Wolfhowl Mountain

by Dian Cronan

  And then I know. It’s Alison Boyle’s nightgown, the one from my dream. The one she wore when she killed poor Hagan. The one she lay next to his body in, right before putting the gun to her head.

  “Mom?” I check to make sure the doors are locked and then head up the stairs, slowly at first, and then as fast as my feet will allow. “Mom?” She doesn’t look at me until I grab her shoulders and turn them toward me. She blinks once, twice, as if coming out of a dream.

  “Rose, honey,” she says slowly, “what’s wrong?”

  “What’s – I – you – um.” I don’t know what to say, can’t put my thoughts into words. I take a deep breath, trying to slow my racing brain. “Mom, what are you doing? It’s after midnight.”

  Mother looks at me, then around, finally realizing she’s not in bed. “Oh, I got up to…well…I guess I forget what I got up for.” She smiles sheepishly. “Well, say, don’t you look fancy? What are you all dressed up for?”

  “Mom! The dan –” I start impatiently, but then remember I’d never told her about the dance. “Nevermind. Let’s get you back to bed.” I put an arm around her shoulders and gently guide her back to her bedroom. I help Mother climb back into bed, throwing crumpled tissues out of the way and darting my eyes around the room, inspecting, looking for something, but I’m not sure what.

  “Mom,” I say as I pull the duvet up to her chin, “where did you get that nightgown? Is it new?”

  She yawns. “Oh, I was wandering around earlier, cleaning up. Found my way into the attic. Did you know there are a bunch of boxes up there?”

  “Oh?” I reply nonchalantly, my eyes still searching the room. What am I looking for?

  “Yeah. Anyway,” Mother continues, stifiling another yawn, “I found this laying at the bottom of one of them. It was a little dingy, but in good condition. Had funny some stains on it, but they came out with a little elbow grease and detergent.”

  “Good condition,” I repeat, my uneasiness growing.

  “Yeah. Can you imagine, all those years in the attic, and no moths had gotten to it? It’s pretty comfortable.” She gently rubs the fabric between her fingers. Then she smiles at me and closes her eyes. “Goodnight sweetie.”

  “‘Night, Mom.” I say, my skin erupting in goose bumps. I back out of her room, my eyes searching the whole way, beginning to realize what I’m looking for.

  Leaning against Mother’s door, I close my eyes, trying to conjure up the memory. I picture the box Mother mentioned, try to see its contents. It’s smaller than the other boxes and had been nearly full to the brim with bow ties, a cigarette holder, colorful scarves, bobby pins, a gold hand mirror, and underneath some glossy ivory fabric – Alison’s nightgown – something dark and shiny…Hagan’s gun.

  My eyes burst open. I run to my room, flinging off my shoes as I attack my closet, digging like a dog through clothes and shoes, throwing everything behind me, as I search for the gun. What did I do with it after that awful dream? It has to be in here. Has to be. But it isn’t.

  Where is it? I have to know.

  Panicking, I go to my nightstand and rip the drawer out, sending it clattering to the floor. I drop to my knees and snatch up the old skeleton key. My bare feet race down the main stairs as the skirt of my dress flutters around me like a ghost. I run through the kitchen, and up, up, up the servant stairs until I burst into the dark open air of the third floor. I reach out and flip on the dingy bulb at the center of the large space.

  The third floor is as I’d left it; cold and echoing with the increasing patter of the rain, the footsteps Letta and I had left in the dust. The doors to the library and the two smaller rooms are closed. The door to the balcony at the top of the stairs rattles in its frame as it’s assaulted by the wind. I close my eyes and listen, but hear nothing unusual over the roar of the storm outside.

  Tentatively, I head for the portrait hall, my heart thudding in my chest and pounding in my ears, and stare hard into the darkness. I can barely make out the attic door at the end. It’s open, a black pit yawning beyond. Why didn’t I grab a flashlight? I’d rushed up here so quickly and completely forgotten how creepy this floor is, even in the daylight, and how terrifying it is in the dark.

  Then I wonder how Mother got into the attic. I know I locked the door last time, and the only key is in my trembling hand. I did lock it…didn’t I?

