Night Howl
If it must be said again, let it be said now: There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy, dear reader. You will find them through the looking glass, in the infinitesimal seams that vein the rational world, or in the darkest corner of one man’s soul.
The night wind rose, moaning, melding with the thrash and clatter of tree branches overhead. A storm bears down, its clouds a thick shroud enveloping and blotting out the waxing moon. A deafening clap of thunder gives way to the otherworldly howl of a massive animal and the terrified shrieks of its human prey.
Matthew Taylor sat bolt upright in his bed, gasping, his nightshirt soaked through with perspiration.
The dream—again!
Why had it begun plaguing him, rendering his nights long and fitful, lurking in the shadows of his waking hours?
He rose unsteadily and went to the front window of his lodging. Throwing open the sash, he was momentarily stunned by the bright early morning sunshine. In the street below, the world was stirring at the commencement of a new workday.
Before the clock had struck the next hour, Matthew had refreshed himself and set off through the streets toward his destination several blocks away. In the late summer of 1889, he was employed by the Hartford Courant. Indeed, at the age of thirty-eight, he was the venerable newspaper’s premier crime reporter.
It was his practice to begin each day with a stop at the office of editor-in-chief Morgan J. Pennington.
“Good Monday morning to you, M. J.,” said the reporter, after knocking and entering through the frosted-glass door. Pennington, whose piercing gray eyes and bristling muttonchops were his singular features, had been in the newspaper business for more than half of his sixty-five years. He was tough as flint, and those who worked under him understood they either did their jobs with thoroughness and diligence or faced his withering criticism. Peering above the silver rims of his spectacles, he eyed Taylor from head to toe.
“My God, man, you look like warmed-over porridge.”
“If only I could return such a superlative,” Taylor replied dryly.
“I’ve given this advice before, and I will renew it now,” Pennington began, striking a match and relighting his omnipresent briar—“leave off your weekend debauches long enough to get some rest.”
“I shall endeavor to take it to heart,” said Taylor with a weak smile. “Now that I’ve been properly scolded, anything of interest this morning?” Pennington pawed among the scraps of paper littering his desk.
“The usual array of mayhem—a highway robbery on the Providence Road last night, a brothel raid in East End early yesterday, and a stabbing outside a tavern near the river.”
“And which one am I lucky enough to draw?”
“Lucky enough, my boy, not to draw any.”
“You have something up that sleeve of yours unless I miss my guess,” came the suspicious reply.
“Your perceptiveness is what makes you a first-rate reporter.”
“Pray, keep me in suspense no longer.” Pennington puffed on his pipe and resumed excavating among the scatter of papers before him.
“Here,” he said, handing a folded sheet of parchment across the desk, “read this. It arrived by the morning’s first post.”
Taylor took the ivory-colored sheet and unfolded it. The paper was of the finest quality, richly embossed at the top with two ornate gold letters—AC. He read aloud:
Dear Mr. Pennington…I believe I have a tale which will tantalize and excite your readership. You are cautioned, however, because there are elements of this tale which will challenge you to redefine the line between the rational and the irrational. Are you prepared to open your mind? If so, I may be contacted through my representative, Stephen Keene, Esquire. Sincerely, Artemus Crowell, Upper Quaddick, Connecticut, 11 August 1889.
“I am intrigued, Taylor, and I think you’re just the man to ferret out this story,” said Pennington, once again putting flame to his tobacco.
“Really, M. J.?” Matthew Taylor answered with a hint of annoyance. “I’m a crime reporter, but this,” he went on, tapping the letter, “smacks of some kind of supernatural mumbo jumbo.”
“Precisely why I’m assigning the story to you. I want you to give it your well-honed jaundiced eye, your skeptic’s edge. If there’s anything to it, it might make for a good feature for the Sunday edition; and if not, well, you’ll be able to enjoy a day or two away from the grime and grit of the city.”
With no little skepticism but no further argument, Matthew Taylor took his leave. He had learned from hard experience that questioning Morgan J. Pennington beyond a certain point was fruitless, so he repaired to a small café near the newspaper for a late breakfast before returning to his apartments, packing a valise, and arriving at Hartford Union Railroad Station in time to purchase a ticket on the afternoon Boston Limited.
Upper Quiddick was two-and-a-half hours from Hartford, in the picturesque northeast corner of the state. By the time the train had reached its destination, the sun was arcing well toward the western horizon. So, upon disembarking, Taylor secured a room for the night at an inn nearby and, crossing the street, entered a small tavern.
