House of Darkness House of Light (17 page)

Gathering together on the front lawn, watching Roger load its remains into the trunk of a car, by then all the children were crying. No one could believe their eyes. How
could
this have happened?
Who
would have done such a vicious thing? For what purpose or reason? Why hadn’t any of them heard a crash? So many questions…so many tears. This mean-spirited, destructive act effectively robbed five children of their favorite pastime. The chalkboard had been a very expensive gift their parents could no longer afford to replace.

A painful lesson learned. Class dismissed.

“Experience is a hard teacher because she gives the test first, the lesson afterwards.”

Vernon Sanders Law

 
sword of Damocles

“The day which we fear as our last is but the birthday of eternity.”

Seneca

During her original tour of the property, Mr. Kenyon had directed Carolyn into the barn. He was so proud of it, as he should be; a magnificent structure which had weathered the worst storm on record in New England history. The Hurricane of 1938 claimed many historic buildings, even that far inland, but not the old barn up on Round Top Road. It survived. The master shipwright who built it was a genius. Carolyn marveled at the hand hewn beams, finely bowed arches visible to the untrained eye. However, she had no recollection of seeing that hand scythe hanging overhead, dangling precariously from its highest beam more than thirty feet from the ground. This barn was very dark. Perhaps she had not noticed it before. Perhaps it was not there at the time.

A few weeks after moving in, while the children were in school (except for April, who was taking her nap), Carolyn slipped out of their house for a few minutes to admire their beautiful barn. She had been fantasizing about using it for the purpose intended…maybe getting a pony or a horse for the children, and she wanted to see if it was properly outfitted to receive an animal or two. Entering from the smaller side door, she’d left it wide open to provide some additional light. Standing in a vacuum-like cavity, having been cleared of all Mr. Kenyon’s accumulated tools and its machinery only a week or so earlier, she listened to the echo of her footsteps as her boots struck the wide planked floorboards. The old barn was brutally cold inside; the air deathly still. It was eerily silent, completely quiet within the structure. Carolyn could hear herself breathing…could hear the beating of her own heart. She wondered why it felt so much colder inside than it had been outside; as warmly dressed as she was with a thick cotton turtleneck, a woolen sweater and her heavy leather flight jacket, Carolyn shivered. Cold swept through her delicate frame, seizing her attention. Even though her choice of clothing seemed utterly inadequate to effectively cut the chill, failing to keep frigid air from penetrating her body to the bone, ultimately that outfit would serve her well, protecting her in a way she could never have anticipated. Quaking, Carolyn quickly determined the building was perfectly acceptable; quite suitable for welcoming any resident of the four-legged variety…with a fur coat. Anxious to return to her sleeping child and relative warmth of the farmhouse, at least when compared to a barn exposed to the elements, she turned around to exit the building. In so doing, she distinctly heard a strangely disquieting sound above her head, magnified by still, silent air. Heads up!

Could a bird have become trapped? Had one entered that cavernous space when she opened the door? It sounded just like the frantic fluttering of wings. The rapidly repetitious noise startled her: “whoosh whoosh whoosh” slicing through acrid, stagnant air.
A
disconcerting sound, Carolyn located its origin. Was it an owl? No. A hand scythe (a sharp, rounded tool used for cutting and baling hay) was flying directly toward her. It resembled a kind of boomerang thrown with velocity, spinning in circles, whirling like a dervish…again and again. This object appeared to be hovering overhead, literally defying the law of gravity. Suddenly it plunged toward her; the woman was in grave danger. She watched. It flew precisely in her direction, yet Carolyn could do nothing to rescue herself in the moment. She was frozen in place, unable to move her legs, incapable of stepping aside. A dangerous airborne device; weapon fixed on its intended target: vital to brace for impact.