  I work my way down the hall slowly, sliding a hand along the wall to guide me. A soft, icy draft flows from the open door. The wind whilstles through the house. Somewhere the rain has penetrated and a slow drip, drip, drip echoes back toward me. As I approach the open attic door, it begins to swing closed from the draft – I hope – and I lurch out to catch it. I can barely see the bottom stair in the dim light of the bulb far behind me.

  It’s freezing. My dress provides no protection from the damp chill, and my bare feet feel like icicles on the old wood. Taking a deep breath, I push myself over the threshold and up the steps. I reach blindly for the string to the light.

  I blink in the sudden light. The last time I was up here it’d been an overcast morning with blips of light sneaking in through cracks in the wooden slats. In the dark of a stormy moonless night, no light filters in. The walls lay beyond the darkness, invisible. I feel like a target, a deer in the headlights, in my small circle of light.

  The boxes are here. It’s a matter of seconds to locate the Boyles’ belongings. I rip open the box, rifling through it. I paw my way to the bottom and see the old gun is here, laying innocently on the bottom. I let my hand caress the cold metal, proving to myself it’s really there, that I’m not hallucinating, that my family is safe from this particular threat… but who put the gun back up here? The question fades in my relief that Mother hadn’t grabbed the revolver on her sleepwalk. If she had…

  I begin crying. My sobs are loud and uncontrolled, shaking my whole body. One emotion becomes another, and then another. I feel myself letting go of everything I’ve been holding back since we moved, since Dad died. The dam has finally been overwhelmed, and everything I am comes pouring out.

  A loud boom of thunder finally brings me back to my senses, back to the mountain, to Wolfhowl Manor. Sniffing, wiping my face on one of the old scarves, I slowly close the Boyle’s box and get to my feet. I retreat down the stairs, close the door to the attic and lock it, jiggling the knob hard just to be sure, and then take the key back into the open air of the third floor. Impulsively, I walk into the old bathroom in the corner. It’s similar to the one downstairs, with a tank hanging on the wall above the toilet. I lift the lid, drop the key into the moldy bowl, and flush, watching as the key swishes around in the swirling water and then disappears.

  I’m at the top of the stairs and reaching for the light switch when a tingling at the back of my neck stops me. Two realizations hit me at once; I forgot to turn the attic light off, and in that extra light at the bottom of the attic steps, right before I closed the door, I noticed something on the wall – one of the portraits is different.

  I return to the hall, walking to the last portrait before the attic door. It’s the oddly blank portrait, containing only the background of the fireplace in the drawing room.

  Only it isn’t blank anymore.

  Standing in front of the fireplace is my family. Liam, cherub-like face beaming from ear to ear, waves one hand while holding a sandwich in the other. He wears his favorite SpongeBob Squarepants t-shirt and blue pants, his Spiderman backpack at his feet. Sticking out of the front pocket is one of his little army men. Mother stands behind him, arms hanging limply at her sides. Not reaching out for her son, not waving, just drooping. Her whole frame folds in on itself under an invisible weight. Her dark eyes are fixed and vacant, staring beyond the phantom photographer. She’s wan and thin. It’s an unfortunately accurate likeness of who she’s become.

  And that’s it, just Liam and Mother.

  I’m an orphan now, daughter of no one, sister to no one. Mother and Liam have been lost to the house.

&nbs
p; Chapter Forty-Six

  Letta and Ronan

  Thanksgiving came quickly. The steady drizzle of rain continued throughout November, knocking the orange and red leaves off the trees before they could be admired. The soggy weather didn’t stop the inhabitants of Port Braseham from celebrating the holiday appropriately, however. The main street was decked out in streamers of brown, red, and orange. Banners declared the time and location of the annual parade. At this precise moment, the town is gathered, viewing floats under a hoard of black umbrellas. The Bar Harbor Volunteer Fire Department leads the way with their brightly polished red engine, horn blaring. The townspeople allow themselves a day of friendly faces, good times, and light hearts.

