House of Darkness House of Light (41 page)

Moments past sunset, lingering colors of daylight created a backdrop for an awful event. Wildfire: lapping at chimney walls like the flaming tongue of a trapped dragon, captive; fighting for release. A potential for disaster was real. Fire flailed through every orifice of a solid metal topper which was supposed to prevent such occurrences. Roger’s lapse in judgment could have resulted in dire consequences for a family; his nearly tragic mistake was in neglecting to call a chimney sweep, logic based on time in service. It had not been long since the fireplace had last been in relatively constant use; not enough time having lapsed for the edifice to require such tending. He was wrong.

A thick smoke drew a gathering of neighbors from near and far, like Indian signals summoning the tribe together. Everyone watched as the fire raged on; curious onlookers were at once mesmerized and terrified, as was the family whose home was in jeopardy. By the time the trucks arrived from the village, it had nearly burned itself out. The chief said: “Let it burn.” He’d said water would only damage the stone and the house. Though he didn’t chastise Roger for this oversight, a gentleman farmer’s agreement, he did mention how
very lucky
they were. The house had been in serious danger; an emergency posed by the sheer fact that it was a two hundred and fifty year old tinderbox.

***

That incident was not the only time their house was in jeopardy. Roger and Carolyn asked two friends of the family, a married couple, to come stay for a few days while they traveled to New York City, there to market their wares at a trade show. Though they did not mention anything to Lois and Joe about unusual
activity
in their house, not wanting to scare away these prospective babysitters, they were each spooked by this place in the country, nonetheless. However, nothing supernatural occurred over the course of a weeklong stay, unless of course one considers a miracle to be a paranormal event. There was only one anomaly…frightening enough to qualify as spiritually significant.

Joe was a city boy. He did not know much about building a fire but decided to set flames aglow in spite of his ignorance on the subject. He’d stacked the fireplace with several huge logs, placing them on top of an enormous pile of dried kindling. Ignition was virtually instantaneous. The blaze raged almost out-of-control, creating a white heat, far too intense to approach. Everyone remained silent. The snapping of crackling wood, a high-pitched hissing was an alarm: Danger. Andrea monitored from a safe distance in the dining room. She waited for more than an hour, watching it burn itself out, ever mindful of where her sisters were inside the house, an evacuation plan rumbling around in her mind, by necessity. When the wood finally simmered down, a palpable sense of panic at last subsided, replaced with relief. Fear and trepidation had been running rampant through the vulnerable old farmhouse. These children remembered well the terrible threat of watching a chimney fire burn.

Hours passed. Long after the flames were extinguished, the house began to quickly fill with dark, acrid smoke. Lois and Joe were mortified. He raced to the telephone. She ushered all the girls out their kitchen door. It had become bitterly frigid outside, below freezing; she’d sent them to wait inside the car. Sirens blared in the distance. All the girls fixed a frozen gaze on their house, observing through foggy glass steamed over with anxiety, as two fire trucks flew down the driveway, into their yard. They clung together, huddled in the car as each spoke of wishing mom and dad would come home…immediately. It was a frantic scene; firemen running in and out, smoke billowing through it as open doors and windows vented voluminous waves of smoke a brisk wind carried into the sky. When this crisis finally passed everyone involved with the rescue remarked about the great good fortune of salvaging the farmhouse. According to those in the know, regarding the true force of fire, it had been a miracle. As so much wind rushed through a structure from so many different directions, the fire chief was stymied that the flow had not actually caused its ruinous demise by fanning a few sparks into flames. He stated rather bluntly: “This house should have burned to the ground.” The man shook his head.

Within minutes the source of the problem was located; threat extinguished. Apparently the earlier fire had become so hot, it fractured a stone beneath the grate, allowing ashes and embers to slip through a crack, igniting an exposed timber beneath it; an ancient beam smoldering in the cellar. It glowed; a red, ominous hue. When firemen finally reached it they knew the slightest breeze would have set it ablaze, erupting into a disaster: spontaneous combustion.

