House of Darkness House of Light (18 page)

As she began removing her robe to dress, a large coat hanger
lifted
from the rack beside her then struck the woman repeatedly on her head and neck. Carolyn began to scream; an alarm beckoning everyone in from the kitchen, including their houseguest. Entering the bathroom en masse, they witnessed a vicious attack…nobody believing her eyes. Once that beating subsided, the coat hanger fell to the floor. Those gathering around stood in stunned silence. Carolyn too, was muted…in a stupor; only the vacant expression in her eyes spoke of the ordeal. Slipping the robe back over her wounded shoulder, she quickly moved out of the space where the attack occurred, ushering a crowd back toward the kitchen, securely closing the bathroom door behind her.

This was a traumatizing event for all involved. Carolyn appeared to be in a state of shock. She sat at the table, fidgeting with her fingers, trembling from the effect of adrenaline still surging through her body. Andrea returned to the stove in the pantry, staring into a sauce as she stirred it, wondering what just happened and how it could have possibly occurred. Mrs. Pettigrew remained quiet, perhaps attempting to absorb over-exposed images. Her ruddy English complexion deepening to an auburn tint, the hue matching her hair; once she was reasonably sure Carolyn had sufficiently recovered she decided to forego coffee then politely excused herself. It was so upsetting. Carolyn had been so anxious to find a friend; and now this? They walked into the parlor together. Before departing, Mrs. Pettigrew leaned closely toward Carolyn and uttered a rather esoteric message of her own, forewarning: “The Kenyons always kept the lights on overnight: All the lights…every night.” Reaching for Carolyn’s hand sympathetically, after she left, Mrs. Pettigrew never returned again.

The children began asking questions which their mother was incapable of answering. Eventually they gave up, finished dinner, did their homework and went to bed. This was beyond anyone’s ability to comprehend though each of them had, to a certain extent, become its unwitting victim, as well. That night they all slept together in groups, anxious and frightened, wishing their father was home. Carolyn did what she could to be a calming influence, to no avail. They’d each witnessed something bizarre; something of supernatural origin. Though their children were too young to understand what had happened, they all knew it was something phenomenal…something wicked this way comes.

Concerned about her mother, Andrea crept downstairs after her sisters had fallen into an uneasy slumber. She found her near the bottom of the bedroom stairs, gazing into the hole she had cleared out earlier in the day. Embracing her daughter, Carolyn tried to reassure her eldest, but there was no comfort to be found in their dark and dreary house that night. Andrea helped replace the wood enclosure over the face of a vacant space, so to cut down on any drafts. They studied the abandoned bird nest. It had fallen from inside the chimney during demolition. Having rescued it from the pile of debris, Carolyn placed the specimen onto the mantelpiece for all to admire. At her mother’s urging, Andrea reluctantly returned to bed: no rest promised…none gained.

Sensing an intrusive presence, Carolyn remained alone in the parlor, as sole guardian of the dwelling. A mother considered what happened; the impact it made on their children. She then examined the obvious bruises on her body, having been struck in precisely the same place where the scythe hit her a few months earlier. Certain her husband would surely insist on there being some “reasonable explanation” she decided not to tell him, forced to reconsider the position when she realized the girls
would
divulge the incident. It was time to have a talk with him, to describe recondite events; time to suggest perhaps an “unreasonable explanation” existed instead. It was so obvious. She was being targeted;
she
was the one unwelcomed in her own home. Sitting in silence on the loveseat, ignoring the book propped in place against her knees, Carolyn began to pray. Tears welled in her eyes as she contemplated the possibility of being expelled from a place she wanted for her children. No longer an issue separate and distinct from the family, they too were now being exposed to an insidious malfeasance, the likes of which, begrudgingly sharing its space.

Carolyn hesitated to confront Roger with these disturbing allegations. Her suspicions confirmed: they were not alone in their house. Leaning back into a soft pillow, she observed two ominous flies-in-residence entering the parlor, buzzing in a circle, one perching itself on the binding of her book. It stared straight at a woman too weary to swat it away. After a moment, the intrusive, contemptible creatures flew, presumably returning to the place from whence they’d come, though their specific point-of-origin still remained a mystery: an undisclosed location. A very fine how do you. Overcome with a sense of dread, Carolyn felt bereft; void and vulnerable to attack. Exhausted, fighting the sleep her body and mind desperately required, she slowly closed heavy eyes with an intention of doing so for only a minute, awakening hours later at the break of dawn. First light flirted with her sight. Gray and gloomy was all the morning held as a promise for the day. Acrid odor stung her nostrils. The house was something more than cold; it was absolutely frigid. Her body had stiffened beyond measure or movement. Wrenching herself up from the sofa, Carolyn walked directly toward the thermostat. Nope. No way. There was no conceivable way the device could be correct. The heat was blasting; its gauge read seventy-two degrees, yet it would be warmer if every door and window were opened, which is precisely what Carolyn did to vent a powerful stench, attempting to rid the house of its putrid fume which had evidently permeated the dwelling while she’d slept. Disoriented, unable to dispel the smell or the penetrating cold holding her captive, Carolyn knew something was with her; an evil presence she could not see or hear, but felt. There it was; right there at the crossroads of night and day. It was in the parlor. There was no denying it, in spite of the fact that nothing was visible to this bleary-eyed beholder. She felt an unmistakable, inescapable sense of false imprisonment, the sensation of a being in certain peril, grave danger; evoking a response primal in nature, that visceral human reaction of fight or flight. Her children were all sleeping upstairs. Defiant; there she stood, firmly holding hallowed ground, preparing for something to rear its ugly head. Protective instincts deeply entrenched, like soldiers in a ditch, weapons drawn; laying-in-wait prompted the timely retreat of her unwelcome companion. It swept from the room as the whisk of a broom at the flick of a wrist. Clearing the air, temperature rising steadily, it was there and then it was gone, precisely at the break of dawn: wake-up call.

