Thomas Tryon - The Night of the Moonbow

“After that somethin’ crept over the place, somethin’ like a spell, so come evenin’ drivers would hurry their buggies past, a man afoot would hurry his step. An’ up there, in the window, there she’d be, Mary, a-starin’ out. She never spoke to the ol’ man again fer havin’ kilt her man in such a cruel, inhuman way, an’ the ol’ man, he hated Mary fer her betrayal. So, though the two lived side by side, the house, it was silent as the tomb where Digger lay. Mary had only the dog, Lobo, fer comp’ny, an’ at night when that critter went out, he set up such a deal of noise over there in Injun Woods, why, ’twas like a wolf’s howl, a fittin’ sound in a place where murder’s ben done. That winter was bitter cold, an’ Mary sittin’ there by her window, till one day she was dead, too. Some said she died of grief, that or froze, an’ when she went the ol’ man drove Lobo off the property an’ lived alone, until, on a gusty night, a night like this one, when he was tucked abed, he waked to the sound of a wolf howlin’ outside his window. He jumped up an’ run to look out. There he seen the big dog, come back again and a-howlin’, and with the dog he seen his dead girl, Mary, sobbin’ by the wellhead. Not long after, the ol’ man up an’ disappeared. Folks suspected foul play, so the constable, he come out fer a look. He poked about all over that place an’ not a sign until, down in the cellar, he found that ol’ miser hangin’ from a beam. An’ after that the house, it stayed empty, nobody but a fool” – here Hank paused again – “ ’ud go in the place. ’Cept for one – the shade of poor Mary Steelyard. An’ if you was to pass by on some dark an’ windy night like this, who knows, you might see her up there in her winder… watchin’…”

Hank’s words died away among the rafters. In the lodge the silence was utter and complete; it was the storyteller’s supreme moment – that potent hush that signals the reluctance of any listener to articulate a syllable that might break the spell so skillfully woven. The fire burned low; outside, a tree branch scratched against the glass. The boys began to stir lethargically, as if awakening from a dark dream. Their feet scraped the floorboards as they got up and stretched.

Then, out of the sleepy silence, a moment that froze the blood. From beyond the windows, far off among the trees, came the deep, winding howl of a beast. A wolf! Yes – there it came again! No one moved, while the bloodcurdling sound rose and fell. No, not a wolf, they whispered, but Lobo, Mary’s companion. And then – a shriek! A woman’s cry, a sound of such horror that all who heard it became as stone. Lobo and – Mary! Leo hugged his ribs, his body trembling. The two, woman and beast, cried out together now; then, at their peak, the shrieks and howls broke, turning into a Tarzan yodel, and the room burst into relieved laughter.

That was a good one, ha ha. They laughed harder when Reece Hartsig walked through the doorway in the company of Gus Klaus, the two having sneaked off into the woods during Hank’s tale. It was just the kind of gag Heartless would pull, adding a bit of spice to the story and winning everybody to his side; even Leo could appreciate that.

But, wolf or no wolf, the spell still lay heavily upon Leo as he left the lodge, hanging back until his cabin-mates had gone ahead – he didn’t want to embarrass Tiger or the Bomber in front of the others. Then, rather than heading straight for the line-path, he wandered alone by a circuitous route that brought him out near the mailboxes, where he stopped and gauged the hour: there was probably a full thirty minutes before Wiggy Pugh would blow taps. He began to move again, turning left along the Old Lake Road. As he walked, a ghostly shadow rose up from out of the trees and went sailing off, a dark patch against the darker sky: Icarus, hunting for his supper.

Leo inhaled the night air; it had a deep, bronzy tang to it, like the ring of an old bell. With his chilled gut sucked up under his bony ribs, he pressed on, still only half-aware of the intention guiding his steps. The gravel along the shoulder crunched noisily under his rubber soles and he tried to walk more quietly. Suddenly he had the feeling he was being followed – by man or beast he could not tell – and he pictured Mary’s yellow-eyed dog scenting his traces. There – what was that? The crack of a twig gave him a start. Yes – there! Again he heard it, a careless foot had snapped another branch. He was sure – well, maybe not, maybe he was just imagining it.

At Pissing Rock he stopped for the ritual leak, performing the act with anxious ceremony. Then – another sound. Now he felt sure: something was moving behind him, tracking him. He buttoned up hastily and went on. He walked quickly; not much time before taps. Now he knew exactly where his long strides were taking him.

Soon he was passing the beginnings of the picket fence whose crooked posts stood like sentinels in the dark. With half an eye and only half-aware, he counted them: one two three four five… six seven eight nine… He rounded the bend and came to a halt. Peering ahead into the inky blackness, he could see it, standing there, silent and alone, expecting him. When he came to the crazy-paved walk, he planted his feet squarely on the stones and stared at the building, his fists clenched, as if he were facing some enemy he was determined to vanquish, then glanced over to the well. Were they really down there, the remains of Digger?

Feeling a chill, he shifted his eyes toward the house again, that dark, bleak – and somehow sinister – silhouette that exerted such a strange power over him. Why did his heart begin to flutter when he no more than looked at it? Since coming upon it on the night of the Snipe Hunt, he had deliberately shunned it, but this evening, listening to Hank’s tale of the tragedy of Mary Steelyard, something had spurred him to return – to the scene of the crime, was that it?

He shut his eyes, thinking hard. There was something – in there – in the dark. Yes – something he wanted desperately to know. But what? He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to recall it. If he concentrated hard enough, maybe – A thought struck him: did Emily’s ghost haunt the Gallop Street house the way Mary Steelyard haunted this one? He had seen a figure in the window. Who had it been? Mary or Emily? Or a figment of his imagination?

He picked up some pebbles and pitched them at a vacant window, heard the hollow clatter as they hit the parlor floor and slid to the corners.

“Come out!” he called boldly. “Come out, I dare you!” He heard nothing but his own voice reverberating against the clapboards. He walked the three steps up to the porch, then stopped as his flashlight beam swung across the paint-peeled door with its panels of shattered glass, the broken-out lamps on either side. He put his hand to the door handle and depressed the latch. There was no click, for the latch was broken; he pushed and the door gave edgily with a tiny explosion of air as the seal was broken. He pushed the door wider and stepped inside. He paused in the narrow hallway whose length his flashlight tried and failed to penetrate. Tatters of a brown print wallpaper curled away from the wall in torn shards, with rusty splotches of water-stained lath-and-plaster showing beneath. A broken light fixture hung from the ceiling, bulbless and festooned with pale cobwebbing. The yellow beam flitted along the floor, foot by foot along the oak strips, from the gouged and battered baseboard to the chipped and battered newel post, where it lingered amid the rat castings scattered at the stair foot, then traveled slowly upward, riser by riser, to pierce the gloom of the stairwell.

He set a foot to the bottom step, then jumped as he felt it give with a noisy squeak. Incredible, but even here, inside, the house reminded him of the one on Gallop Street. This vestibule area, the hallway, the doors on the right (into the dining room?), on the left (into the stairway to the shop?), the radiator by the door and – there – on the floor – he shined the light on a dark blotch staining the boards.