House of Darkness House of Light (24 page)

“Mom, it reeks down here!” Arriving from her stairwell, emerging through a barely perceptible white-to-grayish vapor, she was moving far too quickly for it to interfere with or halt her momentum. Instead, Andrea felt cold waves passing through her body, dispersing its natural heat. She knew the smell of death. An instantly identified
odor permeating the fog she’d intercepted kept her moving; straight to the fireplace to warm the cold, saying nothing of it.

Without disclosing the reason, Carolyn convinced her to help remove the antique desk from her bedroom, placing it directly in front of the cellar door. Andrea hoisted her half without question. Once properly situated, she went to retrieve her homework, returning to stake a claim at the desk. Carolyn was so grateful for some company. As the parlor warmed again, Andrea found it far toastier than it had been at her own desk upstairs. The rancid smell seemed to fly up then out the chimney. Carolyn stoked a crackling fire. Neither of them spoke about what they’d both sensed in the space they were sharing.

Click. Laundry room: its cranky door cracked open. The pantry: making its presence known, again. Andrea glanced at her mother for a reaction. Carolyn hid her frustration well. There were no words to explain it. She possessed no ability to attribute it to anything; clearly something she did not comprehend. Still, she knew it was
not
floors “settling” in a house which was, at this time in its history, nearly two hundred and forty years old. Carolyn didn’t want to have her girls exposed, especially by her own acknowledgment, to whatever cryptic oddities kept occurring in the house, as if that could be avoided. Their mother had, by necessity, learned how to control a household and yet, there she stood, feeling decidedly out-of-control in an old farmhouse, to the extent that it did not feel like
home
. It felt frightening and hostile, complicated and inexplicable; as if the incongruous household was instead controlling her.

“Dad says it happens because of the floors.” Andrea leaned over and closed the door. It was a relief to her mother, not knowing what to say in response to the question in her daughter’s eyes: “Is that true?” She could hear the thought as if it had been spoken aloud.

Opting for silence, Carolyn nodded in agreement. Of course; certainly that was the reason…it must be. Andrea returned to her homework while Carolyn remained close by, peeking over her shoulder, seeking a progress report. Her nonchalance was becoming a substitute emotion as a passive, benign defense mechanism utilized in lieu of experiencing supernatural activity for precisely what it was: bizarre. Instead, Carolyn resorted to minimizing it, dismissing it entirely if need be, as a skill; as a means of coping with whatever she did not understand. In fact, she deeply resented
feeling
anything at all in the house, especially one persistent, nagging sensory perception: the feeling she was not alone. It rattled her nerves; made her angry whenever she sensed a presence. It caused her to repeatedly question herself and that made her uncomfortable. It was foreign; made her skin crawl. Those who knew this woman considered her as an intellectual: a deep thinker. She found visceral sensations a cerebral intrusion into an otherwise staid and orderly mind. Though she had no notion of it at the time, her negativity was feeding that which dwelled among them. As she became increasingly preoccupied with disturbing thoughts she found it necessary to keep them private, as if ashamed…as if there was something wrong with
her
. Feeling guilty, having been the one who lobbied to buy this place, her girls were now in an environment she was incapable of controlling. They’d seen a coat hanger flailing in midair. They heard noises and watched doors open at will. Their house expressed itself in a wide variety of ways and it was just the beginning of their odyssey. Carolyn’s angst began burgeoning; her protective instincts remaining on high alert. Not caring to seek validation from the skeptical husband for her sake, it brought Carolyn no comfort to see their children running to him, divulging what they had seen for themselves, as was the case in the aftermath of the warm room incident. Clearly it would be her preference to keep them sheltered from the cosmic storm. But if they were so terrified they went to their father, then he simply
must
believe them. Carolyn did not yet know the truth. Without exception, all the girls had been approached, each one enduring a close encounter of one kind or another with whomever it was dwelling within those ancient walls.