“At first cock-crow the ghosts must go

back to their quiet graves below.”

Theodosia Garrison

~ a pause for reflection ~

 
familiarity breeds contempt

“In time we hate that which we often fear.”

William Shakespeare

Spring refused to arrive on time. It stalled; delay tactics coming in the form of snow and sleet, freezing rain and biting bitter winter wind. A season toyed with the fragile emotions of those waiting with pressed patience; a virtue that was wearing thinner than cold night air. Breathe deeply, my dear. Breathe in.

***

An adversarial marriage has repercussions throughout an entire household; a low level hostility which tends to vibrate through children. Both Roger and Carolyn did not seem to notice what they were doing; it came naturally. The girls were paying close attention; reading moods, gauging every interaction in comparison to everything else they’d known of their parents prior to this time. Quiet when it was not loud; a study in extremes: darkness and light.

Based on personal reflection of those involved, it appears the root ball was born of an insidious, deep-seeded contempt; this core issue remained buried beneath fertile ground; fertilized with quips, sarcasm and subtle imagery: an eager comment ignored, a shy smile left as an unreturned gesture. Silence, as much a weapon as words, created distance; marriage seemed a mere illusion. It was the root ball of a relationship beginning to rot, kept perpetually moist, drenched with tears. Over time it would turn black in the darkness, deprived of light and hope in the place where no one could watch it die…where no one saw it disintegrating from within. In retrospect, it was a blessing in disguise.

Plagued by normal aches and pains associated with a major move, Carolyn was certain it would subside. It never did. Over time, it worsened, spreading through her being like the wild rivulets remaining after a flood; outstretched fingers trickling over a landscape attempting to return to its source in Nature. A once vital woman was rapidly deteriorating, becoming crippled, struggling through each and every day as the cold infiltrated her bones, her psyche then her soul. Formerly firm muscle mass was compromised; elements conspiring against her caused joints to throb, a wounded heart to break. The strong, agile woman began aging at a remarkable rate…well before her time: Frightening. It altered her demeanor; a soft disposition began to harden, primarily because her husband was convinced it was all in her head.

Why had the farm felt so familiar? Why did this place call to her then reject this woman in every conceivable way? Carolyn routinely wondered about it; somewhere lost in thought, pondering questions plaguing her as much as the pain. It seemed grossly unfair. The longer she lived there the less she liked it; its charms becoming easy to overlook; too many challenges…too many souls. She began to perceive the pain as cruelty; punishment: as part of the process of dismissal. Carolyn felt as if she was being run off her own property. It was obvious; something or someone did not want her there: contempt born of a familiarity growing stronger and stranger by the day.

During their first several months in the farmhouse so many awful incidents occurred, it became difficult to keep track: spooky sounds, a fly infestation, disturbed animals in conflict with invisible foes, demonic doors opening and closing at will; mind-numbing manifestation, finger-numbing cold. What was one to think? Noxious odors: the smell of death. Coat hanger and scythe: an omen or two of animosity shared in kind. Carolyn was under attack. It would soon become evident she was the target of someone’s disdain. How to defend against those which cannot be seen? How to face one’s fears in the midst of the battle? Uncommon valor was called for in circumstances so preposterous, it was impossible to identify the enemy in a war with no end. Existence at the farm functioned as a metaphor, its description suited to ongoing conflict over in Southeast Asia. Vietnam had become a major point of contention between Carolyn and Roger. Juxtaposed positions on the war spawned many a heated debate often culminating in discordant argument. She loathed Richard Nixon. He wholeheartedly supported the president and would vote for him again. As bad news grew worse, Roger became utterly belligerent about it, defending indefensible positions; poor political decisions escalating as the bloody body count continued to rise unabated: rabid Republican versus staunch Democrat. Theirs was a mixed marriage; not a political love fest, by any measure. It was just another reason to fight. Their relationship became even more adversarial over time; uncivil discourse, one symptom of the disease with no cure. It was an element of a combative nature between them. At its center, a presumption in both camps: the enemy is ignorant and misguided; incapable of admission or compromise…issues of war, no promise of peace.

Carolyn had hesitated to discuss spirit matters with her husband. Initially, she could not believe it herself so there was nothing to convince him about. However, as strange incidents accrued a body of evidence grew substantially. Sam Olevson offered a unique perspective; his opinion factored in, lending credence to Carolyn’s speculation, creating less dark space for dispute. Still, in spite of his respectful appreciation of Sam’s position, Roger continually questioned her perceptions, maintaining what he’d considered to be a healthy skepticism…for years. His stubborn streak was magnified by the subject. He remained suspicious; not a person ever easily persuaded. This point of view served to antagonize Carolyn further. She considered it highly disrespectful, especially because she’d never given him any cause; no reason to doubt her voracity on any subject in the past. A level of honesty and personal integrity she brought to a relationship from the inception was being overtly challenged by disbelief, as though her opinion was entirely irrelevant, her recounting of events, fraudulent. His doubts and the accusations, implicit and explicit, were leveraged as weaponry throughout a campaign founded on a mutual distrust. Moving to the farm altered them as individuals. In the beginning, well before Roger saw the Light, as luminescent as any which danced upon the surface of the river when he first made the trip to water’s edge, he simply did not,
could
not believe her. Then he began to blame her. Carolyn felt abandoned in their marriage, unwanted by a house and husband alike; rejection on all fronts. An ugly war of words was being waged. Casualties were all but inevitable. As an increasingly fiery relationship fed the beast within, flaming passions stirred up the spirits. What they really needed was less heat and more light.