House of Darkness House of Light (14 page)

***

One morning Carolyn awoke to become instantly aggravated. The bedroom was bitterly cold; she shuddered at the idea of removing the covers from her shivering body. Their dream of this supposedly placid and peaceful place in the country was being shattered by the reality of it; the incessant discomfort she’d battled caused her to feel totally defeated. A perpetual pain in the neck had become so intense she began to think something inside of it had snapped; bones too brittle to withstand the weight of a skull on its shoulders.

Her stomach was on fire; a persistent burning sensation undoubtedly due to the vast quantity of aspirin she felt forced to ingest on a daily basis, in order to remain barely functional. Gradually Carolyn’s sweet disposition began to sour, presumably altered by chronic pain; the adversity she came to perceive as an adversary, one associated with harsh conditions in an extended winter. Later on she would attribute her woes to the equally strange circumstances in which she’d found herself, living with the dead. Increasingly reclusive, her moods grew darker; a black hole had developed in the cosmos of her soul. A corresponding vacancy appeared in her eyes as it began consuming her spirit. It was time to build a fire. Carolyn craved the presence of light and heat.

That cold spring morning she sent her children off to school. Walking them out to the bus stop, she and April made a pit stop at the woodshed on the way back into the farmhouse. Carolyn stood at the entrance, staring at a solid wall of aged hardwood. Resentful about it; cord after cord of long-seasoned logs languished in its neatly-stacked piles, never put to good use. “What a waste!” was the only comment she could muster in disgust. Roger was again away on business and he would be gone for the next few days. Again, his wife had a moment of divine inspiration. What had been stocked and stacked out in the woodshed would be drafted into service…Carolyn concocted the grand plan. Suddenly frustration had an outlet; a dour mood lifted with the promise of a solution. Later in the day, a rusty crowbar in hand, she decided to expel the demon chill from her home. A broad smile crept to her lips as she vowed
not
to succumb,
not
to surrender but to fight; to vanquish what was haunting her.

Carolyn was about to unleash a torrent of supernatural activity, through no fault of her own. She was cold. Her children were cold. The fireplace called to her in mind. It was still functional, according to Mrs. Hertzog. Apparently Mr. Kenyon had been willing to discuss its status with the realtor, if not the purchaser. Although the center chimney (which once served the kitchen and dining room) had been removed, by necessity, due to its advanced age and dangerous disrepair, many decades before she inhabited the house a smaller chimney in the parlor had also been sealed shut for some inexplicable reason. It offered some hope of warmth and renewal to the woman who felt crippled with pain. The stark absence of heat, the marked inability of an old clapboard farmhouse to retain it, became her primary concern as lingering winter kept churning out one brutally cold week after another in spite of the fact that the calendar said it was spring! Carolyn believed there had to be another way to generate some warmth from what was the most obvious source. She craved the pure heat of fire. She’d needed something to effectively banish the chill penetrating her body to the bone. Staring into the woodshed had provided the point of epiphany. It would not be long before that wood went up in flames.

“I am still determined to be cheerful and happy, in whatever situation I may be;

for I have also learned from experience that the greater part of happiness or misery depends upon our dispositions, and not upon our circumstances.”

Martha Washington

~ woodshed in a winter wonderland ~

 
creature discomforts

“Adversity is the first path to truth.”

Lord Byron

Their family cat wanted no part of her new home. Juliet refused to cross the threshold then had to be carried into the house, in howling, vehement protest. A normally docile, affectionate cat became suddenly hostile and frightened. She chose to hide underneath the sofa for the first few days, emerging only reluctantly when hungry or in a desperate need of the litter box. Naturally, all their chaos and confusion had been quite disconcerting and her distress was understandable. Assuming some type of adjustment would be required of all the new occupants, no one thought much of it at the time.

After a few weeks passed, the lovely feline seemed to settle in to her new digs. It was typical of her to snuggle up with one child or another every night and it was usually Andrea. She would tunnel her way beneath the quilt and purr contentedly until she fell asleep. At least this had been the case when the family lived in Cumberland. Once the ritual, it was no longer; a formerly soft demeanor changed abruptly; radically so. She continued to choose a child to sleep with but their routine was decidedly different. Juliet would cautiously slink into the bedroom and look around before pouncing onto the bed. Then, instead of seeking any attention or affection from her roommate, she scurried beneath the covers, as if in hiding. Once she was under the blanket she would growl and moan for several minutes, moving restlessly before settling down for the night. When morning arrived, the cat would emerge from the bed just as cautiously as she’d entered it the evening before, surveying the room then bolting for the kitchen as if her life depended on it, perhaps seeking safety in numbers. No one could explain it; this sudden change in her personality after moving into the farmhouse. She began avoiding contact with the children and spent most of her time alone, either poised on top of a dresser or up on back of the sofa, high off the floor, where she could better see whatever it was she was watching…and she was always watching something. Fur puffed up, ears slicked back as if tacked to the sides of her head, whatever she thought she saw was frightening the furtive feline. Based on her adverse reactions, it was definitely threatening…something wicked this way comes.

On numerous occasions Juliet would enter a room then literally stop dead in her tracks. The kitty would hiss and bare her fangs, staring wild-eyed into thin air. Then she would go into attack stance, ears plastered down, fur fully extended from her body. Rearing up onto her back feet; horrendous sounds emanated from a petite feline: threatening, ominous sounds which could only be associated with self-protection. Claws fully distended, moaning deeply, she would viciously lash out at
nothing
then run from the room and hide for hours, impossible to locate.

