House of Darkness House of Light (44 page)

Fran called early in the evening, anxious to make sure she had written the number down correctly in all their confusion and haste. She was lonely, too. The women spent an hour or more on the line. Thus began a friendship with Fran Sederback; one which would last the duration of her lifetime.

During their initial visits, Carolyn chose not to disclose anything about the “trouble” in her home, afraid to scare her away. Fran was a history buff. She fell madly in love with their old farmhouse. Carolyn was equally enamored with Fran’s house, a magnificent Federal style built in the 1770’s, as large as her own. It too was constructed on a splendid piece of property, about five acres, adjacent to the Smith and Sayles Reservoir on Chestnut Hill Road, just beyond the village of Chepachet. The two women began exploring what they had in common; neither of them especially anxious to discuss the one thing they each secretly feared might chase the other to a land far, far away.

One warm summer morning Carolyn loaded her brood into the car headed for Chepachet. Fran had big plans for their day. The women would tote eight children to the flea market in Foster. It was an out-of-doors outing, open only on weekends, (weather permitting); about twenty-five booths set up to please anyone interested in anything old. There they discovered one treasure after another, none of which they were able to afford, of course, but it was most certainly enjoyable to peruse: vintage clothing, antique glassware, tools that had been well used hundreds of years before. It was a fascinating trip back in time. Fran’s three children were as well-behaved as five girls, so two mothers were free from worry as all their young ones scattered throughout the market, according to interests. Christine gravitated to anything in miniature and was found admiring hand-carved doll house furniture and tiny tea sets. Michael, Fran’s eldest, was located within a vast array of fine china and collectibles. All in agreement: a balmy summer Saturday is a wonderful thing to waste.

Returning to her home, Fran began to brew a pot of chamomile tea as their children played together outside, all but Andrea, who was instantly drawn to Fran’s lovely antique piano, located on an inside wall of the parlor beside an open window. From where she was sitting on its bench Annie could see Fran standing at her kitchen sink. Leaning over, she asked permission to play the ancient and elegant instrument. Permission granted.

“Help yourself! No one ever plays it…that poor old thing must be lonely!” Fran’s kindhearted words were a premonition of sorts, as
someone
warmly welcomed the youngster’s nimble fingers to its yellowed ivory keys.

While the women shared a hot spot of tea at the kitchen table Andrea began sight-reading from the fragile sheet music adorning the instrument, displayed before her eyes. “Simple Gifts” a traditional Shaker hymn. Approaching the end of the page, it turned by itself. Andrea stopped playing, a bit startled by the odd timing of the event, though she assumed the breeze from the nearby window must have been her unwitting assistant. Finishing the piece, Andrea went back to the beginning, a creature of habit. One thing she’d learned over years of music classes: repetition was her friend but apparently not her only friend. Practice
does
make perfect. When she again arrived at the end of the page, it turned. The tune abruptly ended. Andrea’s fingers froze on the keys.

“Excuse me, Fran? Do you have a ghost?” A question: to the point, as blunt force trauma; the kitchen suddenly became as silent as a piano. Andrea rose from the bench, joining muted mothers at the table. Fran finally responded.

“Why do you ask?” Some trepidation detected in her quiet voice, Fran had no idea how familiar her guests were with such anomalies. Andrea explained what happened…twice. Fran went into the parlor. Sheet music left open had been folded shut, neatly placed at the center of its upright stand. Proof!

“You
do
have a ghost! We do, too…more than one. We even have a spirit who
plays
our piano!” Andrea was entirely forthcoming…nothing to hide.

Newsflash:
Fran looked at Carolyn, who then nodded knowingly. A shared glance opened a whole new chapter of friendship as a mutual secret kept was instantly revealed; a subject on which to dwell and often commiserate during difficult ordeals: stories to relate, images to describe over tea. Fran returned to the kitchen; conversation began in earnest. Andrea had a tune stuck in her head, one she wanted to master. Remaining at the piano, she sat down beside a harmless, helpful new friend, someone who obviously appreciated hearing the beloved instrument played once again.