  But inside Wolfhowl Manor, all is dark, cold, quiet…

  Liam sits on the couch, watching cartoons under a warm wool blanket with a PB&J in one hand and a hot chocolate in the other. He chews each bite thoroughly, washes it down with a gulp of liquefied chocolate, and carefully keeps the couch and floor clear of crumbs or dribbles – he doesn’t want to upset Her by making a mess. He licks his lips, smacking at his chocolate moustache, then remembers his manners and uses a napkin.

  Upstairs, two women sit alone, each shut up in her room, each feverishly scribbling in identical diaries. The real world outside Wolfhowl Manor has become increasingly fuzzy to one, and all but invisible to the other.

  ***

  I’m huddled up under the comforter for warmth. I pause to look over my entries from the last few weeks. I pour over the mysterious words I’d found upon returning from the attic the night of the dance.

  I feel so lost. So lost and so sad. What’s the point in trying anymore?

  I run a finger over the words, feeling their indentation in the soft paper.

  Anyone who cares about me is gone. Why do I insist on staying? There’s nothing here for me. Nothing. It would be so easy.

  I don’t remember writing these words, yet here they are, in my own curly handwriting. And, most disturbing of all, they’re true.

  I return to my current entry. I’ve started several times, but keep crossing out my words and starting over. It’s getting more difficult to express my thoughts. I take a deep breath and try again.

  What a strange trinket you are, Little Diary. So substantial in my hands, yet so mysterious. Magical. When I pick you up, I feel a compulsion, a need to spell it all out, all my anger and sadness and bitterness. I’ve never felt so strongly about anything in my life. Maybe this explains the mysterious entries that seem to ooze out of you every few days. Am I so depressed that I can’t even remember writing in my own diary?

  It’s still raining. I thought the only place that rained like this was Seattle – or maybe Forks. It’s cold enough to snow, to cover Port Braseham in a beautiful, heavy, pristine winter wonderland, but all it does is rain. I don’t even know what silence is anymore. There’s always the drip, drip, drip of the rain. Even when it isn’t raining, I hear it. I hear it in my dreams. It’s tangled up inside every thought. Rain. Rain. Rain. For some reason, it reminds me of a poem I heard once:

  Yesterday, upon the stair,

  I met a man who wasn’t there

  He wasn’t there again today

  I wish, I wish he’d go away…

  But the man – the rain – never goes away.

  I haven’t seen Letta in forever. Sure, she pops up in the edges of the crowd every once in a while, but then dissolves like a ghost. She doesn’t eat lunch with Shane and Patty anymore, which is probably good because they’re still sappy and puppy-dog eyed. She’s paler and darker than ever. Her jaw and her fists are always clenched, like she’d like to punch someone (maybe me). Obviously, when she does see me, I’m with Ronan. (We’ve been spending a lot of time together, not that I need to remind you!) She’s so angry. I wish I knew –

  No. I wish nothing for her. Not even happiness. She betrayed YOU, Rose. She broke YOUR heart. You owe her nothing but hatred.

  Yes, exactly, I think, looking down at the diary. I wipe a tear from my eye and keep writing.

  I haven’t so much as seen Beckan’s back since the dance. At first I thought he was avoiding me and coming into the house when I’m at school, but now I don’t think he comes up here at all. Nothing seems different. Physically, the house remains the same – stagnant and falling apart. I haven’t even seen Derry’s bulldog face checking in. Are they content to let Her sit in disrepair, in the hopes that She’ll just collapse and melt away? Then I’d disappear too, and they can stop worrying about me. Not that they actually worry about me. Have they given up on me?

  Whatever. Good. So much the better. I have no desire to see any of them, the whole hateful lot of them. Derry, Beckan, Letta… they can all kiss my Texas ass.

  I’m so cold. Are you cold? It’s like I’ve fallen into an emptiness of the soul.

  It would be so easy, Rose. Yes, it would be so easy…

  Ronan.

  The dim light in the dark. (Sort of.)

  He’s growing on me, I’ll admit. If it weren’t for him, I’d spend all my spare time shut up in here, waiting for my face to appear in the portrait hall. As it is, he struggles to get me out. I have to give him credit for being so persistent. He’s been working hard to win me over. Is he truly done with Mary? Does he actually care about me? It doesn’t seem possible that he could care about anything besides his own reflection. He’s always looking in every mirror, every window he passes, preening like a peacock. Is that for me too?

