The Wanigan by Gloria Whelan

ON THIS HOME BY HORROR HAUNTED
    I will be forced to live in low circumstances. The crude shack in which I will dwell will have no resting place but will move continually. I will not be where I was the day before or where I’ll be the next day. All around me will be nothing but the river, the logs, and the wanigan.
    I don’t blame Mama and Papa. They are victims of tragic circumstances. Three years ago, in the year of our Lord 1875, when I was but eight years old, Papa bought a farm in the northern part of Michigan. Until then we had lived in Detroit, where Papa had worked as a wheelwright, making wheels for wagons and barrows.
    When he and Mama heard of land for sale, they spread out a map of Michigan. They showed me how all of northern Michigan was a lovely green color.
    â€œGreen to grow things on,” Papa said. “The gentleman who wants to sell the farm tells of land that is hungry for a plow. He says a man can own more acres than he could walk over in a day. He promises wild berries in the meadows, game in the forests, and fish in the rivers, all there for the taking. The price of land is cheap,” Papa said. “Why shouldn’t we have our bit of it?”
    We had a selling-up of our house in Detroit. Someone walked through it, poking into the cupboards and corners, owning it before they bought it. The auctioneer came and sang all our furniture away. People carried off Mama’s rocker and my bed. They took away the china, thin as eggshell, that Grandma had left us. It was like a merciless wind blowing through our home. “Papa,” I wailed, “they’re stealing everything.” Papa had to explain to me what was happening.
    I was relieved to see Mama hang on to our best dresses and keep back her books and Grandma’s tea set from the auction. I imagined that on our new land I would sit beside a stream and would read my favorite poems.
    Mama says that like her, I have a delicate and tender nature. Every day I improve my mind by learning some lines from one of the great poets in Mama’s book of poems. My favorite poet is Mr. Edgar Allan Poe. My name is Annabel Lee, just like the name of one of Mr. Poe’s poems. Mr. Poe wrote these words:
    From childhood’s hour I have not been
    As others were — I have not seen
    As others saw.
    I think that is very lovely. His words are true of me for I am always watching out for things of beauty. Unhappily, where we are now, there are few things of beauty.
    We left Detroit with high hopes. Papa had the look on him of someone who has opened a book he can’t wait to be reading. He said we’d grow potatoes big as pumpkins and pumpkins too big to get your arms around. Mama was all plans. She had a bolt of cloth for curtains and chair covers. She said our rooms would be filled with wildflowers from the woods.
    With many kisses and promises of writing to one another, I said farewell to my best friend, Mary. The only thing that kept me from shedding tears was my dream of our new home, with me picking roses from our garden and gathering apples from our orchard.
    I sat in the wagon holding on to my small dog. I called him Bandit because the black fur around his eyes made him look like he was wearing a mask. I told him soon he would be running through the woods making friends with all the wild animals.
    Papa was badly cheated. Our house was only a cabin. The snow crept through the chinking as if it meant to bury us. There wasn’t a soul around for miles to admire Mama’s curtains. The land was all sand. It grew nothing but rocks. Our crops wilted and our cow died.
    On the worst day of all, Bandit was out in the yard gnawing on a venison bone. The bone was left over from a deer Papa had shot to keep food on the table. We heard a terrible howl like a scream. Then more snarling howls. Papa ran outside. Mama hung on to me and wouldn’t let me go after Papa. Bandit had gotten into a fight with a coyote.
    The winter ground