There was one particularly emotional story to tell. Carolyn found herself on the verge of tears as she told Fran about a wicked woman and her evil ways, recounting the life-altering events she had endured. Fran was astonished. She tried to comfort the tortured soul sitting across from her at the table; reaching out to someone she cared for but could not help in any way, except to listen. Her own situation was benign by comparison; the spirit in Fran’s house was rather innocuous, appearing occasionally, no hint of malfeasance attached to her persona. She too had a woman wandering the halls of her house yet she never challenged Fran’s status as mistress of the house. Instead, her behavior was consistently kind, seemingly grateful there was a caretaker in her home, one who loved the place as much as she had in life. Though Fran was unable to determine who this was, she identified her as a former occupant, perhaps the original mistress of the house, based in part on the clothing she had worn; 18
th
Century garb, always the same simple dress with wide, worn pockets.

Later in the afternoon, believing Carolyn could use the fresh air their walk would provide, Fran invited her to come along as she fed the birds. Andrea went as well, satisfied with her progress on the piano. Following Fran deep into the woods, after a brief pit stop at the back of the house where she filled her pockets with seed, both of her guests became mesmerized; inspired by the sight of something holy. The diminutive woman walked quietly into thick woods, silently motioning for her guests to lag behind. Wading through the thicket grown up beneath towering oaks, she stood in the center of a natural clearing, filling both palms with bird seed. Slowly raising her arms up to the heavens, they came…descending from branches above. A symphony of bird song erupted, filling mild air with nature’s sweetest sounds, graciously and gratefully welcoming her into their home. Swooping down from their limbs overhead dozens of birds landed upon her outstretched arms waiting to be fed by hand, as gentle with her as she was with them. When her palms emptied, they hovered as if trained to do so, anticipating a refill they’d clearly come to expect; Fran kindly obliged. The birds, waiting patiently, perched upon her shoulders or head, anxious but polite, each ready for its fair share of the daily feast: holy to behold…a miraculous sight. The few precious moments spoke to Carolyn in heart. She’d been blessed to find this special soul, someone she could trust and confide in; someone close to God. Theirs was spiritual union, precisely what Carolyn required; so to restore her faith in humankind. Fran’s daily ritual was as intimate as a prayer, as lovely a sight as Carolyn had ever seen in her lifetime. Her friend was truly an ethereal creature, in touch with Nature, in concert with the Universe: a poet. Fran had much to teach and in those moments, Carolyn saw she had much to learn from this extraordinary woman. They would have years together; each free to explore the recesses of the other’s heart and mind; destined to become the dearest of friends.

Andrea watched in awe, silently observing a process, wondering how this kind of trust was born. She too had an affinity for birds, an innate ability to communicate with the delicate creatures, though she could not even imagine being able to entice them in such a manner. At the time, she felt the slightest twinge of envy seep into her thoughts, instantly dismissing it as shamefully inappropriate. As the birds gracefully ascended through dappled sunlight, she marveled at the variety of colors exposed beneath their extended wings. Like the spirits, the color is there all the time; one simply needs to know where to look and how to look up. Otherwise, their magic remains invisible to mortal eyes. Sated, returning to their nests, a child hoped someday to possess a spirit Light enough to attract birds from the heavens above.

It was a joyful day. Friends parted wishing it was dawn instead of dusk. In time there were many visits between the homes and several dumpsites to dig. Fran came into Carolyn’s life as an act of God; as Divine Providence County residents who first met in an olde country store: Perfect. Neither could afford the six dollar medicine bottle: Typical. Both husbands, virtually in absentia: Irrelevant. So much in common; so little time. No doubt; Fran Sederback was the good witchy woman, in touch with The Mother…Nature. Her presence in Carolyn’s life was indeed a Godsend; her saving grace. If not for Fran, her friend would not have made it through what was yet to come. Together they scoured the archives. In the village of Chepachet, they soon discovered the identity of Carolyn’s arch rival and nemesis; one evil mistress of the house. Bathsheba Sherman. Based on what they learned of her life, she became the principle suspect in death; the likely culprit: The bad witch.

