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.”