House of Darkness House of Light (69 page)

During Carolyn’s extensive research project regarding the history of the house, an interesting couple of stories surfaced. She learned of the tragic loss of two members from one family; a father and son, both of whom reportedly drowned on this property, some ten years apart. Town records indicated the father died during a weather event, out on the secluded pond, set deeply back on their property. April insists both of them died a horrible, frightening death in the same place; both lives claimed by the raging torrents, lost beneath the surface of the wild Nipmuc River. In either case they’ve remained together in death, inexorably tied to the home they shared in life, retaining a bond which will never be broken; the faithful family dog by their side.

***

There was something on her desk Andrea needed desperately. Racing home from school in the ’69 Pontiac she inherited from her Uncle Donald when he bought his new car, the low rider had an uncanny ability to hug the pavement at high rates of speed, the fact she did not divulge to her mother as she sped through the house on her way to some critically important materials she had inadvertently left behind in her bedroom; materials required for the yearbook meeting…a meeting she was missing! Frantic to locate what was forgotten in the morning, aware a roomful of people were gathered, awaiting her return, the editor-in-chief of the yearbook knew she’d screwed up in a big way. Her mind was on one thing only as she flew up the stairwell head down, watching the twelve steps as she went, so not to trip while moving at the speed of light.

Raising her eyes to begin the process of searching her desk before the rest of her body actually arrived on the scene; it was a startling and unexpected sight to see: three partially translucent yet clearly defined entities standing on the landing of her stairs. There they were; a family: a man, a boy and his dog, standing side-by-side, peering through the wall of her bedroom. She’d nearly run right through them! About face! Down the stairs; rapid descent. “Mom!” Carolyn came running. Freaked and frustrated, late for an important date, this was the last thing she needed! By then, she should have known to expect the unexpected, but timing is everything in life and death; they were manifesting, interfering at the worst possible time. Needing what was on the other side of them, it was not a path she wanted to cross. They were literally blocking her way. She would have to pass
through
them to retrieve her belongings. There was no time to waste with spirit matters at the moment.

“Mom! They’re on my stairs again! Please make them go away!” Andrea was harried and nearly in tears. Carolyn knew precisely who she meant. Her daughter had seen them there before, sharing details of those encounters with her mother in the past. They appeared to be exactly the same. The father was rather short and stout with a jovial smile on his face. He had a wide-brimmed straw hat, the kind used to keep the Sun off a farmer’s back while he worked his land. He wore handmade clothing, the square bib of fabric covering his bulbous chest. His skin appeared to be as weathered as the boots on his feet; ragged leather, worn to a frazzle. The boy stood beside him; a young child to be sure, perhaps ten years of age, according to his height and weight. He too wore a pair of boots in much better condition than those of his elder. The boy had work pants; a gunny sack cotton shirt like his father, apparently from the same bolt of fabric, as the light gold color matched. Perhaps Mrs. Baker was the seamstress. No mistaking the family resemblance…they were kinfolk.

On this particular afternoon Andrea was in no mood to tolerate a perceived intrusion, though they were a decidedly unobtrusive lot. She often wondered about the three of them; had they all died together, including the dog? Or had they been reunited in death…after death? On the day in question, she was too preoccupied with more pressing matters. They were an obstacle impeding her forward momentum. At times when her mind was free to revisit the past, she considered their circumstances more humanely. However, on this especially stressful day she had no patience for
or
curiosity about them; Andrea simply wanted them to leave so she could retrieve her belongings upstairs and do the same thing; leave! Places to go…people to see…things to do that afternoon.

