House of Darkness House of Light (23 page)

“Feed your faith and your fears will starve to death.”

Author Unknown

Comfort finally found its hearth and home in which to dwell. Carolyn kept the home fires burning, day and night. Though the fireplace was deeply inset, Roger bought a screen as extra protection from its flying embers. It freed her; she could leave the parlor without worry though she’d never leave it for long. Forever gravitating toward this constant source of heat, she’d evolved into a veritable fixture on the hearthstone; as
there
as the slabs of granite beneath her feet, inlaid with her own hands. She was a part of it…it was a part of her: Simpatico in Nature. At times, it required a chisel to remove the woman from her post, her station in life…pain, her cross to bear.

Inspired by their restoration project, Roger insisted upon doing it right: life lessons for those who paid attention in his class. Days of lifting and hauling, sanding and scraping revealed its essence: an original Colonial mantel board. A masterpiece: It was simply beautiful. There was nothing ornate about it; no fancy carving or inlaid tiles. An authentic specimen, it was a treasure hidden in plain sight, buried beneath countless layers of paint and many decades of neglect. A project beyond Roger’s mortal imagination became his gift, more than he could have ever hoped to discover. A vision: A wonder to behold.

Contemplating their next big project, he already knew what he wanted it to be: kitchen ceiling. It was quite low and made the room feel smaller and look darker than it should. Carolyn agreed with him, especially because a pestilent infestation they battled might be revealed in the process. The mere possibility of flies breeding in the ceiling was reason enough to tear it down. Exposing the beams was secondary to resolving the more pressing problem. The couple actually agreed on something twice in one week; a milestone. It would be the next priority on the long list of needed
home improvements
. One suggestion yet to be included on the list: treat the damned house for ghosts!

Amazing what must first be destroyed in order to restore, then recreate, an era lost in time. They were only beginning this process, destined to consume years of their lives. Debris fields expanded; every room in the house would eventually be transformed, along with everyone in it. Before he could begin, Roger had to restock his wares then hit the road for several days. He’d been home for nearly a week and had to get back to work so they could afford to demolish their kitchen. A few customers in Connecticut and New Hampshire were due for a visit. He made the customary trip into Providence; a quick pit stop at a supplier’s place in Cranston, then left the city: a beautiful drive, due west on Route 6 into Hartford. No major highways existed between the two New England cities at that time. The scenic route was literally the
only
route.

The family dys/functioned in make-it-and-spend-it mode, a hand-to-mouth method Carolyn found extremely disconcerting. Though as patient a woman as possible, she was anxious to begin; so, deluding herself into believing it may be helpful to get a start without her husband, Carolyn brought the ladder into their kitchen and proceeded with the demolition. A theme was emerging: wait for Roger to leave home then buy a farm and pick up a crowbar. Within a few minutes she had punched through the corner nearest the front hallway, creating a hole: two feet wide and nearly a foot deep. Dust rained down upon her head followed with chunks of plaster, accumulating at an alarming rate at the base of the ladder, scattering as it hit a hard floor. April wandered in the room to see what all the commotion was about. The cherub appeared angelic; yet never more so than she did with her mother that morning. Carolyn gazed down on her daughter as April looked up with pleading eyes. The small child seemed otherworldly in the gauzy white haze, her delicate features strikingly beautiful in natural light filtered through floating specks of a weightless dust, motionless, suspended in the air.

“Again, mommy?” By the tender age of six, April already knew what
work
looked and felt like and how to pitch in and help…but this was one chore she longed to avoid. Her mommy had every intention of letting her off the hook.

“I’m getting a head start for dad…not the whole ceiling…just this corner.”

“Your hair is all white again…just like when we did the fireplace.” Nothing like pointing out the obvious: “You looked so funny that day!”

“Ah, yes…I remember it well. We sure did work hard, didn’t we, honey?”

“And we made a really bad mess…remember? It was everywhere!”

“I know, baby doll.” Carolyn laughed then spit out what fell into her mouth while she spoke. An effort to enhance the house literally backfired in her face again; same results. “I think
this
will make an even
bigger
mess, if possible! I guess we’ll see, won’t we? If I keep at it…I won’t be able to
see
anything!”

