House of Darkness House of Light (66 page)

Guess who’s coming to dinner? The man panicked. He spoke to her in the harshest terms, in a way generally reserved for loved ones, as a manifestation of his own terror. In so doing, he alienated the spirit wanting to befriend him.

“If you are not going to come in and sit down and talk to me…then get the hell out of here, you witch!” A very fine how do you do. She most certainly took offense. The swirling, translucent mist instantly evaporated. The cellar door slammed with such force, it rocked the dwelling to its foundation. The vibration was stunning; he felt it in his chest. Roger just sat there, trembling in his chair, believing it was time to accept Reality. He felt ashamed.

Bathsheba would not approach him again for many months afterward and the one opportunity he had was lost forever. There was a decided chill in the air and to this day, he admittedly regrets the snap decision made on the spur of the terrifying moment. He had been so rude to an unexpected guest. Roger could have been kind. He could have been welcoming but for fear of the unknown. He could have invited her to join him and could have learned so much in the process. Yet, as the cloud filled the hallway, the abject fear had clouded his judgment. Boo! Who? No question who this was; in his mind, it was the mistress of the house. It had been his one and only chance to verify her true identity; the one and only time she opened the door on a relationship and he slammed it in her face, so she returned his disfavor. Sometimes when opportunity knocks one must have the courage to answer the door and then invite even an unexpected guest to cross a threshold of the heart. Bathsheba wanted to befriend the man whose attention she coveted. Though he had on numerous occasions perceived her as such, in a moment of pure terror he had shamefully dismissed her, banishing a lonely old spirit from her own home. Sticks and stones…but words are weapons, too. Would he never learn?

“Seize the moment of excited curiosity on any subject to solve your doubts; for if

you let it pass, the desire may never return and you may remain in ignorance.”

William Wirt

 
kindred spirits

“Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times,

if only one remembers to turn on the light.”

Steven Kloves

They all stood together as a clan or a coven; vacant emotionless apparitions staring into nothing, oblivious, unaware they were frightening Carolyn out of her mind. Flames from their torches crept toward the ceiling as the mother of five envisioned her family burning to death. What her eyes could behold told her that they did not have long to live. Crouched up against a headboard, she screamed aloud in mind, begging for mercy, crying out in desperation: God! Kindred spirits, related in life and in death; children resembling the women standing behind them. One resembled a child of her own. Each recognizable as a solitary entity seen wandering their house at one time or another, within one space or another, this cluster of souls appeared to belong together…like a family photograph…they appeared, as portraiture, at the bottom of her bed.

***

During moments when she least expected it, while otherwise preoccupied, Carolyn’s thoughts would often wander into a mine field of memories…there to pause and reflect. Spawning an emotional charge of dread coupled with an instant rage, a sudden surge occurred; a physiological reaction to a vision she struggled to extricate herself from as darkest of nightmares in broad daylight.

For years, she’d habitually expelled this scene from the minute it crept into her consciousness, beginning the arduous process of dismissing the intruders. Nothing less than something wicked; to dispel a memory required more than a modicum of mental discipline. A good brain-washing was called for; spirits are tenacious, even when they are absent from sight. One lovely midsummer day while cutting roses from her garden, Carolyn was inexplicably catapulted back in time to the night when pure fear pulsed through her veins. Lingering with the image, the woman was struck by a realization: a picture in her mind, so vivid and vibrant, it seemed almost alive; a vision of spirits resembling a family. My God! They all looked alike! Years removed from an exceedingly close encounter, she wondered, why had she not remembered this before?

Kinfolk: Was it her imagination? No. Carolyn determined it was far more likely they were actually related, as so few families ever lived in the house, chief among them, the Arnolds. Most of the recorded deaths which occurred on the farm were in that family: Mrs. John Arnold, Harmonie, Johnny and Prudence…even Bathsheba was an Arnold. It was like viewing their family portrait, studying the symmetry; adults in the back, children in the forefront: all were silent except for the syncopated rhythmic beating of brooms against the surface of wooden boards. Vibrating with each strike, the house trembled all around her. As if hypnotized, under some exotic spell cast, these spirits participated willingly. Those who had never posed any threat before were all involved…a gang mentality…or were they there against their will? Had they been beckoned, coerced into submission then issued instructions? Directed? So it appeared: Vacant; indifferent. No emotions expressed, no contact made. They were there to play their role whereas Bathsheba seemed more invested, speaking with purpose and reason while the others had merely mimicked her. The deafening noise had come from her and she alone; though it reverberated throughout the structure…as Carolyn remained focused on the fire.

Formerly, these spirits had been entirely benign. Manny and the children, the broomeister from their kitchen, the farmer and his son; none of them had ever displayed any type of threatening behavior before, yet there they stood, aiding and abetting a wicked woman; one who knew how to hold a grudge. Their reaction to Bathsheba, or lack thereof, indicated no malfeasance. There was no apparent interest or any attachment in their facial expressions. Blank slates…one and all. They’d functioned as automatons; robotic movements so precise it appeared to be programmed into their beings.

As if in some trance herself, Carolyn stood beside the roses, silent and still. This was revelation: awakening an understanding which did not exist before a discovery of this Nature. Other questions logically followed: do we remain with our families in death? Would she be capable of tolerating Roger’s flaws and foibles for eternity? No answers forthcoming, she’d cancelled this image and focused on flowers instead. Pricking one of her fingers on a particularly sharp thorn, it drew brood, drawing her back to the present while watching in amazement as a crimson bead of blood trickled down the side of her finger. It resembled a teardrop; as water on an icy glass: Needle and the damage done.

***

One need not be related to relate; feel a real sense of kinship with another soul. Each of the girls developed a
real
emotional attachment to the spirits in the house while bonding between dimensions. Nancy frequently encountered Manny. She believes it’s because he watched over her, a constant vigil, often keeping her safe from herself. Divine intervention or just enough
spook
to scare someone away? It was a thankless task. His work was never done.

Christine attracted the one who coveted her. Over time, developing feelings of sympathy and empathy for this spirit, Chrissy wondered why she had been approached, considering whether or not the apparition was there to harm her or protect her from something or someone else. She remains haunted to this day by intense sensations regarding this powerful manifestation even decades after its occurrence. She knows what Cindy saw in the night, as the face of an angel was captured by a demon. Though Chris has no memory of the event, it haunts her still. Or being trapped in a trunk; something she’ll never forget. A mortally wounded soul is she, having seen too much in life regarding death.

April had a secret; an emotional attachment to a spirit, protective in nature. A profound friendship formed; a bond which ultimately resulted in the tragic breaking of hearts; regrets all around. It has haunted her for a lifetime. As for her long lost friend…perhaps for an eternity. There are some losses sustained from which beings never recover…mortal and immortal alike.

Andrea was fascinated by the holy spirits in their house and had several of them close by to her at all times. Compassion: elemental to her relationships, especially for the one who kept the kitchen, making her displeasure known to all who had tracked anything through her time and space. The misery of such drudgery, self-evident, Andrea so pitied the one whose hunger showed on her burdened shoulders; whose Sisyphean task required broom instead of stone: a spirit whose work was never done. A single sighting of her broke the child’s heart; an image which lingers and, like the spirits, will not ever go away.

Cynthia: For better or worse, in sickness and in health; they ALL gravitated to the girl with the gift. She always felt a special fondness for and remarkable sadness about the little girl with whom she was, at once, disheartened by and intrigued with; the one who wandered around a house crying for her mother. Cindy cried with her at times, touched as she was by the poignant and pitiful request of a child lost, suspended in the ether. Whether predisposed to acts of goodness or attracting an evil presence as darkness gravitating to the Light in her soul, the child remained haunted by that which she sensed all around her in every room of the house; haunted by voices and imagery she would retain for a lifetime. Cindy often speaks of how closely the little girl resembled her eldest sister as a vision of her as a younger child. Was it possible? Alchemy: Could it be? What drew the family to the farm? Were they
all
from one clan, reuniting in common purpose in an uncommon place and time? Was theirs a reunion between dimensions, at the point of convergence where darkness and light merge as one: at dawn and in twilight? Was the intrepid journey into the woods a family affair: Kismet in the Cosmos? Time itself would tell the tale.

“To confine our attention to terrestrial matters would be to limit the human spirit.”

Stephen Hawking

 
clarion call

“There is no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury.”

Alexander Smith

A distant music: a thundering, dissonant tone; no melody or syncopation, no drums or whistles. There was no accompaniment; only the lone, shrill cry of an archaic horn, its sound muffled by some invisible barrier. Andrea heard the clarion call. It had a rather harsh, militaristic twinge to it; a brassy, high-pitched urgency which seemed strangely familiar. Initially being perceived as the wind playing tricks with the wooden frame of an old farmhouse, rushing through hollow eaves on its way to nowhere, bending beams at will, she soon acknowledged having been mistaken. There was something deliberate about it; an intention behind it. Night after night, she heard a horn in the distance. Always consistently the same: as if the same instrument was being played by the same solitary musician; its ethereal qualities defied any concept of it in reality. As fluctuating winds of winter carried its tune throughout the valley, she listened attentively. After several weeks spent in still unfamiliar territory, Andrea began to wonder who it was for and why it rang out in the night.

“Can you hear that?” Cindy entered her bedroom, requesting a sister sleep-over. This night was colder than most and the eldest welcomed her company. “Listen. Do you hear it?” The siblings sat very quietly, side-by-side, bundled up beneath a cozy cotton quilt. There it was again. They whispered and then wondered about it together. What could it be? Cindy could hear it, too.

“Why don’t I hear it in my room?” Cindy was more curious than fearful.

“Maybe it’s just too far away.” Attempting to conjure up a viable answer to a question posed, she had no explanation for the mysterious music from afar.

Cindy considered it for a moment and developed a good theory of her own.

“It sounds like that music they play in parades when all the men line up and they walk funny and they all dress the same…with heavy coats and big hats.”

Andrea listened thoughtfully; perhaps it
was
a point of familiarity from her frame of reference. “You mean the bugler…he’s the one who calls soldiers together to come and march; the ones wearing the fancy uniforms.”

“That’s what it sounds like to me.”

They agreed. That was
exactly
what it sounded like…a call to arms. Then the music went silent for the night. It was late. Both girls were tired, so they snuggled in and fell peacefully asleep. Though perplexed, neither was afraid of what she’d heard. There was nothing threatening about it, nothing which posed any hazard or triggered any alarm. In fact, this sound seemed to come from such a distance, some nights it was barely audible. Initially, a serene, oddly comforting lullaby, its tone and tenor would later be altered; urgent.

As time passed and manifestations began occurring with drastic frequency, the sound took on a more ominous tone; a disconcerting note creeping closer. There were nights when she found it disturbing; an incessant and compelling call ringing in her ears and mind as she tried to rest. Then it began recurring in the middle of the night, seeping into consciousness, extricating her from sleep. The horn seemed magnified by silence in the house. It stymied Andrea as it never woke anybody else. Though she found it bizarre, this child fought the fear, reassuring herself, it could do no harm. So many other episodes of significance occupied her increasingly curious mind; she simply dismissed it, until Cindy told her of the voices; what
they
repeat in the night. Her younger sibling heard chanting in her room; several voices speaking together as one, telling her about seven dead soldiers buried in the wall. Sadly, it made sense. The horn was a call to battle, a clarion call to arms in the dark of night. These children had no choice but to conquer their fears, to be victorious over those who haunted their dreams. Imagine the fear of a soldier marching off to war, calling all of those within earshot to join him in the righteous cause. Some of those warriors were children, themselves; had they become separated from their elders? How frightened they must have been! So many perished on the battlefields; so many families fractured forever: Agony….no ecstasy in sight.