Return of the Wolf Man

by Jeff Rovin

  Caroline nodded. “I was thinking before that Aunt Joan must have known I’d feel at home here. She must have sensed it somehow. She knew I’d take care of the Tombs for her.”

  “You know,” Pratt said, “it’s just a thought, but if you’re really interested in staying here permanently—and I hope you are—you could probably set up a practice in LaMirada and turn this place into a bed and breakfast. I’ll bet you could charge three, maybe four hundred dollars a night for a room.”

  Porterhouse, who had been watching Banning prime the jackhammer engine, turned to Pratt. “In that case, Counselor, I’d have to come out and reassess the Tombs. The tax rates are different for private residences than for businesses.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Porterhouse,” Caroline said. “I wouldn’t want to do that anyway. If I decided to sell my practice and move down here, I wouldn’t want the Tombs to be an inn.”

  “I understand,” Pratt replied. He smiled. “Maybe you could continue the family tradition and write.”

  “I don’t think so,” Caroline said. “Painting is my hobby, Mr. Pratt. And this foyer would make a wonderful studio. The royalties from my aunt’s books will provide me with a healthy income. There’s no need to change what the Tombs has always been. Someone’s home.”

  The conversation was disrupted by the noisy hum of the jackhammer as Banning pulled the starter handle. Holding the two grips tightly, he placed the tip of the insert steel against the top of the lowest brick, squeezed the handle control, and began chipping away the dry mortar.

  Caroline felt a jolt, as though the steel had penetrated her body. The sensation passed, but she turned toward the basement door and watched with concern as the chunks fell away like the words of a broken promise.

  THREE

  The great castle vibrated from the top of its sloped turret to the imposing cornerstone on the island’s northwest side. The old stones themselves seemed to be moaning as the drone of the jackhammer was transferred from one to the next. Cavernous rooms, untenanted for decades, amplified the sound and sent it rolling like a roar toward the darkening sky.

  Beneath the sealed basement door, the waters of the long-hidden lake did a choppy dance. The rotting wood of the staircase came apart in tiny splinters and rats and flies that had found their way in hurriedly found their way out again. The pleasant company of death was one thing. The company of humans was quite another.

  A short flight below the barricaded door, to the right of the landing, a group of stones did more than jiggle. They moved as one—an upright, oblong slab turning around iron hinges set in the ceiling and in the floor.

  The thick doorway opened slightly, barely more than an inch. Fetid air leaked from the room beyond, joining the rank atmosphere without.

  Behind the door, a small room also shuddered under the relentless pounding. Spiders scuttled away as their cobwebs shook loose. Strand after strand floated to the floor, some of them landing on an old wooden chair, some on an ancient iron grate in the center of the floor. Some of it fell upon a desiccated body that lay on its back beside the grate in the heart of the room. The body was also trembling.

  Protruding from the chest of the body was a jagged piece of looking glass. As the room shook, dust-sized particles fell from the top side of the glass. Small flakes of silver snowed onto the sleeve of the corpse and onto the floor. The mirror itself wiggled, sheathed in dry flesh that no longer held it snugly. The glass rose up and up until it finally tumbled over, hitting the floor and breaking apart with a tinkle.

  The jackhammering stopped. The cobwebs beside the body were still, covered with a fairy-tale coating of silver. A lone rat bravely poked its nose into the room, sniffed, and then quickly exited. For a moment, there was peace.

  Then the pounding started again. It grew louder as the tip of the jackhammer broke through the first bricks. Light entered the basement for the first time in over twoscore years. Glittering diamonds seemed to flit across the top of the waters and a whisker-thin slice of light penetrated the darkness of the hidden room.

  It penetrated the darkness and slashed across the hollow, graying chest of Lawrence Talbot.

  FOUR

  “That oughta do it,” Banning said. He stepped away from the brick wall and surveyed his handiwork.

  “Very good,” Pratt said. He glanced at Porterhouse and smirked. “Your turn, William.”