Carolyn climbed quietly, cautiously up a dark stairwell, secretly hoping to see the Light. Her approach was such not because she was frightened of this trio; she did not want to scare them away. Carolyn wanted to see them, too. Obviously they were harmless; entirely benign. Neither entity had ever even acknowledged the little miss mortal whose space they shared. Whenever they manifested it was in precisely the same place. No one else had seen them yet, unlike some other spirits who’d move freely throughout their house, at will. These three always stood together, stares apparently fixed on a single point in time or space. The father had the palest blue eyes, much like Mr. Kenyon: tired eyes. His son’s were a brighter blue; watery, quite similar to this elder gentleman. They resembled each other in a variety of ways; clearly they were kin. Because Carolyn had seen so many spirits in her bedroom on the night she was threatened with blazing torches, she
was
curious. Had these spirits been involved? Had they been a part of the crowd? The only way to know for certain was to observe them; the eye of the beholder, anxious to bear witness, to see if the spirits were familiar to her, perhaps a part of the coven of spirits in her bedroom on that night in question. Alas, they were gone. She did not catch them in time; the vision lost…not even a glimpse. They’d all vanished. The “all clear” was sounded. Relieved, then grateful for her mother’s divine intervention, Andrea went back upstairs and gathered her missing materials from the desk in her room with a heartfelt: “Thanks, mom. Be home later.” A kiss on the cheek on her way out the door…her spirited daughter was gone.

“God brings men into deep waters, not to drown them, but to cleanse them.”

John Aughey

 
go away little girls

“Let tears flow of their own accord: their flowing is
not inconsistent with inward peace and harmony.”

Seneca

Time for bed: this obsequious child did as she was told. Cynthia followed directions well. She was the first to head upstairs, putting her flannel pajamas on while the rest of her siblings remained downstairs, stalling for time. Chris was still doing her homework at the kitchen table, which is why Cynthia was in their shared space all alone, or so the child thought. Sitting on the side of her bed, she leaned down, pulling her slippers from beneath it, sliding them onto chilly little feet. Suddenly sensing the presence of another, she assumed it was only her sister, assignments complete, coming to join her for the night. She didn’t bother to look up from the task until she heard the mournful sound of an unfamiliar voice; certainly not Christine.

The family had just moved into their new old home, having been there only a few weeks; far too soon for such a rude awakening, especially just before bed. There she was, passing through the bedroom, on her way to somewhere else. She was crying for her mommy. Cindy’s breath drew hard in her chest. She could not believe her eyes…or ears. It was pitiful: Heartbreaking. This voice was as petite as the child. Dressed in clothing from another time, the little girl was wearing a neatly pressed gray cotton shift covered with a pretty white apron; pint-sized, just like her. The entity appeared to be about five, or maybe six years of age. She was short but seemed to be a healthy, substantial girl; though she would not always appear so robust. A head full of thick, dark hair cascading down instantly reminded Cindy of her own eldest sister; her round face conjuring an image Cynthia had seen before, in photographs of Andrea at this age. An uncanny resemblance; a disquieting likeness she noted immediately evoked a memory from when she was only a toddler. Time and space seemed affected by this close encounter; confusing to the mortal soul. Watching intently, the spirit moved across the bedroom, crying for
mommy
over and over again before she left, walking through an unopened door into the eaves. Cindy was blown away. A young mind unprepared, she could not process what she’d just seen: the eye of the beholder, challenged to suspend disbelief again. It was beyond shocking to the youngster; she could not move or speak; locked in one position as if wedged in a vice of incomprehension. Wanting to scream “Go away!” the instant she had laid eyes on the little girl, Cindy’s emotions began churning the second she heard the voice; pure and clear…and so very sad. The apparition made a sound which tore at Cynthia’s soul; issuing this pathetic plea for her mother in the night. To be lost and so frightened, but lost where? As a shudder passed, rippling through her being, Cindy’s eyes began filling with tears. This presence struck a chord; the little girl broke her heart.

It was not the only time Cynthia would cry for and with this child. She did not tell anyone about the encounter or an emotional reaction to it. Recovering her composure, rejoining her family downstairs, it had been too private and painful an experience to assign words to describe, too early to tell the truth. It would be months before other children began to disclose their experiences. Until then, Cindy kept it to herself.

