House of Darkness House of Light (46 page)

Carolyn rolled over the side of the waterbed. After a few minutes of feeling shaky and unstable, she regained her equilibrium then joined her eldest child in search of the culprit. Overcome with a sense of dread, she’d immediately suspected the event was of supernatural origin for several reasons. No mortal being could have generated that kind of power, nor its subsequent sounds. A preponderance of evidence lacking, there was no sign of any damage done to the structure; neither door. Inspecting the façade of the house the following morning, Carolyn found no indication anything had struck the surface of the clapboard. Based on the volume of sound it created, whatever made contact with the farmhouse would have surely left a mark…as it had on a family.

It was what happened to her body during this episode which solidified her belief in it as supernatural in Nature. There was no one at the door that night, certainly no one visible. As Cindy later described it, her mom had been put in the bubble; the type of force field with which they were all familiar had kept her from responding to a threat…and it was a threat. Carolyn believed it was an intentional act to immobilize and terrify her; to instill fear and render her helpless, unable to protect the girls. She was its target. Message received.

Carolyn did not sleep that night. Instead, she wandered the house, guarding her young, watching through windowpanes, a view increasingly obscured by low, dense fog enveloping the valley. Every light in their farmhouse was on. Finally she settled into the rocking chair, there to keep a constant vigil with a .22 as her companion, draped across her lap, just in case her initial conjecture was erroneous. There she sat, hour after hour, thinking about a tacit threat of invasion, considering it quite impossible to defend against something unseen. What choice did she have but to lay in wait? No keys, no locks, three knocks at the door and no husband at home to answer the call. It grated at her frayed nerves; ate away the lining of her stomach as she rocked, not to sleep, only to stay awake. A force to be reckoned with; so who is the boss in this house?

Carolyn felt decidedly out of control. Fighting sheer exhaustion, she began wondering what on Earth (or beyond) was powerful enough to cause a house to tremble from rafters to foundation; thought about the tale Mr. Kenyon told of two men who had crawled beneath the floorboards of a nearby blacksmith shop for shelter only to meet their bitterly cold end in the midst of a blizzard. Were they afraid? Could they see an old farmhouse off the road? Were these poor souls out there again, seeking sanctuary? Three deafening blows against a door in the dead of night…a shotgun in her hands…what a way to live.

***

Three times: This happened three times over the course of nearly a decade. The next episode was far more dramatic in nature, because Roger was home. He arrived late for dinner, having been detained by the various obstacles so often associated with a blanket of fresh fallen snow. Seated at the head of the table, dining alone, Roger voraciously devoured the contents of a platter, still hot from an oven where it laid in waiting while the family nervously awaited his long overdue arrival. He watched as the children, gathered together near the fireplace, became involved in a heated game of cards. Enjoying the scene playing out before his road-weary eyes, Roger was finally able to relax. He did not expect to be literally knocked from his chair by three extremely loud, heavy blows against the front door; invasion of a space he called home. As a flying chair was literally pulled out from beneath him, Roger leapt from his seat simultaneously, flying to the door. Alarm, anger and adrenaline: mighty forces converged to provide him super human strength and speed as he flung open the heavy door and raced out onto the porch. The strings of their piano were still buzzing; humming from the syncopated series of powerful strikes, causing the entire house to vibrate.

It was a disturbing sound; violent and threatening; the rage to rival Roger’s own. The girls huddled near their mother as the protective father ran outside, surveying the property then rushed in through the front door, into the parlor. Jennifer was hysterical. So was her son, Pooh Bear…twice her size and twice as loud. Their dogs had no concept of “inside” voices; they were distressed, expressing alarm at the highest pitch and volume possible. Roger had to yell out in order to be heard over them: “Get my gun!”

“Why bother? There’s nobody out there.” Carolyn snapped the words like a wet towel against his ruddy cheeks. Leering at the woman as he galloped past her, making his way to the bedroom, he returned a few seconds later with his handgun then was instantly out the door. No one could recall ever seeing him move with such velocity. He was scared. He knew the truth. Roger knew in his gut where he’d viscerally
felt
three tremulous reverberations of perfectly timed blows; NO mortal could have made that kind of impact. He knew his chair had become an identified flying object and his speed out onto the porch precluded an escape by any human being; none quick enough to evade notice or capture. He knew Carolyn was right…and had been all along.