  William Porterhouse looked from Pratt to the opening to the man who’d cut it. His eyes seemed to narrow with each stop. “That,” he said, pointing, “is not an entrance. It’s a wasp hole.”

  Banning shrugged. “If the shoe fits—”

  “It most certainly does not,” Porterhouse said.

  Caroline was leaning against the jamb in the open castle doorway, watching the brightest stars wink on against the soft wash of moonlight. She tried hard to ignore the men and their desecration of the Tombs.

  Porterhouse turned to Caroline. “Dr. Cooke, I’m a reasonable man—”

  “When it suits you,” Pratt said.

  “However,” the assessor went on, “I must insist on a more commodious opening! Not only is that—that fissure unsafe but, speaking frankly, I believe it’s punitive.”

  “Hey,” Banning said, “it’s gettin’ late. We ain’t got time for big words or big holes.”

  Caroline turned toward Porterhouse. This had been the first moment she’d had to relax, to savor the fact that the castle was hers. Really hers. She wasn’t going to let this man and his whining or Banning and his silly wisecracks or Pratt and his well-intentioned legal tricks spoil the moment for her.

  “Do you know, Mr. Porterhouse,” she said calmly, “I was an architecture minor in college.”

  “I did not know that,” he said politely through his teeth.

  “Yes. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to preserve landmarks or human lives. I finally decided on humans, though I’m not sure I made the right decision. The point is, some of the arabesques I was mentioning earlier are lincrusta.”

  “More big words!” Banning complained.

  Caroline said, “Lincrusta are wall coverings that look like leather, only they’re not. You know what they are?”

  No one answered.

  “They’re animal glue and pressed wood. Very rare and very fragile. I was just thinking, I wonder what the Florida Landmarks Conservancy would say if they knew what was going on here?”

  Pratt looked at the woman with open admiration. “I’ll bet they wouldn’t be very happy if they knew we were risking some very, very valuable works so the county can make a few extra bucks.”

  “The FLC has no authority on La Viuda,” Porterhouse said with a sniff. “This castle has never been declared a landmark.”

  “Do you doubt they’d declare it one?”

  “I’m not qualified to say,” Porterhouse replied. “I only know that it isn’t one right now. I also know that that hole isn’t fit for a man to enter. And I also know that I’m losing patience with all of you.”

  “That’s your problem,” Pratt said.

  “I can make it yours, I promise,” Porterhouse replied. “First thing tomorrow morning I can get an extension of the tax warrant. And I’ll have it amended to make sure that Ms. Raymond didn’t seal up other rooms. That there aren’t any hidden closets or attics or trapdoors in this godforsaken—”

  “Look,” Pratt said, “this isn’t a legal issue. It’s a matter of morality.”

  “That’s a funny thing for a lawyer to be sayin’,” Banning remarked. “Listen, Porterhouse. I don’t care about anything except gettin’ out of here. So you better start crawlin’.” He started toward the door with his jackhammer. “I’m gonna get the stuff to close that opening back up.”

  “Wait!” Porterhouse barked.

  “Don’t wait,” Pratt said to Banning. “Mr. Porterhouse, this is all the drilling we intend to do. Which means you have three choices. First, I will accommodate you. We’ll make the opening larger. But you have to wait while we have the wall chippe
d away by hand. I don’t want to cut away one inch more than is necessary, so you’ll have to stand here and say when.”

  “If you want that, yer doin’ it yerself,” Banning said. “I ain’t stayin’ in this place that long.”

  “Fine,” Pratt continued. “Second, you can get a court order to force us to take the rest of the door down, which will take days if not weeks—”

  “The assessment must be done within seven days of death,” Porterhouse said, “or the maximum allowable tax is levied.”

  “Levy it,” Caroline dared.

  “He won’t,” Pratt said. “Because then the Florida Probate Commission will have to review the case and I’ll argue that we made a reasonable effort to accommodate Mr. Porterhouse. If we win, they get the minimum allowable tax.”

  “You call this effort sincere?” squawked the assessor. “An opening the size of a doggie door?”

