House of Darkness House of Light (52 page)

“Even yours.” Cathi thought she might stay downstairs where it was cooler. She was right; a proper assumption to make.

“That’s strange; Chris was just out on the porch with us a few minutes ago. Where did she go after lunch?”

“I never saw her leave the porch.”

“Me either.” Carolyn was perplexed. “Did anyone else see her leave?”

“No.” Cathi tried to reassure her mother. “She’s here…just hiding.”

“She usually tells me if she’s going off somewhere. We’ll find her. Chris disappears sometimes…when she doesn’t want to be found.”

“I know it. I checked underneath all the beds…in the closets, too.” Cathi had been thorough.

“How about the eaves?” Cathi nodded. Carolyn began to share her concern. Chrissy was officially missing from the farmhouse.

“I’ll go and check again.” Heading back through for a second sweep, Cathi took off…a woman on a mission. Carolyn sent the others out to look inside the barn and around the property. They all scattered on command, anxious to complete the task of relocating the soprano then return to their sing-along on the porch. Cathi yelled across the yard from the parlor window.

“Check out at the rabbit hutch.” Christine loved her bunnies dearly. Cathi assumed they would find her playing with her fuzzy little friends. The child often slipped away to attend to their needs without being asked. It was never a chore. She thought of it as a pleasure and a privilege.

Cathi realized she had not looked underneath the bed in Carolyn’s room so stepped back inside for another glance. While four siblings were searching outside, Carolyn went upstairs so the house was silent. Leaning down to look beneath the frame of the bed, Cathi heard something strange. It sounded like whimpering; the soft shallow cry of a child. Pulling the quilt away she found nothing under the bed, though she could still hear the sound distinctly. Panic pulsed throughout her body, the startling alarm; fear. The mournful, muffled sounds were coming from the floorboards. Something was dreadfully wrong. Chrissy was in terrible trouble. Cathi could feel it.

Closing the bedroom door so she could hear it more clearly, Cathi listened intently to the distant voice. Desperate to locate the source of a pitiful sound, “Mother of God!” came suddenly, breathlessly, drawn inversely through her lips; she realized the sound she heard was coming from within the bedroom, from an old trunk tucked into the corner. Latched tightly, it was inescapable from inside. Cathi leapt across the bedroom, nearly ripping the door from its hinges. “Carolyn!” Frantically fidgeting with a rusty iron latch she called out. “Christine? Is that you? Are you in there?” The hardware was ancient; she could not get it to budge. Facing the door, summoning a voice to full volume, Cathi yelled again: “Carolyn! Come help me! I found her!” Returning to the trunk, she was struggling to open it as Carolyn burst into the bedroom. It was a terrible sight, a heartbreaking image to witness as they lifted the heavy lid.

Christine was curled up like an injured cat, a wad of human flesh contorted into a knot of unspeakable fear. The child was hyperventilating, barely able to breathe. Her face appeared to be scarred; delicate porcelain skin streaked, saturated with tears, hair plastered to it with sweat, eyes wide with disbelief. There, hovering above her was the savior she had begged and prayed would come. Cathi reached into the trunk, lifting the petrified child with one hoist, cradling her securely, releasing her from a virtual death trap, Cathi placed her gently on the bed. Carolyn held the lid steady then let it slam, rushing over to Christine. Quickly grabbing tissues from the night stand, Carolyn leaned in to swab her child’s soiled face. Chris pulled away from her mother, lurching backward, as if somehow threatened by the nurturing act; the look in her eyes describable only as an abject terror. Wrapping herself tightly in Cathi’s arms, seeking asylum, protection from a perpetrator, the confused and disoriented little girl had been traumatized, profoundly affected by the nearly disastrous event. She appeared to be in shock. The child could barely speak but when she did so, the words were stunning…enough to bring a mother to her knees.

“Mommy, why did you do that to me?” Christine was continuously gasping for air, her quivering voice, a mere whisper. Trembling uncontrollably within Cathi’s firm and steady grip, the stinging accusation was breathtaking to both of the women. Searching for the answer on her daughter’s tear-stained face, there was no explanation for the question…only fear. “Why would you do it? How could you lock me inside the box?” There was anger and distrust in her voice. The deeply wounded woman handed the tissues over to Cathi instead, so to wipe away the residual effects of a daughter’s entrapment: that horrible state of solitary confinement…left alone to perish in the dark.