Searching their property thoroughly, a flashlight in one hand and a weapon in the other, Roger returned to his cold plate of food. There he sat, quiet and contemplative, as he finished his dinner. There was a vacant stare in his eyes, an odd expression on his face. No need to ask questions. The family knew. It was time for bed. Each child approached then kissed her father goodnight, grateful for his efforts on their behalf; grateful for his protection. They could sleep peacefully knowing he was home. Carolyn was in an unyielding frame of mind, grateful only because her husband finally heard what she’d tried to describe to him once before, something he’d dismissed as a falling limb or a barn owl striking the side of the house; as natural as the wind. Now he
knew
; his sternum still vibrating with the supernatural aftershock.

Their house remained quiet; Roger settled into his favorite chair to read the newspaper. Carolyn huddled near the fireplace with a book. He never said a word. For more than an hour only the sound of turning pages passed between them. Flipping then folding the paper in half loudly enough to capture her attention, he abandoned the sports section to address what was really on his mind. Roger had a tendency to hide behind the paper when he did not want to be disturbed: too late; he was disturbed. Emerging from crumpled newsprint, Carolyn looked up from the book.

“Do you suppose it might be those two men who froze to death underneath the blacksmith shop?” Carolyn could not believe her ears. He actually asked her opinion, literally suggesting a
supernatural
explanation! Shrugging her shoulders, a muted response, she considered his question, albeit speculative, a bold admission; an insightful and erudite sign of progress made. Roger then retreated, tucking himself behind the sports page again; untouchable. There he remained for the duration with no further mention of the event. It was the first time and the last time he ever discussed it; as close to a conversation as they would come on this subject. Still, Carolyn listened, absorbing his words into her mind as manna from heaven, intuiting some sense of him attempting to tell her she was right without actually breaking down and admitting same. She was as warmed by vindication as she was by that fire raging at her back. It was a long time coming; quite a wait for an appropriate acknowledgement of circumstances beyond mortal control. Carolyn had always been the one to introduce the concept, to initiate a necessary communication regarding spirit matters in their house. Roger had always been the one to dismiss anything his wife had to say, as if her intellect, her sensory perceptions were either faulty or irrelevant. With a single sentence he had effectively reversed that trend. It revealed a subtle shift in his thought process and qualified as a breakthrough. Validated by his willingness to accept her initial assessment of this intrusion, satisfied with the outcome, Carolyn left her husband alone to reflect upon the realization she had experienced well before he ever considered opening his eyes to behold the new paranormal: Reality.

Another incident of supernatural origin; the triple knocking, presumably at the door, would occur one more time during the family’s tenure at their farm; the next proved far more traumatic. Everyone was present in the house; time to rock ‘n roll: a pounding, shaking, trembling incident is detailed along with another phenomenon occurring simultaneously; one of the most horrifying, significant encounters they would experience together. Suffice to say, it was not bats or a barn owl or falling limb or even swallows in the chimney. It was not the wind…but they would all be blown away.

Mrs. Warren later described these specific incidents as
demonic
in nature, explaining this particular phenomenon has a history. It is often referred to as “
Mocking the Trinity
”; in her opinion as the devil’s footwork. Once Carolyn told the Warrens about these and many other occurrences, the scenarios were repeatedly mentioned, details revealed during seminars and public speaking engagements, sparking the nefarious interests of those attending; those with dark hearts and warped minds. The information disseminated and subsequent knowledge gained resulted in an unimaginable consequence for their family, as it was eventually used against them in the most hideous conceivable way.

Fear the living…not the dead.

“Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you

will find; knock and it will be opened to you.”

Matthew 7: 7

 
blown away

“We rarely forget that which has made a deep impression on our minds.”