“A bill of fare, sir, and refreshment?” inquired a stocky fellow of middle age behind the bar, wiping his hands on a dingy white apron.
“A menu, presently,” said the reporter, easing onto a chair. “Refreshment at once.”
“And your pleasure?”
“Whiskey and water.”
“Without delay,” came the reply. As the bartender went about his business, Taylor turned and surveyed the room, nodding in the direction of several men staring at him as they sat around a table a few feet away.
“Don’t mind that crew,” said the barman as he set Taylor’s drink before him.
“Curiosity gets the better of them when they see a fresh face in town. Where do you hang your hat, if you don’t mind the question.”
“Hartford.”
“Figured you for a city fellow right off. What brings you to these parts?”
“I’m here to see Stephen Keene,” said Taylor, taking a pull on his whiskey. “Do you know him?”
“Indeed. Oldest lawyer around. Been a regular in here for as long as I’ve owned the place, and that’s nearly on to forty years.”
“Where might I find him?”
“Office another block up the street,” the barman said, eyes narrowing. “If you don’t mind another query, what’s your business here?”
“I’m a newspaper reporter.”
“That a fact.”
“It’s a fact,” Taylor replied, “and if you don’t mind a question, what can you tell me about Artemus Crowell?” At this, the murmur among the men at the table fell away.
“That is not a name that falls easily into conversation here, Mister…?”
“Taylor.”
“Mr. Taylor.”
“And why not?”
“I will leave the reasons why to Stephen Keene,” the bartender answered. “But you may take this as friendly advice: If you have any business involving Crowell, I would put yourself on the next train back to Hartford.”
But Matthew Taylor eschewed that admonition. Instead, after supper and a short stroll about the town, he retired for the night.
The next morning at 10:30, he located the office of Counselor Keene, entered, and introduced himself.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Taylor. I can’t recall the last time I was questioned by a member of the Fourth Estate—many years, I assure you—and never from a newspaper as esteemed as the Courant.”
“Were you aware Mr. Crowell sent this to my editor?” Taylor said, presenting the letter to the white-haired attorney. Lifting the pince-nez that hung from a slender black cord around his neck, he affixed the glasses to his nose and examined the letter.
“Indeed yes, this is Artemus’ hand, no mistaking it, and I had been given advance warning he intended to communicate with your paper.”
“Warning? An interesting choice of words, Mr. Keene.” At this, the old gentleman smiled.
“When you have dealt with the affairs of Artemus Crowell as long as I, it is an accurate word, Mr. Taylor.”
“Since my arrival, I’ve received the distinct impression he is less than a beloved figure in the town.”
“Artemus is a man not without thorns.”
“And people have been pricked?”
“They have.”
“But why would he want to summon a newspaper reporter?”
“My only instructions are to accompany you to his estate this evening. I will endeavor to answer your questions then. We will leave from here precisely at nine o’clock.”. We will leave from here precisely at nine o’clock.”
Dark clouds streaked the western sky, threatening to obscure the dull half-moon with the approach of a late summer storm. Inside a hansom, Matthew Taylor and Stephen Keene sat silently, swaying gently with the rocking motion of the cab as it passed the outskirts of Upper Quaddick. The reporter’s equanimity was agitated by shards of the recurring dream that had troubled him as he dozed in his room that afternoon. A flash of lightning and a sharp crack of thunder jolted him back to the moment.
“It appears the weather is souring rapidly,” he said.
“We haven’t far to go. We shall arrive at the estate within the quarter-hour,” Keene answered.
“While we’ve the time,” Taylor began, “let me ask, what is it that Crowell has done to earn so much enmity?”
“I’m afraid,” Keene replied with a mirthless chuckle, “the list of his transgressions in the eyes of the locals is rather lengthy, Mr. Taylor.”
“A short summation, then?”
“Very well.” The old lawyer cleared his throat. “In his previous life, Artemus operated a very successful Wall Street brokerage firm, He amassed quite a handsome fortune, but he had grown weary of the business and the city. He wanted the life of a country squire, so in the summer of ’68, he moved here.”
“This area…a special reason he chose it?”
“The Crowell family has deep roots here, pre-Revolution roots. There was a large tract of land that had passed into Artemus’ hands in the ‘40s. He built his estate then, offering a summer haven for his wife and young son.” The horse drawing the hansom whinnied and started as a blinding flash of lightning was followed swiftly by a sharp crack of thunder. The driver clucked, urging the horse ahead.
“That still does not account for the ill will,” the reporter pressed.
