The Mist on Bronte Moor

Chapter 11


On that bleak hill-top the earth was hard with a black frost,

and the air made me shiver through every limb.

—E. J. Brontë





The wolf curled its black lips into a snarl and bared its fangs. A low growl rumbled from its chest. My throat tightened from fear. I attempted to swallow but couldn’t.

The corners of the man’s lips twisted into an evil grin, and I felt as though we were helpless insects caught in his web. Slowly, he widened the door and motioned us in. We all hesitated, petrified to walk past the wolf.

“Well?” the man asked.

No one moved.

A barrage of thunder exploded in the sky, reminding me that lightning had almost struck our backs seconds ago.

“Go on then. Git off me land, or I’ll set me wolf on ya.” The man snapped his fingers, and the wolf shot to its feet.

“Wait,” I shouted.

The man touched the wolf’s back, and the beast sat down again.

I grabbed Emily’s hand, which was surprisingly steady. Then I held my breath and stepped between the man and his wolf, my body shaking. We walked directly into a sparse stone room. I glanced at the only furniture—a table and two chairs made from rough wood.

The man strode inside, sat on one of the chairs, and glared at the four of us huddled together. The wolf crouched beside him, rigid and fierce, his golden eyes locked on us.

I wrapped my arms around my freezing body and stared at the unlit fireplace, longing for the warmth of a fire.

“Thank you so much for your kindness, sir,” I said, hoping he’d offer to light the fire. “We’ll tell the reverend you gave us shelter.”

The man grunted. “Ya may tell t’ reverend wha’ ya please.”

I fell silent. I had no choice but to stand shivering with the others, my body soaked to the bone, and wait for the storm to pass. After a few minutes, I became so cold that I briefly considered asking the man to please light the fire, but before I could gather my courage, the wolf leapt to its feet and let out a low growl that reverberated throughout the room.

I stiffened.

Charlotte winced.

The man leaped out of his seat. “Go,” he said, in a cold voice.

I flinched and took a step back. Then I saw the man wasn’t talking to us. He glared straight past us to the top of the stairs. My eyes followed his and my breath caught in my throat.

A girl about my age stood at the top of the stone staircase. Her hair, a mass of tangled black curls, hung loose down her back. A dirty, white dress covered her neck, arms, and legs. Her feet were bare.

“Go,” the man said again, taking a step forward.

The girl didn’t move. She stared at me with empty green eyes.

The wolf snarled.

I clutched Emily’s arm.

The girl surveyed us for a few seconds, and then walked slowly away.

The pounding rain had stopped, but the wind shrieked and rattled the windows so viciously that I thought they’d explode.

“T’ storm has passed,” the man said. “’Tis time fer ya t’ git.”

We didn’t need to be told twice; we were already edging toward the door. Then we spun around and ran.

I kept hold of Emily’s arm as we sped down the muddy hill. Charlotte and Anne followed close behind us. I ran until my lungs burst with pain, forcing me to stop and catch my breath. Only then did I dare to look back at the house, which was now a speck in the distance.

“Who were those people?” I asked, in between gasps. “What kind of a person keeps a wolf in his house?”

“I don’t know.” Emily gazed at the house in the distance. “I’ve never seen anyone there before. That place has been empty for years.”

“That girl,” Charlotte whispered. “I shall never forget her face. She appeared to be quite mad.”

“We’d best get home,” Anne said. “It’ll be dark soon.”

Anne was right. It would be dark within minutes, and there were no lights to guide us home. Luckily, this didn’t seem to daunt Emily. Clearly, she knew her way around the moors blindfolded. I stumbled behind her, wet, miserable, and freezing. When we finally arrived at the parsonage, an agitated Tabby met us at the back door.

“Where ’av ya childer’s bin? Yer aunt’s bin waitin’ fer ya t’ come.”

“Has Papa returned?” Emily asked.

“Nay, n’ yer lucky or he’d ’av goan mad wi’ worry. It’s enough tha’ yer aunt’s bin sickened ya were ou’ on t’ moors in tha’ terrible storm. Ya all could ’av bin killed!”

“You’re not to worry so, Tabby,” Emily said. “We can take care of ourselves. We took shelter at Top Withens and were quite safe.”

“Wha’?” Tabby gaped at Emily. “Top Withins? Are ya mad?”

“Why do you say that?” Emily asked.

“Evil tha’s why.” Tabby wagged a finger at us. “Evil resides there n’ I won’ ’av ya goin’ back. Stay away from tha’ place. Yer brother should ’av known betta then t’ tek ya up there.”

“Our brother!” Emily snapped. “I suppose he’s sitting in front of the fire with his feet up—safe and dry.”

Tabby frowned. “Wha’ do ya mean t’ fire?”

“I mean, Branwell came home hours ago,” Emily said.

“Nay, he’s not bin home. I ’aven’t seen him since he left wi’ ya lot tis afternoon.”

Anne paled.

Charlotte’s hand flew to her mouth as if to suppress a scream.