House of Darkness House of Light (15 page)

“You’re not trying!” His pitching arm went instantly back into service.

“I am, too!” Naturally, Roger became defensive, due primarily to his wife’s sudden loss of a normally good sense of humor. Agitated, he flailed his arms wildly; a madman on a mission.

He really
was
trying and she knew it. They became equally frustrated. She wanted to return to the task at hand and get the job done. He wanted to take a life…or two! Darting between them, neither could reach the evil spawn; not even close enough to wound or disable it. With a concerted effort to do so, Roger accidentally struck Carolyn instead. Oops! She leered at her husband for a moment then recited an appropriate reference; a quotation on her mind: “I’m beginning to wonder if your aim is intentionally
off
target…or is it right
on
target! You know, there’s an old Chinese proverb: ‘Do not remove a fly from your friend’s forehead with a hatchet.’”

“This is
hardly
a hatchet and you’re not my friend…you’re my wife!” Ah, truer words were never spoken. Even tired and cranky, Carolyn had found it amusing. They laughed, realizing the absurdity of their futile endeavor.

Suddenly it backed away, exhibiting another unusual skill. The fly stopped. It hovered in midair, lingering in place as if suspended on a string. Floating directly in front of her face, almost still, the insect seemed to pause in flight and
watch
Carolyn as if she was some sort of curiosity. It then did precisely the same thing to her husband. The residents had every reason to believe they were being observed; it was how the encounter appeared to the couple. When it finished taking in the sights, the fly buzzed their heads one more time then fled the dining room. Roger watched as it went up the bedroom stairwell.

“Go kill it! Did you see that thing? It is some kind of mutation!”

Roger considered himself above such things as hunting down errant pests; an attitude destined to be altered over time…with a pending infestation.

“It’ll be back.” He was correct. The villain would return…with friends.

“That’s what I’m afraid of! Find it and kill it! Please, before the filthy thing lands on a pillow…or in a plate of food.” Carolyn was serious. Roger refused. They didn’t speak again for an hour. Before long, morning would be entirely usurped by the practice. Gradually the man would become preoccupied, later consumed by his own relentless pursuit of the devil’s pets.

They seemed to come from nowhere…then everywhere. Day after day more flies invaded the house. They all appeared to be the same, perhaps a different visit from the same freaky fly; fat and happy; slow as bumblebees…fast as hummingbirds. Pitch black, the color of coal, their size was uniform: Large. Simply put, these flying things were
not
normal, not average, run-of-the-mill houseflies. In the beginning it was only one or two, here and there, present long enough to be noticed as the oddity they were during that far-from-mild winter. The ubiquitous swarm came a few weeks later. No longer a nuisance, these persistent pests were a problem quickly evolving into a veritable health hazard. No doubt about it…they
must
be breeding in the house.

There was no need for Carolyn to bring the worsening situation to Roger’s attention. Their infestation was obvious. It had his full consideration within weeks of moving into the farm. Perplexed by it, Roger and Carolyn discussed their options and potential solutions. What was happening in their home was not just an unfortunate aside or some normal liability of living in the country. They had no choice but to acknowledge the flies as peculiar, their experience of them, noteworthy. They were crafty and sly, covertly insidious, certainly not common, ordinary houseflies trapped and disoriented inside the dwelling. In fact, they seemed quite alert, on their game, but it was more than a game. It was an
occupation
which would soon become Roger’s nemesis. After their creepy close encounter occurred while unpacking, the couple took notice of them to a far greater extent. Essentially, they watched
them back; not merely pests but pestilence deserving to be as detested as any intruder in their home.

Thoroughly disgusted, Carolyn had genuinely loathed houseflies since her youth; a childhood plagued by the existence of nasty things thriving in steam heat and humidity. Her tolerance had diminished further over time. Having been raised on a farm deep in southern Georgia, surrounded by animals, (the perfect recipe for breeding vermin) she developed this aversion at a young age. According to her, as it was with her mother, flies were to be categorized with all other evils…fleas, ticks, chiggers, cockroaches, mosquitoes, spiders and lice: all the devil’s pets. In spite of her reaction to their presence, she was reluctant about the necessity for hiring an exterminator. Treating the house with pesticides was not an option. She preferred instead to use other methods to eradicate a population well before they became a presence beyond control. Roger concurred. Neither wanted anyone exposed to harmful chemicals if it could be avoided; nor did they want anyone exposed to the filth and potential disease such insects introduce into any home. Roger decided to begin with a trip to a local hardware store. He purchased several swatters, enough to outfit every single room of their residence with its own weaponry. A general issued instructions to his lieutenants:
kill on sight
. It was everyone’s responsibility to eliminate them at every opportunity. Carolyn’s idea of stuffing mothballs in closets and eaves was ineffective, a mild deterrent at best. The following weeks would prove to be a trial by firing squad; the beginning of a war: a test of wills on both sides of the battle.