Those who came to help doused it just in time. Roger returned to discover the damage and had no choice but to replace the heavily compromised beam as well as the cracked stone inside the fireplace. There was nobody to blame. Everyone concerned considered this incident a blessing in disguise. The base of their fireplace was as old as the house and it was susceptible to cracking at any time. Had it happened during the night or while their family was outside, away from the house, perhaps off enjoying another winter sledding session, there would have been no way to salvage the house. The elemental power of fire is as frightening as it is comforting…both a blessing and a curse.

***

Andrea was home alone, working on a school project. All of her papers and materials were sprawled across their dining room table. She was about fifteen at the time. The rest of her family was off on a festive excursion, a trip to the local bakery down in the village; a favorite haunt. Far too devoted a student, she preferred the quiet (a rarity in such a crowded household) to a doughnut, especially since something special was bound to later come her way. While hovering over a muddled mass of notes begging to be organized, she detected an odd scent in the air. At first Andrea thought she might be about to receive a visitor as the air would often become damp and acrid just prior to a spectral show, something she’d accepted long before.
That
she was prepared for…

But it was not that type of odor. In fact, it was something more threatening. The metallic smell triggered her internal alarms. She knew it was something serious. The house began filling with a gauze-white smoke. She yanked open the windows in the room then ran into the kitchen. As she’d passed the cellar door, it was obvious from billowing smoke squeezing itself through cracks in the wood: the cellar hole was at its source. It was the most frightened she had ever been in her life. Seizing the telephone, placing the receiver to her ear as she dialed, Andrea was petrified to discover there was no dial tone present. Their phone line was dead. Dread instantly transformed into a panic-stricken attack. The telephone was not working and there was fire in the hole.

Plowing out the door, the youngster ran as hard as she’d ever run; knowing time was of the essence. It was critical she get to someone fast, someone with a phone. The house was secluded and the neighborhood was so in name only. At that time, there were a few neighbors particularly close by. Running to the closest house, nobody was there. God! She moved on, heart pounding out of her chest. Tears began pouring as she realized how far away the next house was; and what if no one was there? As she cried it became harder to breathe, harder to see. The aroma of rotting leaves was all she could detect in autumn. The earth was wet beneath her feet; she slid and fell on slick leaves. Moving into the middle of the road, Andrea focused all of her attention on the double yellow line, unable to bear thinking about what might be happening to their house. There was very little traffic on Round Top Road during those days; it was safe enough to race head down, for speed. She finally found her way to Mrs. Dublin’s door. Collapsing in a distant neighbor’s open arms, trembling and exhausted, she begged for help. Barely able to breathe, let alone speak, the woman placed the distraught child into a chair; a sip of cold water cleared her throat. She uttered only one word: Fire! Instantly on the telephone, Mrs. Dublin summoned assistance. She and her husband dashed to their car with the terrified teenager in tow. It required far less time to drive the mile than it had taken to sprint the same distance. Sirens were not far behind them.

The farmhouse was filled with white-to-yellow smoke. Mr. Dublin insisted the ladies remain outside while he went inside the perilous structure. Having identified the problem before the firemen arrived; he took them directly into the cellar, where he’d discovered the boiler had run dry. It took hours for the house to clear once the boiler was shut down. The fire chief shook his head, knowing how close this family had come to losing their house…again. Three times over three years. A pattern was emerging. It seemed the element of fire and this particular home were inextricably linked.

The rest of her family pulled into the driveway directly behind the red fire engine. One can only imagine how they must have reacted to the sight. Roger leapt from their car then ran to his eldest daughter, anxious to know what had occurred and if she was all right. Her brief explanation of events sent him in search of the fire chief, who had returned to the cellar. Roger caught up with him and saw for himself how close they had come to complete destruction of their property. It was chilling. The telephone wires were literally fused to the beam overhead, bonding together with the other electrical wires nearby. The intense heat emanating from a broken boiler system melted every wire in its wake, rendering useless the telephone in a house gone entirely dark, due to a piece of malfunctioning equipment on the verge of exploding. Roger stood paralyzed, staring at the scene; a potential disaster mercifully circumvented.