“Do I have to help clean it up this time?” Clearly, April wanted nothing to do with the task. She’d had her fill of it with the fireplace and was certain her day could be better spent working hard at play.

“No. I want you to go into the parlor so you don’t breathe in all this dust.”

“Okay!” As April turned to make her great escape, she paused then turned back toward her mother. “I know how I can help you!” Closing her eyes, the child solemnly bowed her head, placing her hands together as pudgy fingers pointed upward toward the desired destination. Uttering a few Heaven-bound words, they spilled awkwardly from her lips as she mimicked what she heard during her first memorable trip to church the previous Sunday.

“Dear God…bless this mess!” An ethereal creature: making the sign of the cross…backwards, by mistake. “The Father, the Son…and the Holy Ghost!” Eyes reopened, glowing with pride. April raised her head, shouting, “Amen!” toward a ceiling…with an enthusiasm generally reserved for Southern Baptist revivals. Her mother was delighted by the blessing of the mess.

“Very good! Now scoot!” Carolyn watched as she took off, bolting through the house as if it were her one and only chance to abscond from the worksite; hence the nickname
Scooter
. It stuck like plaster to hair moist with sweat.

Having the forethought to tote a flashlight up the ladder with her, Carolyn peeked in through the hole to examine the enclosed space. She could not see any evidence of breeding flies; no signs of life at all. So where were the little bastards coming from? Running out of theories, at least a curiosity had been satisfied; they were
not
coming from inside their kitchen ceiling. Descending the ladder, she felt a sudden shiver traveling her legs then distinctly heard the crack of a door; the suction seal on a refrigerator door, so assumed April was rummaging for a mid-morning snack.

“What are you doing, little miss nosey?” No answer. Carolyn’s back was to the appliance as she stepped down the sturdy ladder, closely watching at her feet, checking her balance, due to steps suddenly covered with debris; pieces of plaster and slippery dust. Once safely on the floor again she turned to look around the kitchen. The refrigerator door instantly caught her attention, as it had been left opened. Agitated, Carolyn pushed it closed, shedding whatever she could from her hair before launching a search for the culprit. Based upon the faulty assumptions made, a mother was seeking a child who knew better than to behave this way. She found April in the middle of the parlor floor, in front of the fireplace, playing with Nancy’s stash of Barbie dolls; a plethora of miniature accessories scattered around her on the rug: fully engaged.

“Why did you leave the fridge open? And why didn’t you answer me?”

“When, mommy? I’ve been in here playing dolls…wasn’t this okay to do?” Her innocent voice was filled with the truth, as was her quizzical expression. April had not been in the refrigerator and had not gone into the kitchen at all. Dropping the subject, Carolyn did not want to arouse any suspicions or try to explain something she could not, frightening her daughter in the process. An odd sensation: Alert. Her internal alarm system rang.
Something
opened it!

“Sure honey, that’s fine…my mistake.” Patting her baby girl on the head, a mother asked, “Do you have your sister’s permission to play with her dolls?”

“Nancy
always
lets me play with them as long as I
don’t
lose their shoes!”

“All right.” Glancing down upon squalor, Carolyn said, “Bless
this
mess!”

Gathering several dolls and all of their stuff together, hastily loading it into its carrying case, a giggling little girl closed then latched the lid with a single, sweeping motion.

“
What
mess?” A budding sense of humor officially entered into evidence.

Carolyn grabbed then dumped the case of dolls upside down. “
That
mess!” They played together for awhile…dress up instead of clean up.

Reluctantly returning to the kitchen, Carolyn again found their refrigerator door wide open. A chill in the room had nothing to do with cool air escaping from inside the appliance.
That
kind of cold was something else entirely,
of a different sort: a signal, a clue or perhaps an announcement. It was the kind of cold which told her she wasn’t alone in the room; a sensation with which she was becoming all too familiar. Deciding to simply ignore it, (a lesson learned from her husband), Carolyn closed the door and folded the ladder then out to the woodshed it went. Later on, she’d bravely venture back into the kitchen to find its morbid chill dispersed and the refrigerator door securely fastened. Whatever
it
was, it was gone…over for the moment.