  “If the other shoe fits . . .” Banning said as he edged past Caroline.

  “Mr. Porterhouse,” Pratt said, “we cut a hole suitable for your size if not your attire, for which I’m truly sorry, and have placed no time restrictions on your examination. We stand here ready to help in any way we can. I would say that that constitutes a sincere effort. Which leaves us with option number three. You can stop complaining, go in there now, and get this damn thing over with.”

  Porterhouse stood still, his mouth drawn tight, his eyes furious little squints. After a long moment, he turned and stalked over to the two-foot-tall by three-foot-wide opening. “I don’t appreciate being bullied,” he said. “A formal complaint will be filed against the executor of the estate.”

  “And we don’t appreciate being threatened,” Pratt replied. “A countercomplaint will be waiting.”

  Porterhouse huffed once, then again. Then he looked at Caroline. “In deference to the grieving niece, I’ll go.”

  “Thank you,” Caroline said.

  Porterhouse removed a tape measure from his blazer pocket. Then he unshouldered his camera case, which hung from a long, leather strap. Finally, he slipped the jacket off, laid it carefully across the chair behind the desk, and squatted outside the opening. He flicked on the flashlight, shined it in, and poked his head through. He quickly withdrew it.

  “Lord!” he, said.

  “What’s wrong?” Caroline asked.

  “It smells foul down there.”

  “I can imagine,” Banning said. “It was pretty mildewy when I was down there.”

  Pratt crouched beside the tax man. “If you’ll agree that the basement’s between five and seven percent of the entire area of the house, as I’ve calculated, we can close it up and skip the smells.”

  “That is not the way to do a proper assessment,” Porterhouse said.

  “Suit yourself,” Pratt replied, rising. “We’ll see you later.”

  Frowning, Porterhouse pushed his camera through the opening, lowered himself to his knees, and squeezed in. He had to angle his shoulders to get his chest through. The sides of his belt caught on jagged pieces of brick. He had to jiggle to free himself.

  “Call if you need anything,” Pratt said.

  “A larger opening,” Porterhouse said as he struggled through.

  “Except that,” Pratt said. As Porterhouse vanished, Pratt turned to Caroline. “I’m sorry you had to go through all of this.”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I actually feel kind of bad for him.”

  “Save it,” Pratt advised. “People who only see black and white make their own problems. There’s got to be give-and-take.”

  “I suppose so,” Caroline said.

  She stepped aside so Banning could lay a blanket on the old tiles. A moment later he pulled in a dolly loaded with fresh bricks. As she stepped back into the doorway Caroline saw that the full moon had risen high and proud over the mainland. She walked outside and smelled the salt air, felt the cool, refreshing breeze. Pratt followed her and they both stared up.

  “It’s funny how my great-aunt saw the moon and thought of vampires and werewolves,” she said.

  “Only a full moon for werewolves,” Pratt pointed out. “How did Ms. Raymond put it in The Wails of Wales? ‘The force that pulls man from God as irrevocably as it pulls the tides from the shore.’ ”

  Caroline smiled. “It’s strange. Whenever I look at the moon I feel a real sense of tranquility.”

  “So do I,” said Pratt. “In another of Ms. Raymond’s werewolf stories—‘Destiny,’ I think it was—she described the moon as the eye of God looking down on us, judging us. She said that it blinked over the course of a month, and only the damned dared to work their evil when the eye was open. I always liked that image of the moon as the eye of God watching over us, protecting us.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “Why can’t you? Too intangible for a woman of science?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I’ve seen deep depression cause illness and I’ve seen willpower heal the sick. That’s pretty intangible.”

  “Touché,” Pratt said.

  “I guess I just don’t believe there’s any kind of benevolent force behind existence. If there were, we’d be doing better—”

  “Pratt!” Banning yelled.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Porterhouse says he’s found something.”

  Pratt turned and ran into the foyer. Caroline followed him. She could hear the tax assessor’s voice coming from deep inside the basement.

  “What?” Pratt asked.