Carolyn recalls becoming instantly transfixed, mesmerized by the object as it approached. She was paralyzed, unable to retreat. Though her mind was as provoked as her body, speaking to the subject of self-preservation, trembling legs would not cooperate. Carolyn stood there, rigidly in place, watching the trajectory of the scythe. As it struck her slender form, its blade slicing hard across both her neck and shoulder, the violent force of a blow she expected was stunning nonetheless. There it lay, beside her boots, on frozen planks of wood, as still as the air, its momentum stifled; its threatening tone silenced by the strike. Carolyn stared at the wayward tool as she slowly reached up to touch the wound, fearful of what she might find in its wake. It was then she’d realized the multiple layers of clothing she had worn as protection from cold morning air had proved to be a blessing in disguise; nothing less significant than her salvation. That bulky, cumbersome outfit literally saved her life. In spite of its accurate aim and high speed, the strike of the scythe was unable to penetrate leather, though it left quite a gash. The jacket was destroyed but it was the scar it had left on a mind which would become troublesome. Equally frightened as fascinated by this strange event, she stared at it, in shock, then picked up the hand scythe, latching it onto a protruding nail nearby.

Taking a moment to recover and re-establish equilibrium, she was stymied by her own reaction (or lack thereof) to the occurrence. Even though a surge of adrenaline still pulsed wildly through her veins, the chill of the air began to claim her attention, consuming her being. It felt as if she was frozen stiff, barely breathing, incapable of standing upright. It was surreal. She had been raised in the swamps of Georgia and, in spite of those numerous hazards, had never come so close to death before. Gazing at splinters of wood beneath her feet created by the tool as its tip impaled the wide wooden plank where she stood; Carolyn knew instinctively just how close she had come to a disaster. Finally regaining her composure, she raced out of the barn and back into the house and checked in on April, still soundly asleep, entirely unaware of what happened to her mom. A chill overtaking her in the barn apparently traveled home with the shaken soul. As she sat on the sofa, cocooned in a blanket, she quivered; incapable of controlling her breathing for quite some time. Unable to shed the imagery or dispel the fear, haunting sounds of the close encounter rang out in her mind. It could have been
much worse. Considering a thought; it could have conceivably robbed her children of a mother. Awestruck by an incident she could not comprehend; her thoughts became mired in questions, riddled with one deeply disturbing concept: It could have been a fatal blow.

Carolyn was consumed with curiosity, asking herself many questions she could not answer, primarily among them: Why had she been unable to move, to simply step out of the way of a hand scythe? How on Earth was it
possible
that
such a dangerous tool had been placed so far out onto the narrow beam, suspended more than thirty feet high? How could it have possibly achieved that rate of speed or the accuracy of its aim without having been deliberately thrown by someone? Carolyn was the only living soul in the barn at the time. Most puzzling; how could merely stepping inside a barn expose her to such an incongruous situation; involving imminent peril? A decidedly horrifying circumstance, yet Carolyn did not feel the full impact of it nor bear the real burden until much later. She did not sense the perceived threat immediately. Actually she was far more amazed than frightened by it. What are the odds of something like this happening to her…to anyone! In time, she’d fully realize the danger she was in; came to appreciate a saving grace in moments of peril. What happened to her had been no accident.

The girls returned from school to find their mother shivering, bundled up in a blanket on the sofa. She was entirely preoccupied…lost to them…lost in thought. If she could have she would have been responsive to their greetings. Instead, there was only a vacancy there, a blank stare, startling to all of them. Their mother was incoherent; incapable of communicating. She had begun to process this incident, acknowledging what happened. Carolyn didn’t notice a few children had entered the house. Essentially, they were left home alone.

Several months would pass before she finally disclosed these events to her husband, along with a number of other equally disturbing episodes. A bizarre incident: contrary to accepted laws of physics; Nature. As Carolyn began to grasp the true gravity of it; being in jeopardy…inside an old barn, eventually she understood what had befallen her was a legitimate threat, the warning of impending doom. Targeted by a supernatural force far beyond her cognitive ability to interpret, it was the visceral triggering of an internal alarm system. Instinct; intuition told her she was not wanted, unwelcome in her own home. The deep bruise on her shoulder would heal in time though it left an invisible mark; a permanent scar on her psyche. Perhaps it was an omen; an ominous harbinger of things to come. It served its purpose well; attention being paid.

Years later Carolyn would learn of Mrs. John Arnold; the woman who died by her own hand, found hanging in the barn on precisely the same beam from which the scythe had fallen. The looming threat remained, hovering above. Next time, it would appear to be the face of evil itself. Heads up! Attention! A myth? True after all; the proverbial Sword of Damocles does indeed exist.

