House of Darkness House of Light (25 page)

Though her lean legs remained as limp and liquid as over-cooked pasta, an unbelieving soul who did not trust her own eyes righted herself to the extent she was able. Wandering around the bedroom, searching for debris; a spot of singe,
some
indication of fire, Carolyn found no evidence to substantiate her claim. No lingering odor of smoke; no residual spots: nothing to signify this event occurred. Impossible: lace curtains escaped unscathed; the cotton quilt, bearing no visible signs of injuries to its pearl-colored patches of fabric, lay sprawled above the sheets. Rounding the bottom of her bed, approaching the large dresser at the far side of the room, she was certain there would be some evidence of this event where it had manifested. Fixing her stare on its broad, flat surface, Carolyn detected only a thin sheen of dust on an otherwise clean, undisturbed piece of furniture. Dragging fingertips across it, this motion left streaks behind, a telltale sign of her presence; not the elemental force of fire. Until this instant, that surface remained untouched. She was certain of it. No soot or signs of burn holes on lace doilies. No marks on the mirror. No scars on the wood; apparently no effect from an explosive ball of fire shooting off sparks from the surface of maple veneer. Roger would
never
believe this!

Overwhelmed, Carolyn wandered into the parlor, allowing her weary bones to collapse onto the loveseat directly across from the fireplace. Her mind was still racing as her body shut down. Sleep would elude her this night. Instead, she would spend the time reliving the ordeal in an attempt to resolve it; find a logical explanation for it. Questions loomed along with a foreboding sense of danger. She’d begun to believe a presence had awakened something dormant, something evil in their house: the presence of her family. Carolyn rightfully perceived an ominous event as a threat. Hour after hour, as thoughts wrestled with perceptions, conflict was taking a terrible toll on an increasingly fragile creature. Dread consumed her: afraid to close her eyes, afraid to deflect rapt attention; fearful of lighting the fire. In spite of fear, still cold and trembling, shivering beneath a blanket, she steadfastly rose to meet the threat. Carolyn rekindled the fire, fully extinguished, certain it had not been the source of the spectral display in her bedroom. There she remained, alone on a hearthstone, keeping vigil. Studying the brilliant flames, watching and wondering how to react to space invasion which
must
have been an optical illusion, a mirage in a mirror, Carolyn was cautious yet equally curious. She began to examine the angles, distance; the reflection of light in the parlor. Poised in the doorway of her bedroom, she measured the distance between a dresser and fireplace then gazed at its mirror. There was no reflection of flames leaping up and lapping at chimney walls, no hint of a hue or its golden glow; no sparks of light at all. The height of the mirror precluded a direct reflection of the fireplace. Even if the mirror had been propped on the floor the location of their bed would have blocked its path, refusing to allow the surface of glass to mimic the firelight dancing around a dark parlor: Inconceivable. This harrowing episode was not a natural event. It was supernatural in origin; defying all established laws of physics. It defied all human comprehension. During her pause for reflection, despair began to settle into a mortal Soul.

Bundled tightly inside the blanket, Carolyn returned to the loveseat, staring suspiciously at the fire, as if watching over some naughty child who claimed to be nothing but goodness and light but was instead an omen, a threatening display of darkness and death. She found a disquieting comfort in acceptance of her circumstances. Primal instincts kept the woman awake: the protective urge dictated an unwavering maintenance…a state of alert in consciousness. It was
not
a nightmare; not some smoke and mirrors illusion. It was a threat. It was real and true and it was time to tell. As those few final glowing embers surrendered to the darkness of night, Carolyn reluctantly closed her eyes.

***

Another theme emerged: Fear of fire. Carolyn was well aware of the threat. Their house was a virtual tinderbox. Nobody took it more seriously. It was an omnipresent notion. What better way to scare a mother right out of her mind? What better threat to issue? It had not been an illusion or a nightmare but was instead, a harbinger of things to come; the first, though certainly not the last time spirits would be caught like naughty children playing with fire and light.