  “Hold on!” Banning said. He was leaning close to the opening, listening. “Porterhouse says it looks like there’s a revolving door of some kind.”

  “A what?”

  “Shhhh!” Banning said. He was still listening. “A door, except it’s made of stone. He says it’s open a crack.”

  Pratt looked at Caroline and motioned her away from the opening. “Your great-aunt told me there were just stairs and torches down there and water from the old ocean-access,” he whispered. “She didn’t mention anything else.”

  “I wonder if she even knew,” Caroline said.

  “Maybe not.” Pratt shook his head. “But we certainly don’t need this.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if there’s a room back there,” Pratt said, “one that’s been neglected for half a century, we may have building codes and other regulations to deal with.” Pratt walked toward the opening. “Banning, tell Porterhouse not to touch it. I’m coming down.”

  Banning did as Pratt told him. “He says that that’s where the smell is coming from. He says it’s seriously nasty.”

  “Great,” Pratt said. “Just great.”

  As he neared the opening, Caroline felt another jolt. Only this time it wasn’t the kick of the jackhammer. It was something she hadn’t felt here until this moment.

  It was fear.

  FIVE

  Walking slowly, Caroline followed Henry Pratt back to the basement door. She felt a chill and folded her arms across her chest as she stood to the right of the opening. From here she could smell what Porterhouse had been complaining about. It reminded Caroline of when she was a little girl and found a discarded suitcase in a field. She opened it and found a dead cat along with its rotting litter. The animal had crawled inside to have the kittens and then couldn’t get out. Caroline was literally knocked off her feet by the smell.

  The smell here was almost as bad, and Caroline was still outside the basement. She watched as the attorney squeezed in.

  She was annoyed by this latest turn in the desecration of her great-aunt’s home. Annoyed yet also intrigued. Did her great-aunt know about the hidden room? And if so, why did she tell no one about it?

  She also felt bad for Henry Pratt. She believed what he’d said, that this intrusion into the basement bothered him as much as it did her. She empathized with the tall attorney as he struggled through the opening, especially when it seemed as if his broad hips weren’t going to make it through. Pratt had to drop to his belly,
then turn on his side and wriggle in, like a worm.

  On top of everything else, the hidden room vindicated the fussy Mr. Porterhouse. That had to smart.

  “Watch the steps,” Porterhouse said, his voice echoing through the chamber. “They’re badly rotted.”

  “Thanks,” Pratt said. “I noticed. I don’t know what smells worse—these steps or whatever’s down there.”

  “Whatever’s down here,” Porterhouse said. “Trust me.”

  Banning turned to Caroline. “I kin fix those steps t’morrow. Matter of fact, if ya want, we can leave this whole thing till tomorrow.”

  “I’d rather not,” Caroline said. “Hopefully, no one will be using the stairs after tonight.”

  Banning looked anxiously into the young woman’s eyes.

  “I’d really like to close this up as soon as Mr. Porterhouse and Mr. Pratt are finished,” Caroline said. “Would you mind waiting just a little longer?”

  Banning’s eyes shifted to the front door. “It’s gettin’ kinda late. And how d’ya know they won’t find somethin’ behind that door what needs to be hauled up. Like a sailor’s chest or an old organ.” He looked at her and grinned nervously. “The playing kind, I mean.”

  “I know,” she smiled.

  “I’m not equipped t’do that.”

  “I appreciate your patience, Mr. Banning, and I’ll be happy to pay you any overtime—”

  “It ain’t the money, Dr. Cooke. My house an’ my truck’re paid for. But it’s like I been tellin’ ya. I know you love this place an’ all but some of us feel—well, we feel different about it, is all.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Banning,” Caroline said. “What is it exactly that you’re worried about? My great-aunt’s garlic? The crosses?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “But there are rational explanations for those things. Maybe she used them for inspiration. Maybe they helped her understand her characters better.”

  “Some people believe she understood ’em too well,” Banning said. “Some people believe that she had some kinda connection with dead things.”