Looking up into a substantial hole she created in the ceiling, Carolyn could plainly see one of the hand-hewn beams she’d exposed with the effort. It was beautiful. Though tempted to keep going it was time to clean up the mess left behind by this demolition. At least Roger would see: if flies
were
breeding in the house it was happening elsewhere, in an undisclosed location, yet to be determined by the process of elimination. Having taken the same initiative as with the fireplace, Carolyn felt good about the project, in spite of the fact that she was not alone doing it. Whatever deliberately distracted her was likewise working on her nerves. While dragging a canister vacuum across the kitchen floor, pulling up pieces of plaster wedged between planks, she remembered watching Roger attack intruders inside a laundry room, suction his weapon of choice. Staring at the hose, considering the possibility she just might have the stomach for it, she lifted it to the windowsill. Carolyn soon discovered Roger was right. It was good
unclean
fun, if a trifle sadistic, sucking all these filthy beasts into a hose, down a pipe; going for a helluva ride toward certain death. She thought it strange they did not protest, resist or even evade their attacker. No fear. They didn’t flee the scene. Fly away you go! It was as if they agreed to willingly go…back to where they came from. Why? No matter: spiritually speaking. Her conscience, as clear as windowsills; sucking it up, she obliged. No need to feel guilty about it. You can’t really kill what’s already dead.

“The beginning of knowledge is the discovery of something we do not understand.”

Frank Herbert

 
close that door

“God made Truth with many doors to welcome every believer who knocks on them.”

Kahlil Gibran

Their house was coming to life. Not only was the pantry door in the parlor refusing to remain latched, the demon door beside it (an alternate route to the cellar) began some shenanigans of its own. Opening at will, it filled the room with an earthy, acrid odor. The door no one
ever
opened, (an order, due to its unsafe stairwell) kept opening over and over again, throughout the course of the evening. It unlatched then drifted a few inches, stopping in the same spot, as if someone was peeking into the parlor. A cellar as creepy as any on Earth was on the other side of it; down the dark corridor and a rickety set of stairs. The anomaly began after dinner, once Carolyn built a fire.

Squatting on the hearthstone, she struck a match, snapping it sharply across the cold, dappled surface of granite. In a flash the kindling caught, ignited by the flames of a single piece of paper stuffed beneath a grate. It is no chore at all to make a fire when the wood is well-seasoned, the kindling dry to brittle. Heat baking her cheeks; she felt its warmth folding into flesh as she smiled. Whoosh! There it predictably went, up in smoke and flames, as it had done every other night since the completion of the fireplace. Its restoration brought elemental comfort to an otherwise dreary dwelling as fire in the hole blazed. Though generated from the compact space, it seemed to heat the entire house every time it burned, proving to be the only means of dispelling an insidious chill too cold to be imagined; the sensation too weird to be explained. Having been plagued by it for the duration of a brutal winter, this family welcomed a respite long overdue, even though it officially arrived in springtime.

Click. The cellar door unlatched behind her back. Carolyn didn’t even turn to see what happened, presuming the pantry door to be the culprit. She felt a rush of air at her feet; its smell gave up the ghost. The scent from their cellar was distinct unto itself, unlike anything else from anywhere else. She turned to confirm her suspicions. Indeed, the cellar door was open, only an inch or so, just wide enough to flood the parlor with an unmistakably pungent aroma. Rising to walk the few feet over to the errant door, a sensation swept through her, one she identified as fear. Mustering courage required, Carolyn opened the door further, peering down into the black hole. Being void of life did not mean the space was unoccupied. Nothing and no one was visible. She closed the door, securing the latch, as it had been prior to the recurring incident. She could not fathom the idea of it dislodging without considerable assistance. Of the many doors in their house it was the only one with hardware so warped it was a struggle for human hands. As with most antique wrought iron latches, relics of the past, they are authentically rustic, quite charming, but have lost some function with age. On those few occasions this cellar door needed to be opened, Roger’s strength was required to accomplish the task. After the third time it happened during the evening, a normally jammed shut latch released with ease, she did the only thing she could to resolve this problem, soliciting help from above: her eldest daughter upstairs.