“One of the greatest pains to human nature is the pain of a new idea.”

Walter Bagehot

 
a very fine how do you do

“I see her not dispirited, not weak, but well, remembering that she has seen dark times before; indeed with a kind of
instinct that she sees a little better in a cloudy day.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Intrigue mounted; an evil chill seeped deeply into Carolyn’s bones and then it crept into her soul. Roger complained incessantly about exorbitant electric bills. As the price of heating oil went up their thermostat came down. Strange sounds persisted in the night. Flies attacked at will. As tragic violence raged on in Southeast Asia, very bad news became too difficult to watch. She had absorbed too much too fast, souring her mood further. The miserable woman finally snapped. It had been, without question, an intolerably mean season of snow and bitter temperatures in and out: the winter of Carolyn’s discontent.

***

Pacing the house, a rusty crowbar in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, Carolyn knew the fireplace in their parlor would bear the brunt of her wrath. This chimney appeared to be entirely intact. It was the logical choice; where their family most frequently gathered together. As she pried the face from the molding, careful not to damage the original mantel or wainscoting during the arduous process, a certain satisfaction replaced a resentment and frustration she’d harbored for months while she shivered and stared at the woodshed full of free heat: going to waste! It was a sin. It was a crime against the humanity she knew as her family. Why should they suffer cold? Why not do something about it if one has the tools at hand? Where there’s a will…there’s a way!

“What a mess!” Once the front panel was removed, Carolyn was no longer chilly; puddles of perspiration beading up beneath the rim of her glasses. At the task with pure vengeance, tearing the face off a fireplace with energy and enthusiasm she thought had been lost to her, what it revealed was daunting: bricks, horsehair plaster, newspaper and twigs. Whoever sealed the hole used anything and everything at their disposal to do so. As the room began filling with debris, April was enlisted to assist in this effort, filling up garbage bags one at a time…up to her knees in trash! Bag after bag accumulated, piling up like an instant landfill in the parlor, requiring both of them to drag the heavy load off into the woodshed. Soon April was just as hot and filthy dirty as her mother. Together they stood, examining results of their efforts. This tag team had made great progress in a relatively short amount of time.

“Bless this mess!” The child made the sign of the cross…backwards. Later in the afternoon, as her sisters arrived home from school, April relinquished her duties. She went to take a hot shower then a well-deserved nap. She was exhausted. Her mother was just getting started. They all labored well into the evening, breaking for dinner with the unspoken hope of an early bedtime.

Carolyn was not allowed to touch food until she’d hosed off. While Andrea warmed leftovers, her mother, beyond messy, went to take a shower. A sight to behold: the woman’s dark, flowing hair was encrusted, matted with white plaster; corners of mouth pasted shut. Bless
this
mess! Peeling filthy clothes from her moist, sticky skin, she stepped into the soothing shower, grateful to her eldest for pulling a dinner together. She dared to relax. Had she realized, by disturbing a long-sealed fireplace, she’d inadvertently trigger a deluge of supernatural activity in the house, she would have definitely left it alone and would certainly not be alone in the bathroom.

While Carolyn was preoccupied, there came a knock at the kitchen door. It was a neighbor, Mrs. Pettigrew, the mother of five boys; a lovely woman in every way. She had called earlier, learning of this massive project underway down on Round Top Road. Knowing Roger would be out of town for several days and Carolyn was quite busy, she had kindly baked a cake for the family, a truly thoughtful gesture. Andrea invited her in then cracked the bathroom door open to announce a pleasantly unexpected arrival. She then put a fresh pot of coffee on to brew before her mother even asked; a conditioned reflex. Duly informed, Carolyn stepped out of the shower and went directly into the “warm room”, a term affectionately used by the girls to describe cozy closet space off the bathroom, formerly occupied by an enormous center chimney, the one original to the farmhouse. When a significantly smaller replacement was installed years before, serving only to vent the furnace in the cellar, this space effectively trapped heat, creating a dry environment; providing escape from unrelenting chill: a private spot in which to change clothing in relative comfort and ease.