None of the girls disclosed these incidents to their parents or to each other, for that matter. Like mother, they’d kept it to themselves. Eldest to youngest knew of a presence. They knew something shared space with them and each had been touched by its mere existence; each was equally motivated to keep secrets for personal reasons. Carolyn didn’t want these suspicions confirmed;
wanted
to be dead wrong. Andrea wanted to ease her mother’s stress. Nancy thought it was “kinda cool”. Christine resorted to a “planned ignore” strategy and Cynthia was too frightened to breathe, let alone speak of what she’d seen and heard. April did not want to disclose a newfound playmate. Deliberately withholding vital information kept their
astounding
discovery quiet. Each of them used specialized survival techniques and developed coping skills which kept the peace and kept special secrets safe. Roger seemed oblivious to what was happening to his family. Though he privately harbored suspicions of his own, they were of an entirely different nature. His fear was rooted in the real possibility his wife was facing some sort of a breakdown; transformation. All of them eager for spring to arrive, anxious to escape the confines of a spooky old house, they craved a peaceful and boring existence. It was not to be.

Lingering in front of the fireplace, Carolyn considered her own words. She felt guilty. Having used them frequently, at times accusatorily regarding the doors of the farmhouse, “Close that door!” had become more a mantra than a phrase. She had repeatedly blamed her children for something they had not done wrong and it was this realization troubling her deeply. If they were not the
irresponsible
party, who or what was responsible? She silently vowed to avoid it in the future. Click. Appearing reflexive, without looking away from her homework, Andrea reached over, closing the pantry door. Like mother, like daughter: she’d learned her lessons well. Carolyn turned around to throw another log on the fire.

It was getting late; the dutiful mother went to the stairwell then hollered up, “Time for bed!” Yet another familiar, if unwelcome phrase often uttered by a mom. Within moments she heard the shuffling of feet overhead accompanied by the sound of dresser drawers opening and closing. In pajamas, the motley crew came downstairs all at once to say goodnight.

“Did everyone finish their homework?” Nods all around; Chris had hers in hand as proof of the assertion.

“Not yet.” Andrea’s hand went into the air though her gaze remained fixed on a notebook at the center of the desk.

“Not yet!” April’s hand went in the air. She often mimicked her big sister.

“You don’t
have
homework, silly.” Chris sweetly chastised the littlest girl.

“She could do mine for me!” Nancy was a bit too quick with the suggestion meant to be humorous, arousing some suspicion.

“She would probably do a better job!” Cindy’s quip; too close to the truth. Nancy had quite a reputation for flying through her work on her way to play. Mom needed to inspect it to be certain, so requested a hard copy as evidence.

“Why me? You never ask anyone else!” Instantly defensive, Nancy knew it was
not
finished; a string of heavy sighs trailing behind her as she went back upstairs, returning to her desk. “I’ll check it over first.”

“Sure, Nance. That means you’ll finish it now.” The deadpan comment had come from beneath her breath; Andrea closed a notebook. She
was
finished. Everyone else began to giggle because
everyone
knew it was true. Nancy had earned such scrutiny. Carolyn sent her girls off to bed with grins on their lips and a hug around the neck. Nancy grumbled all the way back upstairs where she would spend another thirty minutes completing her assignments. Andrea went along to help. After awhile Carolyn made the rounds…a normal nightly walk-through to which her children were accustomed and especially grateful for since moving into a spooky old farmhouse. Lingering for several minutes, checking over Nancy’s work, she found April, fallen fast asleep. Chrissy and Cindy were chatting but both appeared drowsy and would not be long for the world. Andrea was still reading in bed. Pausing to thank her for helping with a desk downstairs and a homework situation upstairs, Nancy was grateful for the help, too. Mom was passing the message along. They spent a few minutes discussing the book she was into and then, before heading down their narrow stairwell a mother cautioned her daughter not to stay up too late. Returning to the parlor, Carolyn stoked the fire then took up with a good book of her own. Girls in bed, it was time to relax and settle in for the night. The house would be infinitely more peaceful and quiet, or so she’d assumed. Click.

“Let him who desires peace prepare for war.”

Flavius Vegetius Renatus

 
smoke and mirrors

“Death, the sable smoke where vanishes the flame.”