“There was residual animosity toward the family—business dealings, even the Crowell family sympathies during the Revolution; they were ardent Tories. And there was more to it, of course. Even before he moved, he stirred a revival of the old animosities—acquiring additional property, evicting the residents, attempting to strong-arm the local government in his favor.”
“It is obvious he is a man who doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘subtle.’”
“Not in his vocabulary, I’m afraid. He wanted nothing to do with the outside world or its inhabitants. I was one of an extremely small group of people he would even permit on his property.” Here, Keene broke off. Taylor cast a sidelong glance at the old man.
“I sense there’s more.”
“There were…stories,” Keene said slowly, “hints of a dark past…rumors.”
“Such as?”
“Wild, sir, crazy. Tales spawned in the overheated imaginations of the superstitious.”
“You have my attention.”
“There were claims Artemus was a practitioner of the black arts…mysterious lights at night…apparitions…satanic rituals.”
“And you took none of it seriously?”
“Would you, Mr. Taylor?” Again, the skies came alive as the storm bore down. “There, driver,” Keene called out, “the entrance, just ahead.” Once inside the estate’s imposing iron gate, the cab wound its way up a long drive through an imposing stand of ancient oaks. As it did, Taylor posed a final question.
“You speak of Crowell in the singular. Is there no wife? Children?”
“Sadly, his beloved wife Sarah died of consumption three years ago.” Here, Keene paused for a moment. “There was a child, a boy—Francis…lost in his fourth year.”
At length, the cab drew up before a massive stone house, its windows yawning black, forbidding. Gingerly, Keene alighted.
“We’ll proceed this way,” he announced. The old lawyer walked as rapidly as his age allowed, his cane rhythmically clicking on the graveled drive. “Artemus asked that we begin here in the carriage house. Refuge from the elements.” Inside, gaslights hissed and flickered in their sconces. Keene gestured for the reporter to take a chair. “I believe a brandy is in order, Mr. Taylor,” Keene said as he removed the stopper from a crystal decanter on a sideboard and poured rich amber liquor into a snifter. “Here you are, sir,” he said, handing the glass to his companion.
“You’re not joining me?” Taylor inquired.
“Would that I could. Strict doctor’s orders forbid it, I’m afraid.”
“When can I meet Crowell?” Taylor said, taking a draft of his drink.
“In due course, Mr. Taylor. Now, savor your brandy while I provide the details of your invitation.” Keene eased into a deep leather chair opposite the reporter. He continued: “Let me begin with a question. How much do you know of your father, his background?”
“Very little, but I fail to see the relevance—” Keene stopped Taylor with a raised hand.
“Please, indulge me, sir.”
“As you wish.” Taylor paused, beginning to feel a slight lightheadedness. “Well. I never knew him; I was told he was killed in a hunting accident when I was four or five. I know that he and my mother met in New York City. I’ve no idea of their life together, the nature of his profession, or his background. Mother simply refused to talk about it, and I long ago gave up trying to draw her.”
“Then allow me to enlighten you,” the old gentleman began, leaning forward on his cane. “When you were born, your father, Bartholomew Taylor, was one of the partners in a Manhattan investment firm. The other partner was Artemus Crowell.”
“W-What?” Taylor asked. Though accustomed to strong spirits, the brandy was having a decided effect.
“Yes, Mr. Taylor, your father, and Artemus Crowell were business partners, trusted associates—friends.” Here, Keene shifted his weight. Gaslight shadows danced upon his face as he let his eyes bore in on the reporter. “In the summer of ’53, when you were five, Artemus asked your father to join him here for a few days to go over some business matters. It was not uncommon, for Artemus felt he could think more clearly away from the daily commotion of the city. Yourfather made the trip while your mother stayed behind with you.”
Taylor’s head had begun to throb, and his sight dimmed as he struggled to focus on what Keene was saying. “It was on this date exactly thirty years ago to be precise that Artemus and Sarah were called away for the day, entrusting your father with the care of young Francis. In the early afternoon, the child was placed nearby upon the lawn within a special shaded enclosure that allowed him to play without wandering away. While he was thus occupied, your father was here, inside this very carriage house, Mr. Taylor, romancing one of the young housemaids in Artemus’ employ.” By now, the reporter was feeling the full effect of the brandy and the room was swimming. “And while this vile seduction was taking place, the evil-tempered mastiff Artemus insisted on keeping broke free from his kennel…” Taylor struggled to sit upright but could not, groaning instead. “…ran like a whirlwind from hell and set upon the poor child.” The snifter fell from Taylor’s fingers, shattering on the floor, “…torn to pieces…” as he slipped into unconsciousness.
