House of Darkness House of Light (16 page)

Roger returned home to challenge her decision. Carolyn remained resolute, in steadfast opposition to a gross method of pest control. He acquiesced only after she’d agreed to allow another treatment of pesticides. The exterminator sprayed poison liberally throughout the eaves, the cellar and the woodshed. Even the foundation got a dose of the destructive contaminate, to no avail. A bad attitude emerged as:
“
Kill me! THOUSANDS will come to my funeral!
”
Employing kamikaze tactics; flying their erratic patterns, evasive maneuvers more aggressively than ever before, the insects resorted to surprise attacks: a strike-from-behind approach. Belligerent creatures developed an obnoxious case of oppositional
/
defiant disorder; re-acting out by attacking all at once. Communicative by nature, this peculiar anomaly persisted. All knew of their displeasure, as if they were claiming the house from mortal intruders: Ironic.

It is important to note, as all of this transpired over their first few months in the house, other events were happening with such frequency that it made this chronic problem seem virtually irrelevant by comparison. Dynamics altered. Perspective was gained. Anxiety levels heightened. Roger and Carolyn began this odyssey believing the flies were a natural, albeit irritating occurrence. As time passed, minds changed regarding the Nature of the aberrant existence in the farmhouse. It was far more than infestation. It was manifestation.

Incapable of recognizing or identifying this odd disorder, ill-equipped to treat a malady, Roger’s all-consuming crusade to conquer the flies continued unabated, resulting in a rather ugly altercation. One morning, early in spring, (glorified winter in Rhode Island) the girls were seated around their kitchen table when Carolyn entered the room, appearing to be exhausted. Roger was swatting at pests with abandon as she pulled out a chair then sat down beside her children. Andrea went to pour her mom a cup of coffee. Frustrated by his pointless task, Roger abruptly and gruffly announced his intention to call the exterminator back to have the house treated again. It was the trigger. Carolyn exploded, firing in his direction…her aim, dead on:

“No more! They’ll poison my kids with that shit! I don’t want it in this house! I’d rather have the goddamned flies!” Slamming her fist down onto the table, a room went deathly quiet. Even roly-poly-fat-black-demon-seeds hushed! Roger was blown away, shocked into silence by her vulgar outburst. Children choked a breakfast down, several with teardrops on their eyelashes. None of the kids had ever heard their mother yell like this before, as Carolyn simply did not talk that way, certainly not ever in front of her children. It was venomous, coming like the sudden strike from a poisonous snake, as toxic as any chemical on the planet.

“Roger! Put that thing away! Give it up! You’re
so
neurotic!”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Roger’s comment was issued more as a statement of fact, not posed as one might a question or matter of concern. He was absolutely furious, embarrassed by her harsh assessment of his behavior. A confrontation between them appeared inevitable…what next?

Children scattered from the kitchen, grabbing their books and coats, fleeing the scene, racing for the bus stop. Escape. Carolyn escorted them to the door, apologizing for her sudden outburst; her uncharacteristically foul language. They all understood. Embracing each of them, sincerely remorseful, sending her girls on their way, the woman stood alone in front of the fireplace. She’d have to return to the kitchen, there to make amends, though she stalled for a few minutes, allowing some time for Roger to calm down. It later occurred to Carolyn, considering the many shrew-like symptoms she had been suffering; this chronic condition, her reaction was a direct result of both mind and body under siege, overwhelmed by anxiety and stress. It had everything to do with what happened while her husband was away. She determined the time had come to tell him the truth; tell him about what was occurring in their house, things he knew nothing about because he was always gone. He was like the spirits: out of sight but never out of mind. A baby girl approached her mom.

Propping April up on an oversized pillow directly in front of an episode of
Sesame Street
, Carolyn returned to the kitchen. Roger had cooled off. He’d been sitting at the table, holding a cup of coffee in hand; no swatter in sight. She sat down beside him. They remained silent for a time as she attempted to gather strength; organize her thoughts. She had a story to tell.

