House of Darkness House of Light (35 page)

“The
Shore Dinner Hall
is cheap enough. I’ll get you a lobster. What will the
Arcade
cost…maybe ten bucks?” He could be so congenial.

“It’s ten bucks too much and forty miles too far.”

“Come on. We’ll have a great time!” Roger’s prompts did nothing to soften her stance in the least; not in the mood for an amusement park. Not amused.

“Then take the girls…I’ll stay home.” Growing more reclusive by the day, Carolyn had no interest in driving more than an hour for clam cakes destined to sit in her stomach like stones. Her lack of enthusiasm was apparent to the children as well, as their father suggested the outing to them in her presence: subversive, coercive, manipulative man; he
knew
they would convince their reluctant mother to come along, and they did…and they all had a wonderful time, though no one understood how dad would be willing to drive another mile after returning from his long trip. The
Wildcat
was quite the temptation: Best roller coaster in Rhode Island. (The
only
roller coaster in Rhode Island.) Carolyn actually smiled; she laughed again! That night it remained warm and breezy on the coastline. As tempestuous as a relationship had been in recent months, this night Roger and Carolyn shelved their differences then focused exclusively on their kids; what made it such a fondly memorable excursion. The girls heard “
yes
” so often they’d eventually stopped asking for anything, so as not to take unfair advantage of this generosity extended. Pure ocean air knocked everyone out cold. All the girls fell asleep on their long ride home. Their parents traveled in silence, allowing them to rest without interruption. It was welcome respite for all. Peace and quiet replaced sarcastic bickering. A cooling wind swept through open windows. Moonlight guiding the troupe, homeward bound along a lonesome path, country roads as dark as death; life had become a study in extremes. Finally arriving home…out went the Light.

Since Roger’s arrival, the couple had managed to avoid discussed anything pertaining to what transpired in the house in his absence…or what occurred prior to his departure, for that matter. As they drove the front seat of their car became crowded by thoughts with no voice. When they returned to the farm, the light-hearted mood dissipated into stagnant, moist midnight summer air.

“This house smells like death!” Roger’s demeanor changed so abruptly that it left everyone else speechless; bleary-eyed children stunned. As he opened the door, stepping across the threshold, the chilled stench of the house forced him back out onto the porch. It was loathsome; a vile, disgusting odor, as if a ten-day-old carcass was buried and rotting beneath the dwelling.

Both cellar doors were open wide. Pantry doors…open. In their absence, a haunting had occurred. When the cat is away…but their cat was well-hidden, huddled in a dark corner of the parlor behind the sofa. The dog was whining, cowering beneath the dining room table, too terrified to run to her own kids. Before Roger could spoil an otherwise perfect evening, Carolyn sent them to bed. After closing all the errant doors, she rejoined her husband on the porch. Sitting beside him, she began to speak in a somber, sedate tone reflecting the gravity of their situation. He never spoke a single word in response. Instead, he listened; really listened to his wife. She told him what the girls disclosed the night they shared their horror stories; nightmares…he could not imagine. She described Cindy’s abject horror at having been approached by an entity, one with which Carolyn was all too familiar; a spirit hell-bent on taking their daughter away. He had seen the illustration but Cindy never did. Explain it? He could not. Recognizing this apparition from the
dream
she had while her mother was under attack…he just shook his head. Bestowing a kiss; contact had been made, whether or not he knew it at the time. His skin serrated while he was
asleep
…a clock stopping at exactly the time these incidents occurred. There could be no shadow of a doubt left in his mind.

When Carolyn finished recounting mournful tales, Roger leaned forward, propping elbows on his knees, head in hands. Several silent moments passed. The man felt defeated. He was overwhelmed in the same way his spouse had been, time and time again. He stood, walking into the house: No Comment. In the interim, the house had returned to
normal
and, noting the absence of a presence, part of the new paranormal, Roger promptly went to the bedroom. This night, there would be no rest for the weary…for wicked and good alike.

The following morning their bed was moved halfway across the room, then placed at a crooked angle. As the couple slept they were visited again though neither had any recollection of the incident. Roger’s booming voice woke his wife just past six…dawn breaks on Mr. Marblehead.

“Jesus Christ! What the hell is going on here?” Both doors open behind it.

