Wuthering Heights and Werewolves, Chapter 1

The following tale is from the diary of a certain Mr. Lockwood, found at the scene of a gruesome murder.


1801 - I have just returned from a visit to my landlord-the solitary neighbor I shall be troubled with. In all England, I do not believe I could have fixed on a situation so completely removed from the stir of society. As I approached the manor house, I saw my landlord to be, Mr Heathcliff, and beheld his black eyes withdraw so suspiciously under their brows. His fingers sheltered themselves with a jealous resolution, still further in his waistcoat as I announced my name.



'Mr. Heathcliff?' I said.


A nod was the only answer.


'I am Mr. Lockwood, your new tenant, sir. I came to call on you as soon as possible after my arrival. I hope that I have not inconvenienced you by my perseverance in soliciting the occupation of Thrushcross Grange: I heard yesterday you had some thoughts--'


'Thrusscross Grange is my own, sire,' he interrupted, wincing. 'It is mine, and I allow no inconvenience to me in renting it out--walk in!'


The 'walk in' was uttered with closed teeth, and expressed the sentiment, 'Go to the Deuce:' even the gate over which he leant manifested no sympathising movement to the words; and I think that circumstance determined me to accept the invitation.


When he saw my horse's breast fairly pushing the barrier, he did put out his hand to unchain it, and then sullenly preceded me up the causeway, calling, as we entered the court, - 'Joseph, take Mr. Lockwood's horse; be sure to lock up the stable doors behind. Lord knows I have lost enough horses and stock in this latest string of wolf attacks. And bring up some wine when you are done!


Joseph was an elderly, nay, an old man: very old, perhaps, though hale and sinewy. 'The Lord help us!' he soliloquised in an undertone of peevish displeasure, while relieving me of my horse: looking, meantime, in my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need of divine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no reference to my unexpected advent.


I was concerned for the safety of my horse, and indeed my own safety, for as far away as I had come from in my own home in the South, I had heard of the mysterious and violent animal attacks plaguing this part of England. It did not seem particularly odd to me at the time that Mr. Heathcliff assumed the perpetrators of the attacks to be wolves. Wolves may be quite hunted out of most of England, but they are still known to freely roam much of nearby Scottland. I did not voice my concern. Something in Heathcliff's forbidding glance towards the stables stayed my tongue.


Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff's dwelling. 'Wuthering' being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed: one may guess the power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun. Happily, the architect had foresight to build it strong: the narrow windows are deeply set in the wall, and the corners defended with large jutting stones.


Indeed, I thought, upon hearing the wuthering sound previously, it rather resembled the sad, yet fearsome cry of a wolf. I shuddered.


Before passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of grotesque carving lavished over the front, and especially about the principal door; above which, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins and shameless little boys, I detected the date '1500,' and the name 'Hareton Earnshaw.' I would have made a few comments, and requested a short history of the place from the surly owner; but his attitude at the door appeared to demand my speedy entrance, or complete departure, and I had no desire to aggravate his impatience previous to inspecting the inside of the manor.


To Be Continued......


By Emily Brontë and Trevor Kidd