  He invited me to the parade today, to hang out with him and the other Populars, but I just don’t feel like pretending today. Maybe if he comes over later he can convince me to go to dinner. Not that I’m not hungry. I haven’t been hungry in at least a week. I can’t even remember the last time I ate… Yesterday? The day before? A banana, I think?

  I see Ronan in the hall between every class for a chaste peck on the cheek. He’d love to go for more – and he’s tried – but I’m determined to start over around here because my reputation is all I’ve got left. Although removing “ghost” from my moniker and just calling me Slut Girl is a small improvement, I won’t settle for that. Ronan needs to struggle before he can conquer me – if he conquers me – because the whole school must see that it’s me who has power over him. Being Ronan’s Girlfriend isn’t the title I want. It’s Ronan who should feel lucky to carry the title of Rose’s Boyfriend. To conquer Ronan is to conquer the whole school.

  And how they will pay for the way they’ve treated you.

  I’ve been getting little morsels of Ronan a bit at a time. He’s a hard one to crack. No one really knows who he is on the inside, not even him. In many ways, Ronan reminds me of myself.

  Ronan’s parents don’t put much time in their schedule for him, and maybe that’s why being popular is so important to him. His father is always busy, away on business, in meetings, working late (with his pretty secretary, I hear). His mother does some interior design, but it’s more like a hobby. She spends more time at the bottom of a wine bottle and watching bad reality TV than she does decorating. At the same time there’s this pressure on Ronan to be great at everything. His grades must be great. His friends must be great. (I bet they just love me, the very un-great pariah. Perhaps that’s why I haven’t been invited to Chateau d’Quinn yet.) He must be great at basketball since he, disappointingly, didn’t make the football team. (His father says his football performance is “embarrassing,” “dreadful even.”) I would feel bad for him, but…

  I’m right about him being a ladies’ man. Although he’s been with Mary since freshman year, he’s been caught with other girls before, at parties or parked somewhere in the dark. Apparently, Mary is just as guilty, or so Eileen’s told me. – She spends a lot of time with Ronan’s group, but she still seems sad.)

  Apparently, there was a significant break up last year, before Christmas, in which they both dated other people. Mary dated someone unimportant, but Ronan, he found someone important. He found a girl who caused quite a stir – b
ut no one will tell me who she was. They whisper about her like she died or something. Every time her name is about to slip, Ronan appears and someone changes the subject.

  What happened? Did he actually have his cold little heart broken? Is that even possible? I wonder if –

  The doorbell startles me. Checking the clock, I see it’s almost five. Maybe Ronan really has come up to pry me out of my hermit shell.

  I put the diary in my nightstand drawer. I stop by the mirror on the back of my closet door. My hair is dull and my face is pale, but my clothes are fresh and clean. I pop into the bathroom and paint on my red lips before answering the door, doing my very best to ignore how much every muscle aches, how much my face hurts if I try to smile, and how very full my heart is of the miserable rain.

  The doorbell rings a second time right before I open the door.

  My forced smile falters, fades, disappears.

  Letta.

  I can’t hide the flush of anger and betrayal rising on my cheeks, but I do manage to clamp my mouth shut before I burst into obscenities. Crossing my arms and glaring, I wait.

  Letta looks just as furious and uncomfortable. It’s still cold outside, still raining, and she hugs a heavy rain jacket around her small body. For the first time I notice how haunted Letta looks. Dark circles ring her eyes as if she hasn’t slept in a month and her face is so pale she’s almost transparent.

  Letta sighs heavily before finally speaking in a clipped voice. “May I come in? Please.”

  I hesitate, but curiosity beats out anger and I step aside.

  Letta steps over the threshold, but doesn’t take off her jacket. She turns toward the living room and sees Liam, eyes glued to the T.V., and looks back at me.

  “Let’s go to the kitchen.” I lead Letta through the hall. I walk to the kitchen sink and peer out at the darkening winter sky beyond the cliff. I see Mother standing there, ready to jump. For a moment, my heart lurches, but a creak overhead reminds me she’s still in her room. I relax. Mother’s image flickers and disappears.