Even their children, generally oblivious to such things, began to notice the very strange behavior of the flies. In spite of the efforts made, the population increased at a rate which was staggering, yet they were all the same size; no sign of any juvenile delinquents among them. Gathering inside the windows, the incessant buzzing became quite the distraction. Clusters of them huddled together, as if plotting the next move. They seemed to be scheming, devising a flight plan; a strategy for attack. Who’d like to buzz the room next? Whose turn is it to taunt another one of the girls out of her mind? One at a time, one after another, they would soar from the sills of windows only to target a poor soul somewhere in the room; then maliciously torment this individual to the point of insanity: All a part of the plan.

Approaches varied as targets were
not
arbitrary. Everybody had the chance to be picked on then put upon at some point or another during their selection process. As harassment followed, not one member of their family was spared the indignities of a sudden surge, having one of the vile creatures commit the ultimate intrusive antic: an excitable “Charge!” then in the nose or worse yet, into an open mouth. At times passive, at other times overtly aggressive, their movements appeared preconceived; the deliberate actions of thinking beings. The
chosen one
would take flight from the sill and begin buzzing the head of its intended victim. The space invader would begin circling, again and again, making one blatant attempt after another to tangle up in some unruly mass of morning hair; land on a face: wherever there was an enticing surface in sight. Each arrived at its intended destination to have its folly then abruptly retreat. Batting them away proved futile and it was especially aggravating when one would light on a utensil or inadvertently land in a bowl of cereal. Watching an errant fly drowning in milk was never an ideal way to start the day. It was entirely unnerving to hear the recurrent slap of the swatter. Roger monitored the kitchen while his children attempted to eat their breakfast. This practice was unappetizing at best. Though the girls accepted their father’s nasty chore as a necessary evil, it was sometimes worse than the presence of pestilence. Their assessment would change over time. As this situation worsened it put a real damper on many a meal. The ritualistic practice of extermination became as distasteful (and fruitless) an endeavor as anyone could have imagined.

Disposing of the carcasses was an equally obnoxious chore. The gruesome task fell to the mistress of the house. As windowsills incessantly littered with the shriveling corpses offered no appeal, their removal became a daily ritual but she learned something in the process. By early afternoon the flies would all die together, en masse. Within minutes, their perpetually humming house would fall silent for a brief period every day, before reinforcements arrived. Windowpanes vibrating with activity in the morning became as still as ghost towns, literal death traps for those who lingered while the Sun made its way across the sky. What light was allowed through etched and icy panes of glass melted frozen prisms in its path. Only then would this curious phenomenon occur. Once the hideous intruders were bathed by the brilliant illumination of direct sunlight, exposed to the radiating heat penetrating each pane of glass, they quickly perished. In the morgue-like atmosphere, silence was more eerie than the monotonous buzzing which came before it. By early afternoon each day what was left, rapidly decomposing remnants appeared shrunken, barely distinguishable. Hollow figures; nothing of substance preserved for posterity. A quick glance revealed the indistinct skeletal remains, mere shadows of the former creatures. Wings disintegrated into ashes. Perforated torsos appeared impaled by bright sunlight. Piles of debris as flimsy as dust accumulated on windowsills; it seemed as though magnified light reflecting through panes of glass burned them to death, cremating their wicked wretchedness where they landed in repose. Within hours their house became inundated again as if each one was a phoenix able to regenerate itself, as if rising from the grave…from the ashes of its own morbid demise: Reborn! It became as predictable as the sunrise or a chill in the air.

