the doorjamb as I throw garments all over the place, looking for something that isn’t wrinkled or dirty. “Are you alright?”

  I recognize Mother’s tone of concern. I pause in the ransacking of my closet and look at her. She wears her nurse’s uniform and her arms are folded across her chest. She looks better than yesterday, ready to face the coming day, not ready to climb back into bed and hide.

  “Yes, Mother,” I say slowly. “I’m fine. I promise. Just a bad dream.”

  Mother stares into my eyes for what feels like a long time, and then abruptly stands straight and nods. “Alright. Hurry up and don’t be late. Liam’s up and dressed. He’s getting breakfast. Don’t forget he’ll be with the Bauers instead of the O’Dwyres this afternoon. I’ll see you tonight.” With a smile, she all but skips out of the house.

  I hurry myself along and manage to get out the door only five minutes late. It’s still raining, and when Beckan pulls up in his pickup, I’m glad to see him.

  “Mornin’,” he says with a bright smile. “Thought you’d like a lift.”

  I climb into the middle and Liam pops in after me. He has a pair of headphones and an old portable cassette player I’ve never seen before. Hearing a gush of obnoxious children’s tunes coming from the headphones, I turn to Beckan.

  “Hi.” As Beckan puts the truck in gear and begins heading down the hill, I keep my eyes on him. I feel differently seeing him today, relieved somehow. I’ve spent most of the weekend freezing, wrapped up in my bedcovers, but a warmth emanates from Beckan’s body like an aura. It rolls down his arms and toward me like a wave, seeping into my own body. As the house shrinks in the rearview mirror, my dreary mood begins to shrink too. It’s as if a heavy weight I wasn’t even aware of is being lifted off of me. I can finally breathe freely and relax.

  “Hey,” I say, trying to think of something to say, “what happened to you the other night?”

  “Hm?” He tilts his ear toward me without looking away from the road.

  “When Letta and I woke up, you were gone.”

  “Oh,” he says, still staring ahead. “I didn’t want tah bring it up at the party, but do you remember what I told you before, about my muthah?”

  I think back to our conversation on the balcony, ages ago now. “Sometimes you hear her voice?” Beckan nods.

  “Oh my God, did you hear her voice? What did she say?” I’m so eager to hear his explanation that I’m immediately apologetic, ashamed of my enthusiasm. “I’m sorry, that’s rude.”

  “No, it’s okay,” he says. “I did hear her. She wasn’t talkin’ exactly. She was hummin’.”

  “Humming?”

  Beckan nods. “She liked tah hum when she was workin’ ‘round the house. Hymns mostly. ‘Just As I Am,’ ‘How Great Thou Art’, ‘Holy, Holy, Holy.’ You know, the usual. But there’s this one song she used tah hum all the time. It wasn’t a church song. It was somethin’ I only evah heard when I was ‘round her.” He pauses for a minute as he thinks. He starts humming the song, haltingly at first, but then with confidence as the tune comes back to him. It’s sweet and cool, full of love and possibilities, but it makes me shiver, and the cold that dissipated only moments ago seeps back into my body. It starts at the nape of my neck, traveling slowly at first, then gains momentum. It raises every hair on my arms as it crawls down my spine and invades my stomach. The song Beckan hums so beautifully is the same song Mother has been humming. It’s the song I hear in my dreams.

  Mrs. O’Dwyre and Mother hummed the same song. And though I don’t know the two are connected exactly, I start wondering… I know what happened to Mrs. O’Dwyre. What will happen to Mother? And where the hell did that damn song come from?

  “Anyway,” Beckan says as I try to control my thoughts and bring them back to reality, “I heard her voice hummin’ that song. Clear as you’re hearin’ it from me, I heard it from her. That’s what woke me up. I didn’t mean to abandon you, but I just couldn’t…” I hear him choking back the emotion in his voice, and we’re both glad when we spot Letta at the bottom of the hill.

  Letta smiles at me as she climbs in, pressing Liam, who barely notices her, between us. “Hey guys. What’s shaking?” The aloofness of the other night is gone. Either Letta’s over whatever was bothering her, or I made it all up in my head.

  “Nothin’,” Beckan says quickly. “How was the rest of your weekend? How’s Patty?”

  “Remind me to get your canopy for you later,” Letta says to me. “Dad fixed it yesterday. And Patty’s fine. She had a good doctor.” She winks at us. “How about you guys? What’d you do yesterday?”

  “A whole lot of nothing,” I say. “Something about this weather. The Delaneys spent all day under the covers. We really know how to do it up.”

  “Yeah,” Letta says, “this time of year has a way of doing that to you around here.” Letta’s voice carries a certain tone, as if she’s relating something confidential without telling you anything at all, and I realize Letta is hiding something. And I’m certain whatever it is, is important.

  ***

  I’m glad to be at school for once. I go through my day with ease and a smile, my weekend depression only a memory. Adam’s absent, and I hope he hasn’t caught pneumonia or something from the icy water. We’ve started Macbeth in English, which I actually read on my own last year and loved. Chemistry turns out to be fun with Bunsen burners and an experiment. Since I’m still a leper and the class has an odd number of students, I have to partner up with Mr. McLoughlin, but I don’t mind. He’s handsome to look at and has a dorky sense of humor.

  I go to the usual lunch spot, but find a head missing when taking mental attendance. Shane, Patty, Letta… I search the cafeteria and I’m surprised to see Eileen sitting with Mary and Ronan.

  “What’s up with Eileen?” I ask, watching as Eileen laughs loudly at something Mary said.

  The others follow my gaze. Shane shrugs, but Patty and Letta exchange knowing glances.

  “She’s defected tah the enemy,” Patty says sadly. “Permanently.”

  “She’s just returning to her natural habitat,” Letta says bitterly as she pushes her peas around her lunch tray. “She’s always belonged over there.”

  “Really?” I
know Eileen occasionally sits elsewhere for lunch, but I’d assumed she’s one of those people who’re popular with everyone. She exudes a rare confidence, sometimes seeming mature beyond her years.

  “She’s got a nasty side,” Patty says. “Last yeeah she couldn’t decide who she wanted tah be, so she tried out everyone. When she stahted hangin’ out with us this yeeah, I thought she’d finally figured it out and made the right choice.”

  “She’s just a spy,” Letta says, her voice dripping in venom, “getting reconnaissance for the other side so they can barbeque you.”

  Letta’s comment is followed by an uncomfortable silence. For a moment it seems like Patty, Shane, and Letta are sharing an unspoken secret with each other.

  “Alright,” I say, “out with it.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Shane says innocently.

  “Come on, I’m not stupid. What is it?”

  Patty sighs. “Eileen’s spreadin’ rumahs about what happened at your house on Friday.”

  “Patty!” Shane admonishes her.

  “Rumors?” A familiar iciness takes hold in my stomach. Well hello, Monday. What took you so long to get here? “Great. What’s she saying?” Is she telling people what happened to her in the basement bathroom? Is she telling them about the diaries? Is she telling them I fainted like a baby when the ‘wind’ blew the doors open?

  “Does it matter?” Letta snaps. “The whole school’s going to believe it whether it’s true or not. Everyone’s chomping at the bit to hear something bad about Ghost Girl. They can’t wait to hear you’ve gone crazy, killed your family, been shoved in a straight jacket, or whatever.”

  “It matters to me,” I snap, surprised by Letta’s sudden negativity. “I want to know what’s being said and I want to know now.” My anger flares up and I struggle to keep it under control.