Tryon Edwards

A Nor’easter is to be respected; a formidable force of Nature. New England is often the prime target of coastal storms, jutting out just far enough to bear the brunt of whatever barrels up the Eastern seaboard; land and sea monsters. When one is forecast it is best to prepare for the worst and then quite literally batten down the hatches. It was spring, officially, and it had been for several weeks, but one would never know it, stepping out into a bleak landscape and wild elements. Savage wind gusts had already begun doing damage; only the beginning. The calm before had passed; an impending storm looming on the horizon. The sturdy farmhouse weathered many a harsh gale during its time, including the most infamous of all; Hurricane of 1938. Cindy felt safe in the house but was worried about their horses, hoping her mother would get home soon enough to help her barn them. They were in the corral and needed to be put up in their stalls, secured as soon as possible. The rain had not yet arrived but it would soon begin whipping at them like some maniacal rider anxious for an increase in speed. Both boys were already nervously pacing, especially Pineridge. He was naturally skittish, hyperactive at best. Royal was infinitely more patient; more demure than his companion though he too was starting a protest, frantically prancing to and fro along the fence line of the corral. This threatening storm was practically on their doorstep. Gazing outside through kitchen windows, Cindy paced as nervously as her four-legged friends. Soon they would become too frenetic, too hard to handle alone. She needed help. It was obvious; a threat issued by the sky. She didn’t have much longer to wait.

Roger was away; again. Carolyn had gone to town to stock up on groceries. Chrissy and April went with her to expedite the process. Nancy was at home, upstairs in her bedroom, sequestered in a reclusive huddle over her desk, in a valiant attempt to finish an overdue term paper. Ignoring Cynthia’s pleas for assistance, abruptly slamming her door, Nancy did not wish to be disturbed: too late. Cindy knew all too well, she was on her own; abandoned, left to her own devices on a blustery afternoon. Preparing to go outside to deal with this dilemma alone, coat and gloves a must, a sharp crack split the howling wind. She ran toward the window, thinking a tree limb was about to come crashing to the ground. Instead, she saw the terrifying sight: one of the wide planks on the corral had blown off its post and was dangling by a single nail, creating a natural escape route for the horses. Cindy was seized by panic. She had only a few moments to avert a disaster.

The horses became increasingly agitated; highly vocal about their distress. Cindy raced into the woodshed, retrieving a hammer and nails. A brisk wind carried their voices across the valley; the high-pitched whinnying and hissing squeezed in between unmistakable snorts; they were both about to bolt. What began as the sensation of helplessness instantly transformed into frustration; Cynthia was furious with Nancy. The only one available refused to assist her sister in a crisis. No time to “Whoa! Nelly!” as she passed the bedroom stairs in a full gallop. Instead, Cindy yelled loud enough to muffle the raging wind, as she flew within earshot of Nancy’s bedroom. It was useless; no movement at all from above. Slamming the kitchen door, she ran across the yard, yelling at the horses to get away from the fence, attempting to spook them to a safer side of the corral. They were preparing to jump and run. Cindy was left alone to handle this potentially disastrous dilemma…or so she thought.

Savage wind was her nemesis. It beat up on the plank; gusts from multiple directions, tugging at the two remaining nails intended to secure it from the other side. Had they held, it would have been a simple fix. As that eight inch wide slab of wood went flying off its post, Cindy turned, screaming toward the house for Nancy to come: Help! The board was heavy. She
couldn’t
do it alone. Her sister would need to hold one end in place as she nailed the other back on the post. No response. The child literally could not abandon her post. Her presence there was all that kept two creatures from unfettered access and total liberation. Nancy never did emerge through their kitchen door. Cindy’s anger began bubbling up in her eyes, spilling profusely forth with the curses.

Left to her own devices, with a heavy hammer and about half a dozen nails, a child not quite thirteen had a huge responsibility in hand as she attempted to stabilize a flying object, balancing the precarious plank in such a way that she’d be able pound a few nails into it before the next gust sent her reeling. The plank fell from its place over and over again; it was not
a one person job. Poor Cindy; as frantic as their horses, she could feel the wind whipping and lashing at her tears, streaking drops across her cheeks. Her natural inclination was to pray in a crisis though she only did so during episodes of supernatural origin. It never occurred to her to request a divine intervention in this case, as Nature itself was the culprit. Instead, she cursed at her sister then cursed at the horses then cursed at the storm. In an instant, she would be blown away, not by the wind but by an intervening force; one there on her behalf.