“I’m sorry.” Carolyn began crying, something she was not frequently prone to do. After several frazzled minutes she talked with her husband for nearly an hour, detailing the many events she had deliberately kept from him. Once confessing she’d called their attorney Sam to express her concerns, it added credence to her otherwise outrageous claims. Carolyn would never have told Sam she thought they’d made a terrible mistake buying their farm; not unless she really believed it. Roger listened attentively. Based on the subject matter, he too had something to divulge, mentioning the conversation he’d had with Mr. Kenyon on the day of their arrival… an ominous welcome home.

Her gentle intervention ensued. Carolyn explained to her husband that his seemingly maniacal hunt was disrupting a family and profoundly distressing their children. Each was forced to reconsider things neither of them had ever been confronted with before, compelling them to explore concepts beyond the realm of any personal experiences. Conclusions eluded the couple; logic failed them. How does one make common sense of an uncommon dilemma? A presence, demonic in Nature, was exposed by this necessary conversation; acknowledged and empowered in the process. They were utterly unprepared.

***

During the following week everything changed. Inexplicably, the phantom flies disappeared. Years later a woman would arrive and explain that the flies were there with purpose and reason, as the harbingers of things to come. She would look Carolyn in the eyes and speak from her heart. “You can’t really kill what’s already dead.” The woman who would see that ugly truth of their situation and share these quiet words of wisdom was someone familiar with what was an essentially malevolent onslaught; painfully aware of its darkest point of origin: Mrs. Lorraine Warren. She’d come a long distance to observe their household and
all
of its occupants…to observe; like a fly on the wall.

“To know the road ahead, ask those coming back.”

Chinese Proverb

 
safety in numbers

“Who can hope to be safe? Who sufficiently cautious?

Guard himself as he may, every moment’s an ambush.”

Horace

All the children learned quickly to gather and travel in groups. Their house was spooky enough, cavernous in comparison to where they had come from. Their first little house in Willimantic, Connecticut was practically a glorified apartment when juxtaposed to the farmhouse in which they’d come to dwell. Echo chambers abounded as shadows danced within its light. Bedrooms were gigantic. The woodshed was like having a second home attached to the main one. There was plenty of space to explore but all of the girls had the feeling it was shared space and after their first few days there, none of them traversed it alone, unless absolutely necessary. Though no one spoke of it aloud, all of them had the in-common sense: they were
not
alone. Children are perceptive, sensitive and vulnerable to the spirit world. As this was their initial point of contact, no one knew precisely what to make of it, but they
knew something was around them all the time…and sometimes it was something wicked.

Peculiar children, they would go off to school all day long then come home and “play school” together for several hours. They owned an enormous slate blackboard on its solid oak swivel frame; Andrea’s most prized possession, adorned with all the accoutrement: chalk of every color, erasers: the works. Andrea was their teacher. She would instruct her sisters, show them whatever she’d learned that day in class. Though most of it was too advanced for them, some of it stuck; her own personal
Head Start Program
. Class convened in the middle bedroom during the winter but this location became problematic so when inclement weather finally broke, they moved it out to the woodshed. Adjusting to the new paranormal took time; it required an inordinate amount of patience. Some scoundrel spirits from the Netherworld did not appreciate having to attend school and would play nasty tricks on mortal children who took
their
studies seriously. Andrea became distressed when her chalkboard was repeatedly smeared, often erased. Detailed sentence diagrams would be lost. History lessons wiped clean away. Tediously transcribed lines of music were smudged beyond recognition; irretrievable. She wondered privately if it was mischievous activity or malicious in Nature, but never said a word.

There was an unspoken Golden Rule in the house:
Do unto others as if you were the others.
No one was ever sent off alone because no one would want to be sent off alone. If the children were playing school and someone needed to use the bathroom then “recess” was declared and everybody went along. Not always, but often when they returned to the
classroom
,
their lesson was destroyed. At times, the chalkboard was wiped completely clean; pitch black again, as if it had been swabbed with a wet rag then allowed to dry. In most instances the board was so marred with streaks the information was illegible and could not be preserved. Andrea would have to finish erasing it and begin again. Oddly, nobody remembers discussing this anomaly when it happened. Andrea would re-enter the bedroom and heave a heavy sigh; sisters remained silent on the subject. Everyone could see what had occurred in their absence and
knew
it was none of
them
who’d done it, but no one ever spoke about it. Part of the new paranormal: accept it and move on.