“Get her nose…there.” Carolyn quietly uttered the directive. Cathi obliged.

“I thought I was going to die in there…I was afraid no one would find me!” Pleading words impaled a mother’s heart like daggers. It was utterly surreal; mind-numbing statements had been declared with such sincere intensity, so much belief in the words; there was no point in questioning Christine about the obvious misunderstanding which somehow occurred. During the first few critical moments
all
that mattered was making sure she was safe. She could see. She could breathe. She was alive. Nothing else mattered at the moment.

Convinced her mother was the culprit, the one who had deliberately locked her into the casket-like enclosure, a daughter kept her distance. The place she had gone was dark and deep, she could not see or breathe; suffocating in that heat, a youngster had feared for her life. Carolyn did not know what to say or how to react to this charge. All the girls came into the house then found them in the bedroom. Naturally, everybody wanted to know what was happening. Cathi suggested Andrea bring a moist cloth and a large glass of water for her sister. Meanwhile, she asked Carolyn to escort the others from the room. She needed to understand what occurred; Cathi wanted to speak privately with an overwhelmed little girl in order to grasp the essential truth of the situation.

Gulping the water then wiping the beads of perspiration from her forehead, Chris took a few more minutes to gather her thoughts. Cathi sat beside her on the bed, patiently waiting for some sign of recovery. When Chris was finally ready and able to speak, she stuck like a steel trap to her story.

“I came in here to take a nap. I was real tired from playing at the river and I think I ate too much for lunch. My stomach felt funny and my head hurt so I wanted to go lay down for awhile. I came in here…it’s too hot upstairs.”

“Then what happened?”

“I fell asleep. I don’t know how long I was asleep before Mom came in and told me to go get in the box; she told me over and over again to get inside of it. I don’t know how I got in there because I can’t open the lid. I think mom carried me. I don’t remember how I got there but I
know
it was mom. I didn’t see her…but I
heard
her…and she told me to go sleep inside the box!”

“Christine. You never actually saw your mother?”

“No. But I
know
it was mom!” Adamant, Christine insisted she recognized her own mother’s voice, even if she was asleep.

“Honey, it wasn’t mom. She was with me the entire time you were missing. It must’ve been a bad dream, sweetie. Your mother was with me and so were your sisters. We were all out on the porch together. Remember? Then we all went to the kitchen. That’s when we missed you then came to find you, baby, and thank God we did.” Cathi embraced her little one. Chris would not yield. She was hurt; highly suspicious. She did not accept this version of the truth.

Cathi became increasingly concerned. This was quite unlike the Christine she knew, entirely out of character for her to become so staunchly defensive, completely unwilling to listen to reason. It was as if something had a hold on her. A consistently amiable youngster, Chrissy was the peacemaker, loathing any kind of discord. She would address it diligently in others; repairing rifts, smoothing ruffled feathers; a referee between her occasionally argumentative sisters. Cathi thought it very strange; Chris could not and would not defer on such an obvious misunderstanding. Most troubling of all was her outright refusal to take Cathi’s word. It seemed belligerent; as if Christine was trying to pick a fight with her, attempting to force an admission that her mother had maliciously trapped her own daughter inside an antique trunk; hot and dark, frightening and dangerous. An accusation levied, as if the mother of five had deliberately intended to kill one of her own offspring. It was disconcerting to hear or to believe Chris could even imagine such a thing, let alone presume it possible. Cathi began to suspect some nefarious forces were hard at work; an otherwise trusting child’s obstinate reaction as evidence. She had repeatedly assured Christine the position was indefensible; promising her the accusation made was unfounded…absolutely false.

After a few more minutes, Chrissy calmed down then Cathi suggested they return to the group. She remained quiet, far more reserved than usual; sisters asked her what happened but Chris refused to discuss the ordeal. Somber, she kept her distance from everyone then went out to the rabbit hutch with a cold pitcher of water for her pets. It was at least an hour before she came back to the house. Carolyn instructed her eldest to keep an eye on her sad little sister. Cathi requested to speak with Carolyn privately.