Though the crisis was averted, fallout was extensive; serious damage done. Roger would soon have his hands filled with bills though he didn’t complain. There was nobody to blame. Roger knew how this could have gone, how the inflammatory scenario might have played out without the intervention of his daughter and their newest family friends. With sincerest thanks extended, the couple sent the neighbors home. Andrea remained in the back seat of the car, trying to regain her composure. Cynthia sidled up beside her, wiping tears from her biggest sister’s eyes; she saw how upsetting the ordeal had been and offered to help with the distraction of a sweet treat, a kind gesture of support. Cindy placed her jelly doughnut in Andrea’s hands, the damp napkin first.

“Here, Annie. I got the
best
one in the case! You can have it. It’ll make you feel better. Daddy said you should be proud! He said
you
saved our house!” Ah, comfort food…the beginning of a dangerous trend. Andrea took a deep breath, accepting the tasty morsel, a special gift from an even sweeter sister. They shared the doughnut, though Andrea’s portion did not have far to travel to reach its intended destination, as her stomach was still in her throat.

“Is it eradicating evil? Or are we like children, left alone in the house at night, who light candle after candle to keep away the darkness.

We don’t see that the darkness has a purpose – though we may not understand it – and so, in our terror, we end up burning down the house!”

Margaret Weis

 
feet to the fire

“A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.”

Robert Herrick

Carolyn stood too close to the flames. It seemed as if she was begging for a disaster or perhaps secretly wishing the pink fuzzy slippers dead. Sometimes the smell of singed polyester, mixed with the distinct odor of melting rubber, would indicate a potential problem. In spite of the repeated warnings from a concerned family she would tempt fate unconsciously, coming within inches of white-hot embers. Had she been barefoot, it would have blistered delicate skin. Instead, fire shriveled the protective slippers, crinkling the only barrier between her toes and a blatant health hazard. On a few different occasions it posed a real danger. Her children wondered if she could feel the heat at all. It was obvious their mother was otherwise preoccupied; lost in thought of word or deed whenever these frighteningly close encounters occurred. Unaware of her surroundings, there was a vacancy in her stare, startled as someone pulled her away from the flames. In no way deliberate on her part, not a death wish, whenever it happened she was distant; not fully present. It happened several times…too close to the flames…too far away to notice.

How could it be, Carolyn had no sense of danger; no sensation at all while standing on the hearthstone, on the verge of combustion? What was it about a fireplace which produced this ethereal affect, soliciting then deflecting her attention away from what she should have been watching most attentively? There were times when she kept a safe distance, enjoying its glowing warmth along with the rest of her family. Then there were times when she’d virtually covet the flames, hovering above them; moments when she would claim to be cold to the bone; cold as death. Huddling up, feet to the fire, she could not get warm, no matter how close she’d draw her shivering torso to the inferno. Carolyn was not accountable for this behavior; she was a vehicle for it.

The fire was a life force, sending cryptic messages from within its flames. It smoked and spoke by hissing out its own language, never the same twice. Numerous manifestations occurred on the slab of cold granite beside a metal grate, logs lapped at by flames licking its lips to escape. The hearthstone was a magnet: a special place, the specific portal where dimensions intermingled. Over the years in the house it proved to be the point of passage. Apparitions made an entrance there and its blue light bent the established laws of physics: visions and visitations…a point of grand entrance for the stars of the show.

The mistress of the house was tired and overwrought one night. It had been long, hard labor cutting wood all afternoon. Everyone was tired. Most of the family was in the parlor as Carolyn entered, fresh from the steaming shower. Emerging from her bedroom, she passed by her husband, feet dangling from the loveseat; her deliberately antagonistic gesture startling the dozing soul, a single swat from the belt of her robe. “It’s your turn.” Crossing directly to the fireplace, she dried her hair beside an open flame. After a few minutes, while leaning forward to rewrap her flowing locks in the towel, she suddenly lost consciousness and crumbled to the floor, landing in a pile on the hearthstone. The sound of impact was so alarming, the sleepy man sprung from his prone position before anyone else had a chance to react. He leapt over his children like a terrified gazelle evading a pursuer, running for its life on the Serengeti Plain. A stunning achievement: instantaneous, heroic rescue as an act of love. Carolyn’s feet were on fire.