Disgusted with all this unnecessary repetition, Andrea enlisted her father’s assistance. One spring day they moved the chalkboard out to the woodshed. He seemed puzzled by her desire to set it up elsewhere because he did not know about their numerous class interruptions. It was quite heavy. Carefully navigating it back down her winding bedroom staircase then out through the summer kitchen, they located the level spot on the wide planked floorboards. School was in session again. He made certain it was secure then went to open the large sliding door. Let there be Light! The children enjoyed the warmth; breezes and bright sunshine while learning their lessons well. Satisfied with the effort, Roger returned to a former chore and a class re-commenced. April did not grasp most of what they studied but she wanted to participate anyway as she was alone so much of the time and wanted to be
in school
like her big sisters. The smallest chair was in front, for her. After several days of peaceful sessions, with no interference from beyond the grave, Andrea was relieved. It was her idea and had been a successful one, or so she thought.

Respite was temporary; relocation had virtually no effect. One afternoon as waning sunlight began casting shadows upon the surface of their chalkboard Cindy announced she was starving, having skipped the afternoon snack to get to class on time. Everybody was hungry and wanted something to nibble on before dinner. Traveling in a pack, they all went back inside the house, intent on spoiling their appetites. Returning to the woodshed, about twenty minutes later, the girls found the chalkboard completely smudged; twisted at a ninety degree angle. Andrea became visibly upset; her frustration, palpable. Angry, struggling to replace it in its proper upright position, erasing smeared lessons from the surface, she finally abandoned the effort in disgust: Class dismissed.

Four children went outside to play in what light lingered of an evening sky. Remaining behind to close the woodshed door, Andrea uttered a vulgar curse beneath her breath. Thinking she was alone, unable to resist the temptation to speak her mind on spirit matters, she expressed her opinion with a naughty phrase, especially for someone so young. Having learned a few new words at school, she put them into practice. Confounded, Andrea truly hoped moving the chalkboard would resolve their dilemma. She was wrong on both counts. No. It didn’t matter
where
it was placed and yes, someone
was
listening.

Several more days passed uneventfully; the children played well together. Andrea revised her strategy. Whenever someone needed to leave the group,
one
sibling
would accompany her for protection. It worked: their chalkboard was left undisturbed. Someone always stayed out in the woodshed to protect IT from being tagged; a unique form of vandalism. Having determined their offending presence was only
present
during school; lessons were no longer being defaced due to an absence of mortals. Is everyone satisfied? Hardly.

One weekend the family had chores and plans so school was not in session. Roger went out to the woodshed to gather their trash for a trip to the dump, a bi-weekly ritual. He yelled to his eldest daughter who dutifully answered the call, assuming her dad required some assistance. When she entered through the door of the summer kitchen, Andrea gasped. Her father was staring at the mass of wood and slate smashed to pieces in a pile on the lower level of their woodshed. She ran down the stairs, touching fragments of slate shattered like glass, its spindles snapped off at the base, its solid oak frame splintered into kindling. There was nothing left to salvage. Roger was as stunned as she by the shocking sight, a loss sustained; he did not accuse anyone of anything. It was obvious none of the girls would have or could have destroyed the object. None of them were even capable of lifting the chalkboard, let alone heaving it the twenty feet it had traveled; an act as malicious as it was mysterious. He knelt beside his daughter, warning her away from hazardous shards, carefully placing each fractured piece inside a paper bag for a safe disposal. Her heart was as broken as their chalkboard. Tears obscured the path as she ran into the house, seeking then finding comfort within the arms of an equally-perplexed mother. The logical question was: “What the hell happened?” Hell happened; an evil intention to deliberately inflict harm: damage done.