Return of the Wolf Man

by Jeff Rovin

  The young woman looked down. She shook her head. “This is a sick joke. My great-aunt wills me her home and a trust fund and the first thing I have to do is let someone punch holes in both of them. Talk about vampires.”

  “I’m the one who’s letting this happen, not you,” Pratt said. “You don’t take title of the Tombs until the deed is transferred and it can’t be transferred without the assessment.”

  “Another lawyerly distinction.” Caroline sighed heavily. “I thought this place would be a retreat from the world. A haven from unpleasant realities. I guess not.”

  Pratt hurt for her. Having to deal with dashed dreams, let alone the notion of her aunt scowling in the afterlife, were the last things she needed right now. He stepped toward Caroline and took her arms again. This time the young woman didn’t wriggle away.

  “Your great-aunt made me her executor because she trusted me,” Pratt said. “I’m asking you to do the same. If Mr. Porterhouse sets so much as a toe outside the law, I’ll step on it. I promise.”

  Caroline took a deep breath. “You did love my great-aunt, didn’t you?”

  “As though she were my very own blood.”

  “And when we’re finished here, we’re going to restore everything so that it’s just as my aunt left it?”

  “I had Mr. Banning cannibalize an old wall outside of town so we could use the same year, same make of bricks that are there now.”

  “All right, Mr. Pratt. We’ll do this your way. I know this is difficult for you and I’m sorry I made it worse.”

  “There’s no need to apologize,” Pratt said. “We were both looking out for a great lady in our own way.” He glanced up the winding stone path, which wound through a long stretch of gnarled trees. The ancient trunks and branches seemed as black as the castle, the limbs tightly interwoven. Beneath their canopy, day seemed to become night. Pratt turned toward the sun as it dipped toward the sea. “I suggest we get inside. I told them not to go in until we got there, and Steve is a veteran LaMiradan.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Like many natives, he’s a hard-core believer. He gets seriously creeped out if he’s in the field after dark.” Pratt winked. “That’s why I wanted to return to the mainland after the funeral and do this late in the day. Gives them less time to muck around in there.”

  “I see,” Caroline said. Still smiling, she gave Pratt’s hand a little thank-you squeeze. Then they strode along the dock to the island.

  Pratt felt a little shiver himself as he walked toward the castle. It became a deep and tenacious chill as he passed under the interlocked tree branches. Though he’d walked this way many times before, this was the first time he ever felt uneasy. Without Joan Raymond the Tombs was no longer a Caliban with a soul.

  It was ominous . . . and becoming more so the closer he came.

  TWO

  His black Confederate cap pulled snugly on his head, his long face creased with aged lines and fresh worry, elderly Stephen Banning, Jr., hobbled toward Pratt and Caroline. He was slightly bowlegged and dressed in overalls that were baggy with tools that rattled as he walked.

  Behind him was a short, portly man. He did not move from the front stoop. He wore a white suit, a sunburned head, a pencil moustache, sunglasses, and a sullen expression. He held an old Bolsey 35mm camera in his right hand and a flashlight in his left. Beside him, half-hidden behind a bush, were a small gas-powered jackhammer, a small stack of weather-worn bricks, and a bucket of newly prepared mortar.

  Banning glared at Pratt as the newcomers neared the castle. “What’d you two do, dog-paddle?”

  “We took the scenic route, around the headland,” Pratt said.

  “That was inconsiderate,” Banning complained.

  “Not to Dr. Cooke,” Pratt replied.

  “To me,” Banning said dismissively. “But then, all you kids are spoiled. You and your boat. Tom Stevenson and his airplane, Kitty O’Neill and her horses downwind of my house. The rest of the world be damned. We been waiting here a goddamned hour.” He looked at the woman for the first time and tipped his hat to her. “Excuse my Spanish, Ms. Cooke. And my sympathy about yer great-aunt. I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I, uh—I don’t come to funerals at the Tombs. It’s against my religion.”

  “It’s Doctor Cooke,” Pratt corrected him.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s Caroline,” she replied pleasantly, “and thank you for your condolences.” She looked at the turret, which towered nearly one hundred feet above them. “I think I’m in love, Mr. Pratt.”