Where there’s smoke…

“Our time consumes like smoke, and posts away;

Nor can we treasure up a month or day:

The sand within the transitory glass

Doth haste, and so our silent minutes pass.”

Rowland Watkyns

 
spirit matters

“Be like the bird that, passing on her flight awhile on boughs too slight,

feels them give way beneath her, and yet sings, knowing that she hath wings.”

Victor Hugo

At first light Carolyn stirred. Her limbs were weak. It was a difficult task to steady her gait on her way to the bathroom. Though she expected a different outcome, all the doors in the house remained securely fastened. Staring at her image in a mirror on the wall, the young woman was startled by how her face had aged overnight. If she did not know better, she would have thought she’d been asleep for twenty years, awaking as a much older (and wiser) soul.

The house was still. Actually, it was strangely silent. While Carolyn put on a pot of water for oatmeal, she listened intently, noting the absence of sound, unable to discern the nature of it. The dwelling felt warmer than usual though the Sun had yet to crest the tree line. Sitting alone at the kitchen table, alone with her thoughts and a hot cup of coffee, the truth was she was never alone. A steaming brew did nothing to mitigate her exhaustion. Only an intravenous infusion of undiluted caffeine would make any measurable difference. Sleep deprivation caused her to feel rather punch drunk; she had to shake it off fast. Getting the children up and ready for school was the immediate priority.

Carolyn was desperate for help. Rising abruptly, she marched over to their telephone, centered on the kitchen wall between two windows. Only then did she realize why the room was so eerily quiet: there they were, lined up along the windowsills, staring at her. Haunted houseflies were no longer buzzing as usual low-level racket. None of them were flying. Barely moving, they stood as still as statues, as pillars of stone in miniature, observing every move she made as if they somehow knew she was about to rat them out. Carolyn dialed the number from memory. Sam was not only a well-respected attorney but he was also a close personal friend. He had always been their greatest advocate, encouraging the couple to buy the farm from the moment he saw the place in the country; a piece of paradise, he said. Though his office in Providence was empty at such an early hour of the morning, she called him at home, knowing she would be instantly forgiven for this way-too-early intrusion of reality.

“Sam, I’m afraid I have made a terrible mistake.” Her hushed tone and the fact that she had just dragged him from a deep sleep caused Sam to hesitate a moment as he identified the distant voice.

“Carolyn?” Though she could hear his grogginess, he could hear her panic.

“I believe I have made a grave error in judgment.” She sounded so serious; downright grim. He could hear the tears in the back of her tightening throat.

“Hold on a second.” Coming to attention, Sam sat up in his bed.

Recounting everything which happened the previous night, Carolyn’s voice trembled as she spoke. It terrified her to relive it, if only in words. When she finished this story she moved on, without affording him any time to respond. For the next few minutes she whispered into the receiver, trying not to wake the children overhead. Listening intently, Sam reserved judgment of his own. She told him about the scythe and a flailing coat hanger and doors opening at will. She leered at those nosy flies as she attempted to describe their intrusive existence in her house. Sam Olevson was pure gentleman; a supremely kind, understanding soul. She felt safe sharing these fears and suspicions, without any reservation. She told him about her ordeal: fire in the hole; then spoke of smoke and mirrors, feeling threatened and unwanted, the
feeling
she was not alone. Describing a pervasive cold and repugnant odor often accompanying such perceptions, when she finished, the depleted woman took a deep breath, relaxing into a chair…awaiting his response. For a moment there was silence then a single statement spoken with the utility of an attorney’s own language.

“Sweetheart, sounds to me like you’ve bought yourself a haunted house.”

Carolyn was shocked. In all the time invested thinking about this dilemma, her boggled mind had yet to fuse two simple words together. He was right. It
was
a haunted house.

“You think so?” Her voice was as small as that of her youngest child.

“I do.”

“So, you
do
believe me then.” An element of self-confidence emerged from Carolyn’s voice as she posed the normally probing question as a statement of fact. She trusted the man implicitly, relying upon his objectivity as well as an overdeveloped sense of justice; his more than fair share of common sense.