After a few weeks of conflicts Roger finally convinced Carolyn it was time for them to seek some professional help. He contacted an exterminator. What the man said was as startling as enlightening. Once he completed a thorough inspection of the premises, he rejoined the couple in the kitchen. Carolyn was disgusted. The one and only time she wanted the flies to make their presence known, to become as obvious to him as they were to everyone in the family, those despicable flies completely disappeared. A conspicuous absence aside, residual evidence remained, making this discovery all the more mysterious. She showed him carcasses; bodies not yet cleaned out from the windowsills. He gasped. His reaction told them something remarkable was happening. His simple, straightforward assessment followed: No BUGS! Other than what he had witnessed languishing in death there was no further evidence of anything at all; nothing breeding in seclusion.

In a quandary, Roger and Carolyn sought his advice. Reassuring the couple no harm would befall the family, he suggested he be allowed to apply a toxic treatment to see if this made any difference. Carolyn remained skeptical but he finally persuaded her; it was the right thing to do. His main concern; flies were breeding in the ancient timbers and though he had not located an outlet for their intrusion, it didn’t mean one did not exist. It might have escaped his notice. Room by room, he canvassed the house doing his dirty work. Perhaps it would do the trick; resolve the dilemma. With their thanks, he departed.

Later that afternoon they were back with a vengeance, apparently immune to whatever it was in the chemical tank. The only purpose it had served was to “piss them off” according to Roger. He drove back into town then returned from the local hardware store with something more toxic than anything their exterminator had on his truck: Sticky Paper. It smelled worse than it looked. He went throughout the house, suspending the sappy substance from ceilings then waited for the flies to impact the obstacle in their path. As gravity pulled the spiraling sheets open, each one began capturing its victims in flight. With their gauntlet officially thrown down, an arsenal of weaponry procured then dispatched, it was time to issue a formal challenge: A Declaration of War.

Swatter in one hand, cup of coffee in the other, Roger aimlessly wandered the house for hours…morning after morning. Whenever he was at home, the man would rise before dawn, make the pot of coffee; then await their arrival. Something wicked…indeed. What began as an altruistic attempt to protect a family became much more a demented hobby, evolving into a preoccupation, gradually transforming into obsession. The man of the family took command. Mission: Decimate the fly population. Stalking his prey with single-minded purpose, the killing spree was always well underway by the time his girls got up for school. Focus intensified over time to the point, though his penetrating gaze was in constant search mode he’d stroll past his children, neglecting to greet them as if they were ghosts he couldn’t see. He wouldn’t respond when spoken to, not because he was being rude or aloof. The man simply did not hear a question or comment posed. His face wore a perpetual grimace during each moment of the hunt. Roger did not merely swat the flies; he crushed and splattered them with a sharp, angry “crack”, startling everyone around him. Negative energy oozed from his pores. It was hatred, as evil as the miniature demons he was aiming to eradicate, one at a time; nothing subtle about it.

In spite of all the watching and listening going on, Roger was missing a lot. His children were avoiding interaction with him, especially in the morning. As this transpired over more than three months, the ladies began mentioning their father’s behavior to their mother. They were all becoming increasingly distressed and could no longer ignore this problem the same way their father had mastered ignoring all of them. Andrea asked her mother to intervene, to confront him about it. They recognized it: something was wrong with daddy. Likewise, they were all disturbed by horrendous sights and sounds of a slow, impending, inevitable death. The sticky paper was beyond gruesome; it was downright cruel. Objections flew from the beginning as these noxious fumes emanating from the strips permeated the household. It seemed to attract then disorient the flies, as did the vision of others struggling to escape their tomb. Those still free would repeatedly circle, approaching out of morbid curiosity or perhaps a desire to liberate their comrades. In so doing, they would fly too close to the prison wall, becoming its unwitting victim as an intended target. Witnesses soon became captives of this toxic substance; mortal witnesses of their torture were victims of it, as well. Death itself was the only mercy; their only escape from a Hellish-on-Earth existence; a tedious, lingering demise. It took time for them to die, if not from the poison, then from sheer exhaustion of the struggle. Their protests were vehement; loud, angry buzzing became a maddening sound vibrating throughout the dwelling. These creatures fought relentlessly for release from glue-based death traps offering only the promise of a miserable end. They continued to fight through various stages of death. It seemed to take
forever
for them to die. They languished for hours before being silenced by its poison. After weeks of the disgusting sights and sounds, revulsion for everyone concerned, Carolyn removed all the sticky paper. She could no longer condemn her enemies to such an evil end. This was immoral: Unethical. According to a compassionate soul, there
had
to be a better way!