  “Huh?” Banning said again.

  “The castle was built with love, artistry, and pride,” Pratt said. “This really is some place.”

  “Oh, sure,” Banning said. “And it’s someplace I don’t want to be at one second longer than I have to. An’ certainly not after dark.”

  “Mr. Pratt tells me that you believe the legends of LaMirada,” Caroline said.

  “Devoutly, with sugar on top. With all kinds of respect to your dear late auntie, I seen her books in the stores. She took to nightmares like most people take to warm milk before bed. Maybe you do too. I hope so, seein’ as how this place’s yers now. But the rest of us, miss—we ain’t like that.”

  “How well did you know my great-aunt?” Caroline asked.

  “Not too,” Banning said. He looked anxiously at his mortar-flecked watch. “We only said howdy and see ya when we bumped into each other on the mainland. But my son knew her pretty well. She’d come to the gen’ral store and buy food and toiletries . . . and also a lot of garlic and the occasional crucifix. Like she was expecting some unpleasant company, which maybe she was. Who the heck knows?”

  “I’m told that my great-aunt was very religious. That would explain the cross. And maybe she just liked to cook with garlic.”

  “Sure, an’ maybe she sprinkled the garden with holy water ’cause it made the hyacinths grow better. But she did it. Told me so herself, after my mechanic, Tim Sullivan, saw her with his very own binoculars.”

  Pratt leaned toward Caroline. “I have to admit, Dr. Cooke, your great-aunt was a little eccentric where those artifacts were concerned.”

  The young woman looked at him curiously. “What do you mean?”

  “Mind you, I’m not judging her,” Pratt was quick to assure her. “I’m only telling you what I saw. She covered her bedroom walls with the crosses and hung garlic on every window and door. She never wanted to discuss it, but I think it had to do with what we were talking about before. That she really did believe in all that—that business. You’ll see for yourself. The room is exactly as your great-aunt left it.”

  “See?” Banning crowed. “I won’t see, so don’t bother inviting me up there.”

  “Aunt Joan wrote about and read about the supernatural. Maybe that made her religious, not superstitious. Anyway, all artists have their quirks.”

  “So do builders,” Banning said, “an’ mine is to always finish workin’ on crypts, belfries, and castles before nightfall.” He glanced back at the Tombs. “Whenever I come here I feel like something’s gonna bite my ass.” He turned and tipped his hat again. “Forgive my Spanish. But if you all don’t mind I’d like t’get in and get out and get back to my little horse-smelly red shack A-S-A-P.”

  “No, Mr. Banning, we don’t mind,” Caroline said.

  “Thank you,” Banning said, extending his arm ahead of him. Caroline walked up the path, followed by the attorney and Mr. Banning. As they climbed the winding course, Banning reached into the pocket of his windbreaker. He pulled out a key ring, which held a silver St. Christopher medal, and swung it around.

  Pratt nodded at the heavyset man. “Hello, William.”

  “Henry,” Porterhouse replied. He looked at his watch. “My time is important too. We’ve been here almost an hour.”

  “I know, William, and I’m sorry. We had paperwork that couldn’t wait.”

  “And a little guided tour.”

  “That’s right,” said Pratt. “A courtes
y to our guest.”

  “Of course.” Porterhouse sniffed. “Not any kind of a stalling tactic.”

  “William, you’re the one who’s standing around talking,” Pratt said. “Shall we go inside?”

  Porterhouse nodded. He regarded Caroline. “Ma’am,” he said, nodding his bare head. “I’m sorry about your loss.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, matching Porterhouse’s reserve.

  Pratt shook his head as he put the key in the door. “Gentlemen, your warmth is truly overwhelming.”

  “Whaddya mean?” Banning demanded.

  “This is not the way to welcome a potential new neighbor. ‘Your house may be haunted, your late aunt was a little batty, and by the way—you’re wasting my precious time.’ ”

  “Hey, I don’t need a lecture about courtesy from no snotty-nosed shyster,” Banning said with a snort.