This was only the first of many sightings over the better part of a decade. When Cindy is asked how frequently she saw this spirit, her reply sums it up with one word:
hundreds
. She was omnipresent…like God. At certain times she appeared solid in form, yet there were many manifestations when she’d appeared as a wispy figure, translucent; a shadow. This entity almost always spoke though there was never any interaction between them. She had seemed oblivious to the presence of a mortal in the room. Cindy made no overtures. A vague recollection of hearing her more often than seeing her, Cynthia still retains a vivid image of her in memory. Whenever the wee spirit manifested in form, she always carried something in her tiny hands, though Cindy was never able to determine exactly what it was; once she had passed through the room carrying a book tucked beneath her arm, an object Cindy had not seen before. At times it appeared to be a fine white piece of cloth, perhaps a lady’s handkerchief. Occasionally, this child was dressed differently, formally, as if for a holiday or special event. It was a lovely outfit; a deep green velvet dress with a bright white pinafore fitted at the front, synched neatly at her waist. Whenever she appeared as such the girl seemed happy, laughing and playing: her voice was lighter. Then there were other times when darkness seemed to surround her; a pervasive sadness. When she cried her voice would tremble, the tears would flow like rain. Her domain relegated to the upper level of the house, only once was she seen on the main floor of the residence. Emerging from the eaves in Andrea’s room, she would pass right through the door if it was closed, though she was perfectly capable of causing these doors to open and did so on numerous of occasions, as if it was announcing her presence. However, she did not interact with anyone and Cindy did not acknowledge her either, whether from a fear or a belief that she could not respond. Heard regularly playing in Andrea’s closet, when this door was opened to see who was there, it silenced the child. Did she want to be discovered? Did she want to engage? A friend in need? Indeed. But Cynthia did not want to open
that
metaphorical door, preferring instead to watch her from a distance. In time, she’d learn to accept it. Adapting to this presence was only a small part of the new paranormal, what someone must be willing to endure when dwelling in a house alive with death. Cindy made the quantum leap of faith required. She welcomed this spirit into her world and tried not to intrude on her own. The sentiment was genuine; a kind-hearted soul acknowledging a spirit’s plight.

Cynthia assumed she was the one playing with her toys. She began to care about the wee little one, watching over her as she moved through the portals; passages of the past. As Cindy grew older, this child appeared to grow sickly. Nurturing instincts kicked in. When she became a teenager, Cindy’s attention to and affection for the entity increased precipitously. Because the apparition occurred with such frequency, becoming so familiar to a mortal soul, Cindy became confused by the presence, finding a discrepancy in her own thought process. Was this the
same
child? Was there a set of twins? Had she misread the situation? When a little cherub appeared to be healthy and happy, she was dressed in her best outfit, skipping carefree through the bedroom. When she appeared to be ill, it was always when she was wearing the drab gray cotton dress. With increased exposure Cindy began to see changes in the youngster: at times her face appeared hollow and sunken, her body emaciated, as if she was wasting away. These were the most miserable of encounters, times when Cindy cried too; it was obvious the child was dying. Cindy could not escape the pain of it and she could not bear to hear this child crying for her mother, suffering alone. It was a disturbing vision; hopeless…riddled with despair.

Was she sick or hurt? Lost and lonely? When Cindy discusses this series of events she cannot help but mention what role it played in her own emotional development. It sensitized her to the suffering of others and made her think about what some have endured in life and death. The visceral reaction Cindy had to the sound of this child’s voice haunts her still. She has regrets. Why didn’t she reach out to this entity? Was it such a foreign experience Cynthia could not bring herself to take that leap of faith? What would have happened had she done so? Because she heard the little girl many more times than she actually saw her, the voice is what now lingers in her consciousness, more so than the visual imagery; a memory of sound more vivid than sight. She could even be heard outside of the house, especially in their garden; as a haunting melody wafting on the breeze, intermingling with the wind. Carolyn knew all too well how distracting it could be: Downright dangerous.