George Gordon, Lord Byron Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage

The fireplace was so warm and lovely. It burned with a brilliance reflected throughout an old farmhouse infusing it with something it had lost over time. Banking its auburn ashes against the back wall, Carolyn placed the screen in front of it then prepared for bed. The night had been long and the woman was weary. Her usual routine involved the walk-through, first upstairs to tuck the girls in and then around its ground level to turn off the lights. Emerging from the bathroom into the kitchen, the odor rushed her nostrils: the eerily familiar aroma. Her sensory perceptions were fine. It was her extrasensory perception working on her mind. In spite of the fact that she had, just moments earlier, passed through the front hallway, finding it quiet, nothing unusual, Carolyn sensed it was where she should look. The cold scent in the room indicated a door had opened somewhere. It was not the intensely pervasive cold she had begun to associate with some unwelcome guest. Crossing the kitchen then turning the corner into a dark hallway, Carolyn found the cellar door propped wide open as a draft of some velocity swept up the stairwell, reeking of damp earth, old and moldy horsehair plaster. Spoiled air infiltrated her nose as she tightly closed the door. There was no point in asking their girls; it would only alarm them. A mother
knew
none of them had been out of bed; no one snuck downstairs to open the cellar door. No tricks being played by mortals on that night or any other night, for that spirit matter. Nefarious forces were at work: something wicked this way comes, arriving as a chill in the air on the drafts from below, accompanied by an unmistakable aroma; too close for comfort.

Securing the door, she returned to the parlor to check on the fire once more before retiring for the evening. The seasoned wood burned fast and hot; by that time, only a few glowing embers remained. One quick stir told her it was just about out. With a screen for protection, Carolyn went to bed, closing the pantry door as she’d passed by. Her bedroom was just off the parlor, the only bedroom on the first floor; an adequate vantage point for monitoring a house. She could see into the parlor and could hear anything going on overhead. As was her habit whenever Roger was away from home, she’d always leave her bedroom door open. Cuddling up beneath her ample quilt, Carolyn had yet to close her eyes when she’d distinctly heard the sound of ignition, that curious “Swoosh!” made by kindling when fire and air collide with wood. She leapt from bed, peering out into the parlor, directly into the fireplace, a distance of no more than fourteen feet from where she stood. It was not even smoldering and had gone completely dark; no sign of firelight. It was then she realized; a threatening sound she still succinctly heard, a horrible crackling, combustible noise was coming from behind her…from inside her bedroom.

Wrenching her torso around in a panic, Carolyn saw the top of her dresser erupting into flames. It was ablaze with light: sparks jumping from a fireball, the core of which burned so brightly she could barely gaze into it. Off-shoots sprung from its center, appearing like wild sparklers out-of-control, pinging then popping in every direction. Paralyzed by an all-consuming fear, she was literally scared stiff. Describing the shock of this moment as mind-bending, Carolyn tried to react, tried to bolt; tried to breathe. Her mind was as frozen as her body. It remained fixed on the fire and five children sleeping upstairs. For the duration of this episode, Carolyn thought of nothing else. She could only watch as the fire and light intermingled, dancing with its own reflection in the mirror, magnified by the glassy surface, threatening to claim her entire family. In abject horror she watched. It continued unabated for what Carolyn describes as more than a minute, though she would be the first to admit, time becomes distorted or suspended: altered by terror. It felt like eternity. Flames catapulted through the night across the room, searing the darkness with light; a splayed spray of fiery shards flying toward lace curtains, dropping onto the quilt, bouncing off the wooden floor as do the remnants of fireworks hitting a roof. The pulsing surge of adrenaline vibrated through the veins of Carolyn’s trembling body; an overwhelming rush. Observing in stunned silence, unable to draw a breath, her eyes burned from staring into the spectral light. It hissed like a snake and flew like a bird. Moment after agonizing moment fire hurled itself around the room and then, in a mere fraction of a second, it was gone. Carolyn fell onto the floor as if having been suspended then released from an invisible wire: an intentionally captivating encounter. She cannot recall how long she remained there before recovering enough to stand up. It took quite awhile to collect herself. Rising slowly from the floorboards, then fumbling around in the dark for the switch, once a light was on in her room the woman was able to regain shaken bearings; sitting on the side of her bed, sliding her quivering fingers across the surface of the quilt. Glancing into the parlor, she could see the fireplace was dark; fire completely dead. Whatever happened to her had nothing to do with shooting embers or an errant reflection of flames.