April received a puppy for her sixth birthday and the child was overjoyed, as were her sisters who had mourned the terrible loss of Bathsheba and also longed for another dog. She was a mix of Labrador and German shepherd; a beautiful specimen. Adored by all the girls, Jennifer Rebecca became a truly cherished member of their family. She was sweet and kind, gentle and highly intelligent. However, whenever it came time for her to pass through the front hallway, this normally jovial, cooperative puppy became a different creature. Instantly defensive, Jenny’s posture warped, twisting into that of an animal which had been traumatized or abused. She had become absolutely terrified. Jennifer would belligerently lie down on the floor, refusing to move beyond that doorway. One time Roger tried to pull her through and she began to cry: whine and whimper. He pulled a bit harder, trying to coax her through into the kitchen. The dog would have no part of it. Perplexed, he retrieved a steak from the refrigerator, extending it toward her from the kitchen doorway. No response at all. Frustrated, Roger approached their pet. Tugging at her leash, attempting to guide one reluctant pup through the dark hallway, she growled and snapped; behavior totally out of character. Roger released her and never tried again. He respectfully accepted her will, wondering what she knew that he did not, at least not yet. It was one of many incidents involving animals sharing space within the dwelling over the course of a decade. It is said that every creature knows more than any human being; a hypothesis proved beyond dispute at the farm.

There would be more cats and dogs, horses and ponies, a drake named Sir Francis, a rooster named George and two precious bunnies named Trumpet and Flute; Christine’s special pets. Pineridge and Royal; Honey and Bessie; Pooh Bear and Lady Victoria, the blue-eyed albino cat. There would be a big, Black Angus bull named Heyboy. The kids loved them, not just peripherally, but principally loved and cherished each one; the kind of love and affection requiring a father to lie to his children when Heyboy went for a ride then the freezer in the woodshed was suddenly stocked with meat the following day. In mourning, they refused to eat until he swore to them he
sold
Heyboy and bought another bull to replace him; a bull they did not know personally. He had to promise their boy was alive and well before dinner could be served. It took more than twenty years but eventually, the confession came. No one has forgiven him yet. It would take some time before mere mortals realized all the critters knew more than they did. What they were sensing was a precursor to an inevitable contact. It was a
heads up
of sorts but no one recognized the significance of reactions occurring in a house where space was being shared by so many souls. Human beings are oblivious. Their animals were re-acting out based upon what they could see, including the dead animals appearing as entities, running through solid walls. Mystery, as well as beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. Their eyes were sharp, their senses keen; they were reacting out of fear, an instinctive response to intrusion. Their discomfort existed with purpose and reason. What they’d sensed and seen was a warning. Best for all creatures, great and small, to pay close attention to messages they may receive from Nature.

Bless the beasts…and the children.

“Fear is a question. What are you afraid of, and why?

Just as the seed of health is in illness, because illness contains information, your fears are a treasure house of self-knowledge if you explore them.”

Marilyn Ferguson

 
the devil’s pets

“A misery is not to be measured from the nature of the evil,

but from the temper of the sufferer.”

Joseph Addison

Within a few days of moving into their farmhouse, an interesting anomaly occurred. No one thought anything about it at first, other than how strange it was to have houseflies buzzing one’s head in the middle of deep winter. The weather was bitterly cold. Nothing could survive outside for very long, so the next logical question was: “Where the hell are
these
coming from?” This was what Carolyn asked of her husband as one of the enormous soaring vermin attempted to land on the top of her head. Swatting and swishing the vile thing away, it returned, repeatedly trying to tangle itself in her dark, flowing hair.

“I think it’s in love with you.” Roger watched an obsession unfold.

“Kill it!” Doing his best to oblige, Roger grabbed a handful of newsprint (hardly the best tool for the job) from one of the open boxes; quickly rolling it into a weapon designed to finish off the unwelcomed houseguest, his sharp reflexes were no match for the apt agility of the elusive little devil. Instead of fleeing the scene, fearing for its life, this house fly taunted him. The intruder was ugly, its features distinct, especially the eyes. As it kept moving around the room at a deliberately slow and tedious pace, it circled once again…then returned to Carolyn. Something wicked…flies in the face of disbelief.

“Kill the goddamned thing!” The man tried. He could not make contact. As if possessing innate intelligence, the insect managed to escape a vicious swat. Evasive maneuvers engaged, as if anticipating in advance which direction the next strike would come from, it was more than mischievous. It was smart.

“Maybe it likes the smell of your
girly
shampoo.” Roger’s feeble attempt to lighten the mood backfired before he even knew it. His marked proclivity for escalating a situation applied to all creatures, great and small.

“I’ve been too damn busy to wash my hair!” As annoyed with her husband as she was by a fly, she glared in his direction.

“Maybe
that’s
the big attraction!” Without question: the wrong thing to say at that moment. Making matters worse: a dastardly chuckle escaped his lips, amused as he was by his own juvenile joke.

“Go to hell!” His wife did not share the joy, especially if it came at her expense. The phrase she uttered triggered a response, not in the man…
in the fly
. Unable to expel their intruder, Roger lowered his arms just as the demon dive-bombed her. “Get this goddamned thing away from me!” She leapt from its path. It followed her. She went down to the floor. It followed.

Surrounded by boxes, she was stuck in the center, possessions scattered at her feet. It was like playing Dodge Ball in hell; no viable route for a timely retreat. Forced to rely on her husband, in a critical, accusatory tone, she said: