House of Darkness House of Light (65 page)

Something else clicked during that encounter. Andrea felt sympathy for the fragile creature, this pitiful sighting of her revealing the truly sad realization. The spirit had suffered in life; she’d known abject deprivation and God only knows how she died. It appeared to be from starvation. After describing the sighting to her family, Andrea encouraged everyone to cease and desist with name-calling; from then on the spirit was no longer referred to as the kitchen witch. It was cruel and disrespectful; a mean-spirited approach to a lost soul. With one suggestion, a thoughtless practice instantly fell from favor.

An instant emotional attachment occurred; a connection established with a weakness exposed even if it was destined to be a rather lopsided relationship. The entity never offered any indication she saw the youngster standing there. She’d appeared lost in thought; elsewhere. Her position remained unchanged. A head bowed as if in solemn prayer, long hair obscuring her facial features, Andrea knew the spirit would appear weary, should she look into her eyes. It would be too intense; misery painful to watch…even at a distance.

She
was
someone: a Spirit and Soul dwelling in the Cosmos, someone who had lived and died upon the Earth. No matter who she was, she mattered. She felt defeated. A broom functioned as a reflection of her moods and emotions; its use spoke of what she’d endured. This once vital, feisty spirit of a woman manipulating a coveted object began to appear depressed; the broom slightly swishing their floor, an entirely lethargic effort. Mundane: another Sisyphean task. Perhaps they’d read her wrong all along. Could it be that the animosity an agitated spirit exhibited was intended for someone else; a wrath misplaced in time and space? Maybe messy mortals should not have taken a criticism so personally. After all, they had not walked in her aged, well-worn shoes.

Lesson learned: “Do unto others as though you were the others.”

As girls grew older, everyone made more of an effort to keep their kitchen tidy, to become more sensitive to her feelings and needs, just in case it
was
them distressing her no end. Carolyn let all of them off the hook long before, realizing they were not responsible, not to blame for jamming the dry, brittle broom straw up against a burning stove; all well aware of their mother’s fear of fire. Instead, Carolyn assumed it is where the broom had been kept during the time an impoverished woman hovered near a fireplace while cleaning the kitchen of her home. Boo! Who was she and why was she there and how had she died? When Carolyn scoured the records pertaining to former occupants of the town she found the name Harmonie Arnold listed among those who’d lived and died in the farmhouse, though no official cause of death was listed beside her name. Only the innocuous, non-descript word “accidental” was on her death certificate. More undisclosed details: this seemed to happen quite a bit back in the good olden days.

The young spirit remained vexed to be sure…but why? If she did not know Andrea was observing her then why had the pantry door closed on a figment who apparently wanted to be seen? What was the source of her torment? Was she the only spirit who closely monitored a kitchen of the future while busily revisiting the past? Her absence and simultaneous presence was remarkable, easy to discern but difficult to describe. When the broom was misplaced they all knew she was there. The kitchen seemed to be the place she was relegated to, but was this by choice? Clearly she wanted it kept a certain way. It never met with her approval; never swept to her satisfaction. Was she the one who turned on the dishwasher?
Someone
learned
how
to do it! Several times the machine began running all by itself, or so it seemed; buttons pushed with no assistance from any mortal on the premises. And boo who was it that kept on opening the refrigerator, deliberately spilling its contents on the floor. Was it punishment time? Was it her “I’ll force you to clean the floor!” bad attitude?

Was she the spirit who preferred old bottles to be arranged by height rather than lined along the sideboard? When she lived in the house she must have stored her broom beside what was then an open, functional fireplace, so to sweep away the ashes from the hearthstone…and this was where she wanted it to stay: Period. Whenever this spirit manifested, it made everyone wonder about her depraved circumstances. Could she see Manny? Could he see her? Were they from the same time, perhaps the same family? Which one was the kitchen instigator, the mischief-maker who antagonized the kids? Who was it repeatedly opening the refrigerator door, flinging it violently back and forth, spilling its contents all over the floor? Cindy’s frantic fears had nothing to do with an unruly spirit causing mayhem. As that door jerked and swayed, she’d beg it to stop, as it almost always occurred just prior to Roger’s return home. Kids would be blamed for a mess they did not make; receiving a punishment they did not deserve. But then,
they
knew that. They knew everything! It was all a part of their plan. Timing is everything in life…and death. Scurrying to quickly clean it up, innocent children had resentments of their own. For some reason, Cindy was the one most frequently subjected to the cruel and unusual behavior, a particular stunt occurring in her presence on a fairly regular basis. It seemed to be a deliberate act, initiated with some forethought and malice. If it was meant to be a joke, it wasn’t funny! Caught up in a situation not her own making, Cindy would curse the culprit, inviting further scrutiny: target!

***

Funny, the things one remembers from childhood. It was not all doom and gloom. As an aside, this vignette remains appropriate to the “subject” matter, intended to make a point; to make light. House of Darkness House of Light: it was both. In such an otherwise morbid setting there was light and laughter and love in abundance. Nancy had a nickname. Andrea was studying French and Nancy insisted on knowing what her name was in that foreign language, pressing her eldest sister for an answer. Andrea already knew it was
Nadine
though, during a rather quick-witted moment, dubbed her sibling
Nancois
. Nancy was so gullible she believed it; everyone in their family played along. The name stuck…for life. When Nancy entered a French class the following year, telling the teacher her name…
in
French
…Mr. Beausejour was delighted! The man’s hearty laughter rang through the hallways. Nancy was mortified; humiliated. She confronted her eldest sibling when she arrived home and the laughter throughout the family was undoubtedly heard all the way back to the school. Nancy has yet to forgive her big sister. Now, for the rest of the story:

Memory is a gift. For better or worse, a blessing
and a curse, it is likewise a gift. One might presume, given the circumstances, only tortured or traumatic memories would remain, retained as visions of nightmares; as recollections from a lifetime ago dwelling in a house alive with death. Not so. Nancy now insists the following story be included in this tale of two houses, believing it captures then encapsulates the essence of a spirit: her own. It reflects the true Nature of enduring relationships between five sisters who adore one another, in spite of their differences, regardless of circumstances.

Christine was born just eleven and a half months after Nancy’s birth. (It’s a Catholic thing.) Anyway, because of their closeness in age and the structure of the curriculum in the middle school, the girls shared an English class. One day they had a test to take. They had studied hard together. Each did well on the exam; neither had a clue about the extra-credit question. They both got it wrong and their mutual failure was a point of contention all the way home; a long bus ride providing ample time to resolve the dilemma. They could not. Their assignment: Name the cliché. Each running the phrase so repetitiously through her mind, both had it memorized for life by the time they got home.

“The woman works tirelessly into the night, sweeping

away her woes, wielding her mighty broom as a sword.”

So name the damned cliché! How hard could it be? Chrissy’s test answer was admittedly the lamest one. “There is no broom like a new broom.” Whatever! She wanted to be finished with the test and didn’t care about the extra credit. Nancy gave it more thought. She’d relied upon the media to provide her with an extra-credit guess; one equally wrong. “O’Cedar makes your life easier!” It was so wrong. Both girls felt like imbeciles; the answer should be obvious to them and yet there it lingered, right on the tips of their tongues, flapping all the way home. Neither one came up with it. Distracted by other important issues upon arrival, snacks, they both forgot about it and moved on with life.

At thirty-nine, Nancy was engaged in a rather mundane task; sweeping her kitchen floor: Sisyphus lives on! Her mind free to wander, Nancy suddenly dropped the broom, running to the telephone. She called Christine.

“I’ve got it! I know the answer to the cliché question!” Epiphany: tendency to hyperbole. Chrissy remains a supremely patient person. However, Nancy’s impulsive nature
still
drives her to distraction. Preparing for what came next:

“
What
question?
What
answer? What the hell are you babbling on about?” Suspecting her sibling may have lost a tenuous grasp on reality, she indulged a convoluted chat with great good humor. “Nance…deep breath. Tell it.”

“Remember Mrs. Dacey’s English class? Eighth grade; we took it together; that damn test we took and both flubbed the extra-credit question? She never would give us the answer…said she wanted
us
to figure it out for ourselves! Remember?” Christine’s curiosity piqued. She
did
have a vague recollection of this specific event…come to think of it. “That broom thing! Remember?” Nancy recited the quotation; from memory…the results of a mind left free to wander through time. Naming the cliché:
‘A woman’s work is never done!
’
Chrissy began to giggle like a school girl huddled up with her sister on a bus; a hysterical message received, over the phone, no less! Memories…light the corners of her mind…of the way they were.

“I cannot believe you thought of that! We were…what…twelve? Thirteen? What is
wrong
with you?” Christine had to tease Nancy; it was compulsory, not an option. “What made you think of
that
?”

“I was sweeping and remembered the ghost who used to sweep our kitchen floor; how
her
work is
never
done!” (Christine remembered…everything.)

“All right. You get the extra credit, even after all this time; at least a gold star for having a
really
good memory!
A+
! Way to go…Nancois!”

***

The drudgery of it all; this miserable spirit could only hope for some basic improvements in the housekeeping skills. For the most part these mortals had better things to do. The girls would frequently pass her by and keep on going, noticing her presence less and less over time; non-threatening and innocuous; her only bad habit was placing the broom too close to the stove. The threat of fire kept Carolyn mindful; watchful of her. As one of the most active rooms in the house, the kitchen attracted someone, maybe more than one spirit. The telephone was frequently tampered with, as were several appliances. Antique bottles were routinely arranged then rearranged, moved from open shelves to windowsills then back again;
someone
had a flair for interior design! A pile of dirt left on the floor, the broom propped beside it, leaning against a chair; a message received then ignored. Household provisions spilled and splashed about the premises, chairs pulled out from beneath children; hair pulling was always a less-than-gentle reminder of their omnipresence. And the flies!

Is there no balm in Gilead? No salve to soothe these savage beasts? Is there nothing to be done on their behalf? Healing wounds in life may be preferable to suffering them after death. The concept of
Eternity
is virtually impossible to wrap a mortal mind around: Imagine that. We cannot envision the realm in which we live in the midst; we simply cannot fathom
forever
. Human beings, finite creatures by design, exist within an infinite Universe. Spirits defy logic as well as the law of gravity. Rather than being those subject to and governed by Universal Law some suspect they are a part of a grand plan; an immutable law unto themselves, revealing and expressing itself in ways we’re incapable of comprehending. Is there an ephemeral spirit dwelling within all corporeal manifestations, released into the Cosmos upon death? What remains of us as we transform, when this vessel has perished? Can we have a strictly physical experience in a metaphysical sphere? By what laws are they governed if they defy natural law; supernaturally shattering a one-dimensional, preconceived notion of existence. According to existentialist John Paul Sartre, “Life begins on the other side of despair.” If this is true, then where does death begin?

“The miserable have no other medicine

But only hope.”

William Shakespeare

 
boo! who?

“When you live in reaction, you give your power away.

Then you get to experience what you gave your power to.”

N. Smith

Boo! Who the hell was it? Who were these people! Carolyn had to identify the culprits. In spite of Sam’s encouraging words, something still told her to be afraid…be very afraid. Fire was elemental to the threat perceived. She had to take necessary steps to create fundamental reforms in their living situation. Truth be told, she was not the only one impacted by fear. Roger knew it well.

He blew his chance. In retrospect, it is one of the regrets he now harbors, an opportunity missed to understand the circumstances in which he dwelled. He too was subject to the desires of a spirit seeking acknowledgement. When it finally presented itself, he blew the chance sky high…into the Cosmos and beyond. He now admits it was Bathsheba who approached him one evening when he was home alone, a rare opportunity for some privacy, as far as she was concerned. Sitting at their kitchen table with the newspaper and a fresh batch of steamers, it was a blissful few moments for a man who worked hard and deserved some down time all to himself, but someone knew he was there and available for a formal introduction. He heard her footsteps on the cellar stairs, dismissing it at first as his imagination. Click. When that door opened in the front hallway, there was no dismissing his fear. Overcome by a sudden sense of dread, he froze stiff. Though he had encountered this spirit before, he had never been confronted by this presence so overtly, her approach, quiet and subdued; frightening nonetheless. The hallway filled with a dark vapor, swirling in the air it consumed. The form in which she manifested seemed to change, assuming a solid form. He was too afraid to gaze at her, too startled to look away. After a few moments, he made a fateful, if fear-based decision. Roger denied Bathsheba her ritualistic
right
of passage. It was her home, too.