“What the hell happened in there? What did Chris say to you?” Carolyn’s distress was evident. A frantic woman, keenly aware of the nature of a threat issued, an obviously life-threatening situation could have easily resulted in a tragedy of unspeakable proportion, altering a family forever. Sickened by the mere thought of it, she sat down, placing her head between her legs.

“Breathe, Carolyn…breathe in as deeply as you can then hold it..then out.” Cathi knew what to do; her friend was about to faint dead away.

“I can’t…I can’t breathe…oh, my God…she could have died in there!”

“Carolyn. I don’t know what happened. I only know what Chrissy believes happened…her mother was capable of closing her inside a trunk then leaving her in there to die. This is disturbing. I don’t think I was talking to Christine; certainly
not
the Christine I know.”

“What do you mean?” Carolyn pressed for some explanation while gasping for air; suddenly she was the one who required a cool rag and glass of water but there would be no recovery from this kind of shock.

“I mean some subversive force is involved with this incident. I’m certain of it. She didn’t believe me, Carolyn. She
didn’t believe me
when I told her you had been with me, with all of us out on the porch. Chris all but accused me of lying to her to cover for you. She told me over and over again…it was
you
who ordered her to go lie down inside the “box” and you’ve never referred to it as anything but what it is; a trunk, so where did that come from? She can’t remember how she got there and claims she never saw you, only heard your voice, but she is certain it was you. I couldn’t convince her otherwise. I tried. Thank God I heard her when I did.” Thank God, indeed.

“Cathi, my children are in danger. This was a threat; don’t you see this was a warning to me? That bitch! If she wasn’t already dead I would find a way to kill her myself, I swear I would, with my bare hands if need be…
no one
goes into that room anymore. It’s not safe. No place is safe in this house.”

***

In time, Christine warmed to her mother again but she has never been able to reconcile the terrible, almost tragic events of that day. Her recollection of this traumatic incident in childhood haunts the woman still, a testament to the profound nature of an impact it had on an impressionable youngster: the gift that keeps on giving. Now, fast approaching fifty years of age, tears well up in her deep blue eyes whenever she dares to think about it: the brutal heat, an absence of air, darkness all around…the abject fear of her impending death.

“No passion so effectively robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear.”

Edmund Burke

~ a favorite gathering place in the country ~

 
as the crow flies

“‘Prophet!’ said I, ‘thing of evil - prophet still, if bird or devil! -

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -

On this home by Horror haunted - tell me truly I implore -

Is there – is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!’

Quoth the Raven ‘Nevermore.’”

Edgar Allan Poe The Raven

Though Cumberland had more than its fair share of birds, marshlands filled with pussy willows and cattails, wild creatures on the wing, it was a veritable wasteland in comparison to their farm. Perhaps it was the stunning silence, a sublime absence of humanity which afforded this family the ability to listen more intently, undistracted, as Nature abounded around them. To be outside was to be fulfilled; in touch with sand and stone, wind and rain. Nature filled a void no one knew existed until they moved to the country. The land was so remote, left untouched; most of it unclaimed by human hands. Aged trees of every indigenous variety grew to become giants of the woods, keepers of the forest; their sprawling limbs providing all the comforts of home for countless creatures. Their property was a parcel left free to flourish; to soak up the Sun and drink in the rain. Birds of every conceivable shape, size, color and call took full advantage of the welcoming environment. This vast array of aviary wonders had free reign to live an unencumbered life. Many migrated when the weather was no longer hospitable but always came back and many stayed year round. Cardinals were abundant as were those mean-spirited blue jays. Robins returned with the spring. Nesting bluebirds were bountiful and very beautiful. Hummingbirds graced every summer. Bobwhite and whippoorwill alike would serenade them at sunset, the gift of their music lingering in the moist evening air: twilight tunes. Love songs sung at dusk. The cooing calls of mourning doves; as mated pairs in discussion, perhaps potential partners engaged in their own end stage negotiations. A lyrical debate was sometimes symphonic, at other times a cacophony of dissonant demands and invitations traversing the curvature of a deep green valley as a haunting series of echoes: birdsong. Whimsical and mystical; these were magical creatures from above, none more so than the stark black crows who came as omens…magicians on a mission…harbingers making their appointed rounds.