“Of course I believe you! My house on the East Side is haunted.”

“Really? You’ve never mentioned it before.”

“You learn to live with it. In time, it gets less shocking, more
para
normal.”

“Sam, what should I do about this?”

“Nothing, dear. When in doubt, do nothing. Fear the living…not the dead.”

“My mother used to say that. I never understood what it meant, until now.” Smiling at the distant recollection, she asked, “Can’t you file some kind of a lawsuit against this THING and
make
it leave the premises?”

“Afraid not; these are
spirit
matters. No court in the land will hear our case. On second thought,
maybe
a judge would issue
a Restraining Order!” Sam’s warped sense of humor had apparently awakened with him. Carolyn laughed, having been put oddly at ease; comforted by the conversation. Sam promised to visit that weekend; the news of his pending presence, a welcome relief.

Their privacy was suddenly jolted to an abrupt conclusion by the sound of alarm clocks chiming overhead. It took all of her strength to make it through that day. Carolyn fed her children then sent them off to catch their bus. Then she had to get April settled in before she could rest. By the time she allowed her body to drop onto the sofa it was mid-morning. Pure dread kept her eyes from closing. She did not want April out of her sight. After the incident only hours before, the terror still so fresh it was palpable, her baby had to remain close by and her eyes
had
to remain open. She was afraid of falling asleep. What she most feared was something happening to her daughters. (Too late!) Sam told her not to be afraid but she did not know how to dispel the fear she had not conjured. It was
not
her imagination. Instead, it was a reaction to the phenomenon she had never before encountered and could not comprehend. Though disquieting, fear seemed the natural reaction to these circumstances. When her husband did arrive, she would offer no apology for her emotions or corresponding mood. He could not get there soon enough. Her eyes began to close. Resisting the urge, deliberately rising from the chair fast becoming too comfortable, Carolyn wanted out. She wanted to sell the house.

The school bus arrived on schedule; still no trace of her husband, in spite of assurances made: he’d be coming home that afternoon. Carolyn resented his absence. It was all too much to handle alone. Placing April in the care of her eldest sister, the weary, brooding mother sent her children out to play. Shrill screams of delight announced their father’s presence in the driveway, though their mother remained quite calm, waiting for him in the parlor. When Roger entered the house, surrounded by his flock of little lambs, her eyes, two dark orbs, stared disdainfully in his direction. She did not care if he was tired from a road trip; she was exhausted, having been on a journey of her own, one he could not imagine. She didn’t care about anything except getting some sleep.

“You’re in charge.” It was all Carolyn said while rising from the sofa.

“Well, that’s a very fine how do you do!” His wife did not respond. “Some greeting! What the hell is the matter with you?” Roger became belligerent. She said nothing more, passing him by as she went straight into the bedroom. Closing the door firmly, the man wasn’t welcome to follow. April pulled him down to kid level to whisper in his ear. As an authority on the matter, having spent the day with her mother, she explained to the best of her ability:

“Mommy doesn’t feel good. She’s really tired and in a
really
bad mood.”

Roger wondered what the problem could be but did not pursue the issue. If his wife was not well, best to let her sleep undisturbed. Instead, he got busy in the kitchen preparing dinner and catching up with his girls. Nobody spoke of their mother’s dour mood. Instead, they hovered around their father, each seeking some form of favor. April brought their most recent renovation to his attention. Roger stood directly beneath it, staring into the gaping hole in the corner of the kitchen ceiling. Knowing he must be curious about it, the baby tugged at a daddy’s shirtsleeve again telling him how she had blessed a mess, showing him how she’d made the sign of the cross; backwards, by mistake. Too damn cute to correct, he let it go, all the while wondering about his wife: So, what the hell is the matter? Spirits: They form and substance and matter.

“Mistakes are the portals of discovery.”

James Joyce

 
scorched offerings

“You can discover what your enemy fears most
by observing the means he uses to frighten you.”