  “Come on, Stephen,” Porterhouse said. “We’re wasting time.”

  “Yeah, an’ a little more ain’t gonna matter,” Banning said. “I’ll tell you something else, Pratt junior. I don’t need t’be in anybody’s face, especially a grieving lady. I welcome people with a ‘How ya doin’?’ an’ I mean it. Anything more than that is airs. An’ if they ask me a question, which this lady did, I give ’em a truthful answer.” He glared at Pratt. “Not everybody needs to lie for a living.”

  “Thanks for the life-advice,” Pratt said. “Are you finished?”

  “Lest you tick me off again,” Banning replied.

  Pratt shook his head and turned the key. There was a heavy thunk as the bolt drew back.

  Banning fell into a brooding silence. He came out of it long enough to shudder. “Tellin’ the truth is still the bottom line with me,” Banning said. “An’ the truth is, Dr. Cooke, I’d rather be just about anywhere else on earth than at this castle. I managed to set foot in here just once in my whole life—to wall up what I’m about to un-wall and then re-wall.”

  Caroline looked at the mason. “Wait a minute. You saw what was in there?”

  Banning nodded. “Just basement, Dr. Cooke. A lot of it, with water at the bottom.”

  Caroline turned to the attorney. “Mr. Pratt, if Mr. Banning can describe what he saw to—”

  “Forget it, Caroline,” Pratt said. “I already tried. Mr. Porterhouse insists on seeing for himself.” Pratt looked at him. “Isn’t that so?”

  “According to the tax code, which I have in my pocket,” he said, patting the lapel of his blazer, “the assessor must see the space firsthand and make his report. I’m sorry, Dr. Cooke. Those are the rules.”

  Caroline stepped around him. She couldn’t deal with the bickering and nitpicking—not now and not here. It was funny. She didn’t feel any of the fear the others seemed to feel. There was just this pervasive sense of—welcoming was the word that came to mind. Like she belonged here. A woman like her aunt didn’t stay alone in a place like this without loving it. And, loving it, she didn’t pass it on to someone unless she sensed that that person would love it too.

  Caroline ran her eyes and then her slender hand over the great iron knocker. She felt the rough surface, the years of erosion—yet the enduring weight of it in her hand. She smiled as she pushed on the door and entered the great foyer.

  Banning spit into the foliage and grabbed his jackhammer. He hoisted it over his shoulder as the men followed her inside.

  The door shut heavily by itself. Pratt turned to the left and flicked a switch, which turned on a large, central chandelier. The four visitors stood quietly in a tight line for a long moment.

  “Oh, I am in love,” Caroline said.

  The young woman breathed deeply through her nose. The scent of garlic was subtle. The castle smelled mostly of age: damp stones, decades of candlewax, and smoky fireplaces. Fine particles of gray soot rose from the large fireplace to the right, stirred by the opening of the door. The cloud of ash hung delicately in the sunlight that shone through the windows.

  Pratt sidled up to Caroline. “It’s strange,” he said. “These smells are so much your aunt that it’s difficult to believe she won’t come sweeping down the staircase and sit behind her writing desk.”

  “Hey,” Banning snapped, “don’t talk like that. Yer givin’ me the shivers.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” Pratt replied.

  Caroline pointed to the heavy escritoire located across from the door in the foyer. “That’s her desk over there?”

  Pratt nodded. “Odd place for it, don’t you think?”

  Caroline turned around. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Not if you keep the door open or the fireplace burning. You can look out on the bay, maybe watch the moonlight. See the lighthouse.” Caroline’s eyes moved from the intricate floor tiles to the imposing staircase to the medieval tapestry behind it. “No, Mr. Pratt. This is the perfect place to write the kind of stories she wrote.”

  “Well, it is the showpiece of the castle,” Pratt said. “Sturdy and timeless.” He glanced at Banning and pointed to the left. “You know where the basement is. If you wouldn’t mind getting underway . . .”

  “I wouldn’t mind that at all,” Banning said. He shot Caroline a look. “I was nineteen years old when I came here to close that place up. Not a week has gone by that I haven’t thought about the willies this place gave me.”