“I told you last night, Roger.” Carolyn rolled over, indicating needed return to sleep. “Hell is happening here.” Her muffled words came from the pillow.

“Get up…help me move it back in place!” Roger was obviously aggravated by his wife’s lack of interest. Her husband was not home frequently enough to realize; this was something the woman dealt with all the time. Carolyn sat up in bed to survey her surroundings from an alternate perspective. Likewise, she was determined to address their situation head on. Still groggy, she spoke softly, in a firm tone, the message direct, so to be properly received.

“Roger, whatever power is present in this house is capable of manipulating objects, even a bed. When will you listen to me? Why move it back in place? What’s the point? This will only happen again…and again.” White flag up.

“This is crazy! Absolute fucking insanity!” He wanted to scream the words he’d whispered instead, remembering that children were sleeping overhead.

“Regardless of your opinion about this,
this
is life as we know it now…and Sam says we can’t do a damn thing about it.” Carolyn felt defeated.

“What does
that
mean?” Less a question…more a command.

“No disclosure laws. Not a legal leg to stand on. We are stuck here; unless we sell it and lie to a prospective buyer who asks why we’re leaving so soon. I don’t know if Mr. Kenyon deliberately withheld it from us or not but I can’t believe he lived here for a lifetime without knowing this house was haunted. Nor do I believe the man would knowingly place this family in harm’s way. I would certainly hope not. Maybe you’re right; maybe he was questioning his own sanity, but birds in the chimney? A little hard to
swallow
! I don’t know what to think about Mr. Kenyon but I do know you don’t think it’s dangerous here and I don’t think you’re right about that. Please, leave me alone now.”

“Cup of coffee?” He rarely requested her companionship. She ignored him.

Closing the demon doors, Roger shoved the bed back to its former position while his wife huddled beneath the blankets. It was well past time for him to come to terms…on his own. He went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Standing alone in the pantry, measuring out the grounds into a basket, he felt the steady, gentle stroke of a woman’s hand across his shoulders then down, along his back; Carolyn had reconsidered joining him for a cup. Of course.

“Changed your mind?” Roger turned to discover he was entirely alone. The hair on his arms rose before the Sun. “Where’d you go?” No reply; she was not there. Peeking into the vacant bathroom, he’d returned to their bedroom where he found his wife sound asleep. There she was; and there it was again: behind his back, as strokes of midnight at dawn. Roger cringed, pulling away from perceived fingertips pressing into his skin. He felt the waves of nausea barrel through his stomach. It was not clam cakes or chowder
or
the
Wildcat
turning inside the shaken soul. Reality was sickening enough.

When Cynthia got up she found her parents hunkered down at the kitchen table, deeply engaged in a private discussion; she had to interrupt. Asking her mother to follow her into the bathroom, the child appeared grim; forlorn. As she closed the door Carolyn became alarmed. A mother recognized the face of fear on her girls, having seen it there before, but this was something else; a different expression, one she instantly associated with grieving a loss.

“Mom. I saw, I don’t know what I saw, last night while Chris was asleep.”

“What is it, honey? Tell me what you saw.”

“Something happened to her. You know how our beds are…I woke up…I don’t know when but it was still dark. The nightlight was on so I could see. I heard something…like the cat was growling. It woke me up. I rolled over. I thought Chrissy was sick or talking in her sleep. Oh, Mom…it was terrible!”

“Sweetheart.” Carolyn was fighting demons of her own, hiding the anger.

“God. It was so terrible.” Cindy wrung her trembling hands. “It was not my sister Christine. The eyes popped open and it stared at me. I couldn’t scream. I tried. Mom. The eyes were black. It wasn’t her eyes! They weren’t human.”

Carolyn listened intently as a frantic child described what she’d witnessed. Chrissy was no longer. Her face: twisted and distorted. Her features; gnarled and mangled. Cindy said it looked like snakes slithering underneath her skin, like something had crawled inside her and was trying to escape. It was not her sister’s face at all. Cindy was terrified by what she saw…what she heard. Growling. Moaning. Pain. As two hollow, vacant orbs peered in her direction she’d covered her head then prayed, begging God to make it go away. It did. She cried herself to sleep, too afraid to lower the blanket, to look at the bed beside her own; too terrified to check on her sister’s condition. Instead, she’d crept as deeply beneath the blankets as she could, making certain nothing of her was exposed beyond its border: an act of self-preservation. There she fell asleep. When she awoke, Cindy saw the edges of their blankets were singed; scorched all around: Burnt offerings. She could see a lump in Christine’s bed but did not peek beneath the torched blanket. Carolyn opened the door.

“Roger. Go upstairs. Check on Chrissy. Go now.” Responding to an urgent tone in her voice, the equally alarmed father bolted for the nearest staircase.

Returning to Cindy, Carolyn bathed her flushed and tear-streaked face with a warm washcloth. Getting her breathing under control, the child had come close to hyperventilating. A knock on the door was Nancy, just about ready to bust. Carolyn relinquished the bathroom, taking Cindy into the kitchen. A few minutes later Roger returned with Christine in tow. Relieved to see her, Cindy ran over for a hug. Chris appeared exhausted; older, as if she had aged a decade overnight. Carolyn studied her face; the youngster was puzzled by the shower of attention. It didn’t make sense. She was interested in pursuing the hot pot of oatmeal prepared and waiting for them on the stove.

“What’s going on here?” Roger was rightfully confused.

“I’ll tell you later.” Accepting this dismissal as necessary, what mattered at the moment was a hoard of hungry kids gathering in the kitchen. The family of seven had breakfast together, talking excitedly about their great outing by the seashore. As the warm summer breeze filtered through their screen doors, the fresh scents of sweet air (compared to what they’d walked into the night before), Carolyn wondered silently if what occurred since their arrival home the previous night had been some kind of retribution for having left the house en masse: punishment. Cindy sat quietly as Carolyn slipped off to inspect the bedrooms. Their blankets were burned as she had described; all five were the same, like a ring of fire surrounding each one of her children. Carolyn could barely breathe; touching the scorched edges of each blanket, she shuddered. The burn marks were identical, as if someone had taken a blow torch to satin binding. Yet another incendiary threat: torch and spark, rekindling her anger, enflaming a passionate hatred…reigniting a mother’s fear of fire.

After breakfast the family went for a walk down by the river. The children ran on ahead as Carolyn informed Roger about what happened. He suggested it may have been a nightmare. She told him about the blankets. He suddenly stopped walking…dead in his tracks: Frozen in time on the knoll of a hill.

“Roger. Are you among the living? Roger! Didn’t you see the edges of the blankets when you went to get Christine?”

“I wasn’t looking at her blanket. I was looking for the kid underneath it!”

“Are you completely oblivious to what is happening here? Don’t you
dare
try to tell me this isn’t dangerous! Wait until you see it; all five are scorched! All of their electric blankets are burned and not one of them was plugged in. I checked. No power surge. There is no
logical
explanation for it. Don’t you see? This is a threat to me! That bitch is playing with fire; trying to scare me to death!” As desperation dissolved into anger, he listened to his wife but he did not comprehend the fullest implications, as if a slab of granite kept this message from penetrating his thick skull. This time it was different; this time he felt it in his gut. It was a power surge of sorts. Roger felt overpowered.

“I was touched by something…or someone…on the shoulder and down my back. I thought it was you.” Contact: taken by force.

“What are we going to do?” Carolyn actually sought her husband’s advice.

“I don’t know.” His perplexed gaze found hers. It had been awhile since an at-odds couple felt like-minded, unified by a protective purpose: an intention. Roger had told her the truth. He did not know what to do…or what to think.

***

The days grew long and warm that summer. Hot. By August everyone was wrung out, wilting in the relentless heat. The house remained relatively cool; a place to escape the worst of it: Ironic. Carolyn felt certain dread of another winter, promising more of the same punishing cold. A Georgia girl preferred sweat to sweaters and spent her days with her children at the river’s edge.

The couple discussed listing the house in an attempt to sell it during a year when property values were dropping by the month. They spoke with Sam. He suggested they wait to see when the market rebounds which was inevitable; it was only a matter of time. Ambivalent, Carolyn wondered what time spent in this house would hold; the constant anticipation of impending threat haunting her more than the looming winter. Breaking even didn’t matter anymore.