Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

What could he say? — “Certainly not, I’m a bundle of nerves already, if you put the light out I may well cry?” If he had any function here at all it was to protect her: he couldn’t say he was afraid of the dark. Nor was he, normally; but this wasn’t a normal sort of darkness. He turned off the torch.

Softly, in the blackness, Miss Coghlan said, “We may have quite a wait.”

“I’m in no hurry,” muttered Stone.

Half an hour passed, then an hour. Still there was no moon, no light of any kind. Miss Coghlan got cramp. Shifting her position on the cushion on the bare boards, she made enough noise to frighten away any number of Howlers. Stone wondered how long she would wait if it declined to make an appearance.

Then, between one moment and the next, it was with them. There was nothing to see. They didn’t even hear it at first. But the temperature dropped abruptly as it had that afternoon, the air moved fractionally against their cheeks as if something had passed close by them, and Stone felt something like breath and something like a kiss on his sore hand. “Miss Coghlan...”

“Yes, Mr. Stone,” she said quietly. “I know.” He marvelled at the massive calm in her voice. He was rigid with tension, the hairs standing up on his neck and his arms, his skin suddenly cool with sweat. “It’s all right.” Something in her tone made him think she wasn’t talking only to him.

Then in the darkness the sounds began. Heavy breathing that rose quickly to a rapid pant. A clicking on the floorboards. A soft plaintive whine like a child crying. And through it all came pouring the grief and the terrible guilt, the timeless damnation of blame, the overarching wretchedness. Miss Coghlan had not known that such profound, excoriating misery could exist even for a moment. The idea of it persisting eternally in a single lost soul appalled her. She whispered, “Please — it’s all right—”

But the soft whine grew first to a plangent keening, so close beside them that it set their skin crawling and their teeth on edge, and then to the howling which had given the thing its name. The disembodied voice in the darkness soared in a crescendo of almost tangible despair, inconsolable arpeggios of remorse and regret playing over the dominant theme of grief. The sound filled the room, filled the house, battered down on the crouched listeners in a Niagara of torment.

Gradually then the sounds of despair began to abate, the terrible wailing to break as if for breath. Miss Coghlan began to punctuate the gaps with her own voice, her firm-but-kind schoolmarm’s voice, reassuring, confident, promising order.

“It’s all right,” she said again, somehow keeping her tone low, even, and rhythmical. “It wasn’t your fault. You’re not to blame for what happened. None of it was your fault.

“Mummy and Daddy fell out. Mummy was a bad girl and Daddy got cross. Sometimes cross people do things they don’t mean to. I know you loved them both, and they both loved you. Even when Daddy was cross with you, it was more because of what he’d done than what you’d done. He was very unhappy.

“He blamed you for giving him away, didn’t he? But you didn’t mean to. It was your nature to dig in the garden. If he’d thought, he’d have known that. Anyway, he couldn’t have lived with what he’d done even if no one ever found out. He chose to die for what he did to Mummy. He’d have done the same thing at home if he hadn’t been taken to prison. You couldn’t have stopped him. If he hadn’t used the lead he’d have used something else.”

Stone, listening to the rhythmical sing-song of the teacher’s voice, his flesh alive with the soft keen that the unearthly howling had sunk to, finally understood. The Howler was — of course. That was why Miss Coghlan had bought what she had, which at the time had made him doubt her sanity.

As if she read his mind, her broad hands moved to the shopping bag. “I’ve brought some things for you.” Unseen in the dark, she laid them out on the floor. “There’s a nice bit of steak. There’s a tennis ball, and an old slipper of mine — it’s not the same as one of Mummy’s, I know, but you’re very welcome to it. And there’s this.” Chain jangled in the dark. “Daddy took yours, didn’t he? Never mind, you’ll like this one. I thought we could bury them in the garden, so you’ll know where they are and you can come for them any time you’re lonely.

“It’s bedtime now. You haven’t had much rest these last twenty years, have you? Never mind, it’s all over. You’re a good boy, you mustn’t blame yourself for what happened anymore. Go to sleep; and if you’re still feeling bad tomorrow come back and we’ll talk some more. I’m going to be here from now on and you’re always welcome. I’d like to have a dog about the place.”

Stone dug a hole in the garden and Miss Coghlan carefully put the contents of the bag in the bottom. She said softly, “If I knew where your body was I could bring it here too. But I don’t know where you died. I hope these will serve.”