  Caroline turned to the left. She faced the large, arched door that was closed on the bricked-up entrance. “You closed the basement up,” she said, “but you have no idea why my great-aunt wanted it sealed?”

  “Not a one, Dr. Cooke. All I remember is that there was a slippery staircase and a lake down there.”

  “A lake?” Caroline asked.

  “Yes’m,” he said. “Fed by the bay through the cove. Maybe it sent up a draft, I dunno. Pratt’s grandad—the sheriff—checked the lake. He didn’t find any bodies or anything, so we also used a little dynamite on the cave feedin’ the lake. Closed that baby right up. Then I blocked this entrance up and that was that.” He glared at Porterhouse. “Of course, my word that it’s empty, the word of a Korean War vet, ain’t good enough for Uncle Sam’s bloodhound here. He’s gotta wreck the wall an’ nose around for hisself.”

  “I have a job to do,” Porterhouse said, removing his sunglasses and tucking them in the outside pocket of his blazer. “And so do you. Are you ready?”

  “I guess the hell I am,” Banning said, excusing his Spanish once more as he walked to the basement door, his tool belt rattling. He turned the brass handle but the door didn’t open. “So, yer gonna fight me, are ya?” he said. Standing his jackhammer against the wall, he fished a small can of WD-40 from his pocket. He gave the hinges two squirts each then tried the door again. It opened grudgingly, a screeching inch at a time. “Not bad for a half a century of crusted grime an’ ocean salt. That’s one good thing about this place.”

  “What is?” Caroline asked.

  “It may be creepy, but it don’t creep the way houses do on the mainland.” Banning pulled a pair of clear goggles from a pocket. “This place was built out of stone on top of granite. The mansions back ashore are practically built on sandbars, some of them. They sink an’ wobble over the years. Also, except for the stairs in the basement, there ain’t very many timbers in this place. There ain’t much for the seawater to warp and rot. That’s why this door is still almost perfectly flush even if the hinges are a little rusty.”

  “Constructed to last,” said Pratt.

  “You said it,” Banning said. “This castle may’ve been built by nutburgers, but they did it right.” He slipped his goggles on without removing his cap. Then he motioned the others back and leaned over the jackhammer. “I’d gimme a good ten yards if I were all of you. The chips’re gonna fly.”

  “Hold it, Mr. Banning,” Caroline said anxiously.

  He turned and looked at her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Do you have to use that?”

  “You mean Jack the Ripper?”

  “If that’s what you call it,”
Caroline said.

  “I do . . . And yes, I do. Have to use it, I mean.”

  She pointed to the molding between the wall and the ceiling. “Some of those arabesques are rather fragile. Your machine might shake them apart.”

  “Sweetie,” Banning said, “Mr. Pratt here was right. These walls and designs are tough. They’ve stood up to storms pushin’ hundred-an’-twenty-mile-an-hour winds. Me an’ Jack won’t do more than rattle a few cobwebs loose, I promise. In fact, I’m not even gonna cut much of a hole—just enough for Mr. P. to crawl through, poke around with his flashlight, and crawl back out again.”

  “Come again?” Porterhouse said.

  Banning cocked his head toward Pratt. “Yer gettin’ a mouse hole, chief. Lawyer’s instructions.”

  “The law says we have to let you in,” Pratt told him. “It doesn’t say we have to cut you a door.”

  Porterhouse’s gaze turned icy. “The least you could have done was warn me, Pratt. I wouldn’t have worn good clothes.”

  “Sorry,” Pratt said insincerely.

  “Y’can go out and get a drop cloth from the boat if you want,” Banning said.

  “No,” Porterhouse said. “Let’s just get on with this.”

  Banning glanced at Pratt. “Actually, it’s gonna get a little dusty in here. You might want to open the door for ventilation.”

  “Good idea,” Pratt said.

  He walked over and tugged the door open. As he did, Caroline looked out. The sky was now a blue-black and the early moon hovered low behind the trees on the mainland. Caroline felt herself comforted by the sound of the waves breaking against the rocks on the shore.

  “You’re really taken with the place,” Pratt said.