Return of the Wolf Man by Jeff Rovin

castle. It became a deep and tenacious chill as he passed under the interlocked tree branches. Though he’d walked this way many times before, this was the first time he ever felt uneasy. Without Joan Raymond the Tombs was no longer a Caliban with a soul.
    It was ominous . . . and becoming more so the closer he came.

TWO

    H is black Confederate cap pulled snugly on his head, his long face creased with aged lines and fresh worry, elderly Stephen Banning, Jr., hobbled toward Pratt and Caroline. He was slightly bowlegged and dressed in overalls that were baggy with tools that rattled as he walked.
    Behind him was a short, portly man. He did not move from the front stoop. He wore a white suit, a sunburned head, a pencil moustache, sunglasses, and a sullen expression. He held an old Bolsey 35mm camera in his right hand and a flashlight in his left. Beside him, half-hidden behind a bush, were a small gas-powered jackhammer, a small stack of weather-worn bricks, and a bucket of newly prepared mortar.
    Banning glared at Pratt as the newcomers neared the castle. “What’d you two do, dog-paddle?”
    “We took the scenic route, around the headland,” Pratt said.
    “That was inconsiderate,” Banning complained.
    “Not to Dr. Cooke,” Pratt replied.
    “To me,” Banning said dismissively. “But then, all you kids are spoiled. You and your boat. Tom Stevenson and his airplane, Kitty O’Neill and her horses downwind of my house. The rest of the world be damned. We been waiting here a goddamned hour.” He looked at the woman for the first time and tipped his hat to her. “Excuse my Spanish, Ms. Cooke. And my sympathy about yer great-aunt. I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I, uh—I don’t come to funerals at the Tombs. It’s against my religion.”
    “It’s Doctor Cooke,” Pratt corrected him.
    “Huh?”
    “It’s Caroline,” she replied pleasantly, “and thank you for your condolences.” She looked at the turret, which towered nearly one hundred feet above them. “I think I’m in love, Mr. Pratt.”
    “Huh?” Banning said again.
    “The castle was built with love, artistry, and pride,” Pratt said. “This really is some place.”
    “Oh, sure,” Banning said. “And it’s someplace I don’t want to be at one second longer than I have to. An’ certainly not after dark.”
    “Mr. Pratt tells me that you believe the legends of LaMirada,” Caroline said.
    “Devoutly, with sugar on top. With all kinds of respect to your dear late auntie, I seen her books in the stores. She took to nightmares like most people take to warm milk before bed. Maybe you do too. I hope so, seein’ as how this place’s yers now. But the rest of us, miss—we ain’t like that.”
    “How well did you know my great-aunt?” Caroline asked.
    “Not too,” Banning said. He looked anxiously at his mortar-flecked watch. “We only said howdy and see ya when we bumped into each other on the mainland. But my son knew her pretty well. She’d come to the gen’ral store and buy food and toiletries . . . and also a lot of garlic and the occasional crucifix. Like she was expecting some unpleasant company, which maybe she was. Who the heck knows?”
    “I’m told that my great-aunt was very religious. That would explain the cross. And maybe she just liked to cook with garlic.”
    “Sure, an’ maybe she sprinkled the garden with holy water ’cause it made the hyacinths grow better. But she did it. Told me so herself, after my mechanic, Tim Sullivan, saw her with his very own binoculars.”
    Pratt leaned toward Caroline. “I have to admit, Dr. Cooke, your great-aunt was a little eccentric where those artifacts were concerned.”
    The young woman looked at him curiously. “What do you mean?”
    “Mind you, I’m not judging her,” Pratt was quick to assure her. “I’m only telling you what I saw. She covered her bedroom walls with the crosses and hung garlic on every window and door. She never wanted to discuss it, but I think it had to