Power is power. It is how this is utilized, what is done with it which counts. What emotion and intention human beings possess is energy expended in an infinite variety of ways. Free will determines choices which shape a destiny; whether or not of divine design the future unfolds through the consciousness: (I am, therefore I think.) If mortals choose to use this power wisely, for good works and acts of kindness it leaves a mark; permanent imprints on a world which could use all the love it can get. Instead, when a dark heart exists, any soul void of good intentions, this too leaves a mark; a permanent scar. We make decisions in every moment of life. Internal conflict is often resolved in conscience, though most people struggle at one time or another with simply doing the right thing in a given situation. Those without conscience; void of Light, both mortal and immortal, are the scariest souls of all.

If what they discovered was correct, if the accusation was true, Bathsheba Sherman had no conscience. If the whispers were accurate she was the devil incarnate; a criminal who got off the hook. According to the town historian, her inquest was infamous, drawing hoards of interested spectators from many miles away. It stands to reason that the courts worked diligently to separate fact from fiction; such a young woman with her whole life ahead of her, with much to lose; there was a lot at stake and there were those who thought she should be burned at the stake, those at the time who proclaimed her a witch, accused of performing a satanic ritual, resulting in the sacrifice of an infant. It was all too gruesome; the mind-bending description of a baby convulsing then dying due to a needle impaled in its scull. They could find nothing in the records fixing the location of what she would plead was an accidental death but Bathsheba was an Arnold and she’d lived on the Arnold Estate at that age so there was every indication to believe the event occurred in Carolyn’s own home. There would come several psychics who assured her of this over time. In the interim, these ladies could only speculate, in much the same way town folk had done so many years before. The mid 1800’s seemed so long ago and far away, yet if indeed the woman had returned to claim what she perceived to be her rightful place as mistress of the house, Carolyn could do little else than jockey for position or relinquish it altogether. Her choices set in stone: Stay and fight or flee the scene of an alleged crime.

Who was this spirit appearing in the night? What motivation possessed her; for what ungodly purpose or reason does she manifest in form and threaten? What was her intention toward Carolyn and the rest of her family? Questions without answers became a burden on her consciousness while attempting to comprehend why some souls defy the Universal rule of law: Physics. Perhaps they adhere to established laws mortals have yet to recognize and interpret. Why do some return when most move on? Time does not always tell or heal.

Bathsheba either escaped the mortal rule of law in a courtroom or she was quite rightfully acquitted. If she was the one who came to haunt and taunt the occupants of the old Arnold Estate, she was capable of bending cosmic laws at will. Her presence, and that of the others, defied everything – from gravity to time and space – as mortals grasp the concepts. Perhaps the time had come to broaden narrow-minded precepts, to determine what forces were at play or how to circumvent their power. Two heads are better than one.

Fran did her utmost to become a resource of support, to offer guidance and encouragement to her friend. Pure of heart, this esoteric being was as close as Carolyn would ever come to an angel in the flesh. Her advice was invaluable; distraction she provided was welcome respite for this troubled woman who could only escape her circumstances when lost within the Earth…up to her elbows in dirt. So that is what the ladies did for fun: intense, focused efforts to detect and exhume lost treasures from shallow gravesites. Plowing through mounds, discovering relics buried beneath the surface so many years before, Carolyn and Fran salvaged rare and valuable fragments of history, someone’s trash, assembling quite a collection of perfectly preserved glassware from centuries gone by. The tiring drudgery of the task at hand kept Carolyn from losing her mind. Fran was like a potent antidote, the remedy to counteract the effects of poison, as if God said: “Here, dear…this’ll cure what ails ya.” Fran was living proof that good triumphs over evil, as Bathsheba never once dared to rear her ugly head in the woman’s holy presence. Fran’s power was great: pure white Light, casting no shadows, disallowing of the darkness. Whoever or whatever she was, the wicked woman kept her evil ways at some distance for a time, incapable of penetrating the veritable fortress of love surrounding Carolyn. In the perpetual battle between good and evil, Fran Sederback was a formidable opponent, a queen of passive resistance. As a mighty force to be reckoned with, her purity was so intimidating, Bathsheba never attempted to infiltrate it. Friendship is a blessed gift of human Nature. Fran was evidence of a higher power, proof of the existence of God, destined to become one of the angels she emulated on Earth…as an everlasting Light in the firmament.