A deafening peal of thunder split the night, rattling the carriage house to its foundation and jarring Matthew Taylor from his stupor. He shook his head, attempting to clear the fog. Disoriented, he rubbed his eyes and swung them about the room.
“Keene?” he called out feebly. There was no answer. “What…time…?” He fumbled for his pocket watch, snapped it open, and peered at the dial. “Past midnight—my God! Where is Keene?” The reporter struggled from his chair and staggered to the door. Flinging it open, he was greeted by the full force of the thunderstorm. Lightning strobed the sky as the ebb and shriek of the west wind drove sheets of rain before it.
And there was something else, another sound that pierced the maelstrom and crawled its way up Taylor’s spine—the howling of a large dog, falling, then rising, cresting to a demonic wail. Taylor, his senses returning, stepped outside and looked about him wildly.
“Keene?!” he cried, as he stumbled down what he thought was the path back the way he’d come with the old man. “Keene?!” But his desperate call was met only by the storm’s fury and fresh snarling by the dog.
Closer!
Shielding his eyes from the downpour, Taylor attempted to get his bearings but realized he was hopelessly confused.
Again, there was the awful cry from the hound. In a fresh spasm of lightning, he spied the beast seventy-five yards away, loping from a stand of alders that whipped and snapped in the gale. With all the strength he commanded, Taylor bolted in the opposite direction. The way was marked by a worn path that wound deeper into the woods. He ran as he had never run in his life, headlong, flailing with his arms, fighting through overgrown brambles and low-hanging branches. On he ran until he thought his lungs would burst. And when he felt he was on the verge of collapse, he broke through into a small clearing. Bent over, leaning his hands on his knees, he fought for air. When he lifted his head, he saw not twenty feet from him the amber glow of a hurricane lantern. It was held aloft by a bony hand, illuminating the face of—
“Keene!” Taylor gasped, staggering closer to the old man. “What in the name of God is going on!?”
“The conclusion of the story, Mr. Taylor,” Keene’s voice high-pitched, frail amid the storm. “Artemus never forgave your father’s negligence in the death of his beloved son. You say you were told your father died in an accident. It was no such occurrence. Artemus saw to it.”
“Murder?”
“A just act in his eyes,” Keene replied. “But that wasn’t the end of it. As the years passed, his thirst for revenge continued to fester, poisoning his soul until in his last days he fashioned the final act, drawing you here to this place, thisspot on this night.”
“Why have I not met him, Keene?” Taylor shouted. “Where in the hell is he?!”
“An apt choice of words, Mr. Taylor,” the old man answered. “Behold!” He swept the lantern to his left, the quavering light illuminating a large gravestone etched with the name “Artemus Crowell” and the dates “December 12, 1812-June 10, 1889.” Taylor swiped rainwater from his eyes as he squinted in the dim light.
“Dead?!” he exclaimed.
“Two months past,” Keene said.
“My presence here—you said this date, this night. Why?”
“Because on this night thirty-five years ago, Francis Crowell died of the wounds inflicted by Artemus’ vicious hound. And tonight, Artemus means to exact final payment. For as his son was taken from him, so shall you be taken.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” Taylor demanded.
The wind which had briefly subsided was arising anew, driving before it fresh thunderclaps, waves of lightning, and the macabre howling of the pursuing dog.
“See for yourself, Mr. Taylor,” said Keene, lifting the lantern away from Crowell’s headstone to where a few feet away there yawned a freshly opened grave, its marble stone chiseled:
MATTHEW TAYLOR
Damned For All Eternity
August 13, 1889
The reporter reeled back from the sight and turned away as the storm renewed its fury. At that moment, from the wooded pathway, burst a mastiff of immense size, its eyes blood-red, jaws slavering, yellowed teeth bared as it tilted its head to the roiling heavens and emitted a howling of such profound ferocity that it chilled Taylor to the marrow of his bones. Then, as lighting swept the clearing, and above the deep rumble of thunder, Taylor’s hellish recurring nightmare came to life as the giant hound snarled and charged.
“No!” he cried out in anguish, stumbling backward to the lip of the open grave. “Noooo!” There, in abject terror, losing his footing in the muddy soil, he plunged into the pit, the beast leaping in upon him, its foul fangs tearing at his throat.
About the Author
Nick Young is a retired award-winning CBS News Correspondent. His writing has appeared in dozens of reviews, journals and anthologies. His first novel, “Deadline,” was published in the Fall of 2023. He lives outside Chicago.