House of Darkness House of Light (26 page)

Eric Hoffer

Roger became distracted and burned the food; not too badly, but enough to taste the scorch from the bottom of the skillet. They ate without complaint; a few (faux) compliments bantered about to spare his feelings. Some food was put aside, in case Carolyn woke up hungry, but that night she never came out of their bedroom; the girls had him all to themselves. They enjoyed spending time with dad; observing as he’d built a fire like a pro, gathering in front of it as the evening chill began settling in. Spring was quite young though it had, thus far, proved no warmer than winter. Watching television, volume down, so to avoid waking their mother only a room away; after about an hour it was time for homework then off to bed. April reminded him to tuck them all in. It was his pleasure, having been gone for several days. Finally, Roger was able to relax, stretching out on the sofa where he promptly fell asleep.

Waking just before dawn, the man’s body was stiff and sore. The fire had burned out hours before; he had weathered a cold night without the benefit of a blanket. Rekindling the flames around one large scorched log left behind, piling on a few pieces of dried splinters for good measure, Roger warmed up and thought about his wife. Their bedroom door was still closed. The pantry door was open. He closed it but could still smell the scent of stale cellar air. He felt a draft as he sparked a fire. Glancing behind while leaning toward the fireplace, Roger noticed the cellar door, barricaded by a desk, was now open about an inch; displacing the desk by the same distance. He had not asked the girls about it the night before, assuming Carolyn simply rearranged, creating extra space in their bedroom. It never occurred to him that she did so to keep a door, difficult to open, from doing so on its own. Kindling ignited as usual. Swoosh! Roger closed the cellar door then secured it. Hoisting the desk back in place, the crackling of fire disguised the
click
. From the corner of his eye Roger watched the latch lift up then snap back down in its slot. A shiver went through him, having nothing to do with the temperature in the parlor. Perhaps his wife could shed some light on the situation. He opened the bedroom door and found her bundled beneath the quilt, still fast asleep. Rather than disturb her rest, Roger stoked the fire with a few logs, replaced the screen then went into the kitchen. Once the coffee was perking he put a pot of water on to boil. Examining the hole in the ceiling, he considered it a good start and wondered if the flies might be breeding above. (Far more likely:
below
!) There the little devils were, perched on the windowsill, poised and waiting for him. Agitated by the sight, Roger grabbed the swatter, resuming his task, obliterating every insect he could contact; a fruitless attempt to decimate the population. It was
their
decision when to vacate these premises…not his…the man had much to learn. Children began emerging from their bedrooms; a line, quickly forming at the bathroom door. While patiently waiting her turn Chrissy inquired about breakfast, secretly hoping it would be something her father could not burn, a hamburger from the night before still sitting like a stone in her stomach. He’d been distracted; tired from his long trip, out of practice in the kitchen (mom was the
regular
cook) so the sin was forgivable. Christine was destined to be an accountant; quietly calculating the odds of eating scorched oatmeal, then suggesting they have cold cereal instead. Dad agreed. Turning off the burner as water boiled away, fogging up the pantry windows; steam heat it provided was warmth welcomed by all. Casually resuming his self-imposed charge as the local exterminator, while the girls ate their breakfast, Roger patrolled the kitchen, coffee in one hand, fly swatter in the other. Splat!

Carolyn staggered out of bed, dazed and a bit disoriented. Gathering her wits, she realized, amazingly, her extended nap had passed entirely uninterrupted. Momentarily lost in time, she sat down on the bed again, bare legs dangling, studying the clock. She did the math. It had been more than fifteen hours of deep, restful sleep. Opening her door, a fireplace beckoned. By this time the wood was fully engaged in flames; the warmth of its embrace spreading over her like layer upon layer of blankets. She could smell the coffee and hear her children. As the sharp slap of the swatter intruded, Carolyn remembered her husband was home…and apparently back on task. Though her sleep had been undisturbed, the same could not be said for her waking. This habit of his was something more than irritating. She considered it to be an unnecessary evil. Her expression distorted as Carolyn thought about the girls trying to eat their breakfast in peace. The sounds of assaults impaled her mind like tiny bolts of lightning striking at the peaceful silence. What a way to start a day. Carolyn followed it, prepared to do whatever necessary to make it STOP!

From the look on her face everyone knew something was wrong with mom. Claiming her spot at the table, Andrea went to get her mother a cup of coffee. Roger chose this opportune moment to announce, in his typically aggravated tone, it was time to call the exterminator back again.

Carolyn exploded: “No more! They’ll poison my kids with that shit! I don’t want it in this house! I’d rather have the goddamned flies!” Pounding her fist on the table, the kitchen fell silent. Children were mortified by their mother’s hateful, contemptuous words; her spontaneous outburst not quite concluded. “Roger! Put that thing away! Give it up! You’re
so
neurotic!”

“What the hell…is the matter with you?” He stared at his wife as if he had seen a ghost. A ~ who are you and what have you done with my wife ~ look.

What had begun as an ugly altercation one chilly spring morning ultimately resulted in the first meaningful communication between Roger and Carolyn on the difficult, complicated subject. It had indeed become a pressing matter; spirit matters…requiring immediate attention and necessary acknowledgment. It would prove to be rather tense, even terse talk, but one which had to occur. Carolyn had a story to tell. Roger did as well. It was the end of the beginning.

The children quickly finished breakfast in silence then bolted for the door, grateful to have someplace else to go. Their remorseful mother escorted them into the parlor, apologizing for the rude eruption which occurred at the table. Hugs and kisses all around, forgiveness was as much in their nature as it was in her own. Setting April up on the corner of
Sesame Street
, she returned to the kitchen. It was time to tell the truth. Carolyn sat down then stared into her coffee cup, unable to lift it to her lips. A soft humming of wings fluttering in glee provided a queer soundtrack in an otherwise silent kitchen. The flies had come alive again.
They seemed delighted by the reprieve
or
the explosion of hostility, suspending certain death sentences for all who made their presence known. Roger was awaiting an inevitable exchange. Examining Carolyn at a distance, keenly aware she had become deeply disturbed by something more than his nasty little habit; he joined her at the table. Trembling with distress, a wife turned abruptly toward her husband, noting his cold, hard expression.

“I’m sorry.” The tears came against her will. Carolyn rarely cried; in many ways she was as pragmatic as Roger was, so she struggled to maintain a stoic composure. Tears ruptured a secure seal on the well of loneliness and misery; another chronic pain. Isolation and self-doubt had plagued her for months. It was the release of all she feared and all she felt. Roger did not know how to react. For once, there was no overreaction.

“Tell me what’s going on with you?” His tone was an odd mixture of harsh and tender; raw emotion twisted into a knot tightening in his stomach. Roger wanted to be sensitive to his wife yet she had deliberately humiliated him. He was deeply offended by her earlier accusation.

“Night before last the dresser in our bedroom caught on fire.”

“What?!” Alarmed by the scary image Roger became transfixed, prompting her for more information: Details. “What do you mean? How did the dresser catch on fire…did you leave a candle burning?” Question posed as demand.

“No. I don’t know what happened. There was a fire…and then it was gone. It was a fireball on the dresser, bouncing around; shooting sparks off in every direction. I was terrified out of my mind! At first I thought it was a reflection in the mirror from the fireplace but it
wasn’t
…it was a ball of fire, leaping all over the bedroom…and it didn’t leave a single mark on anything it touched.”

“You were dreaming.” He relaxed, smiling knowingly. Judgment rendered. Issue resolved, at least as far as he was concerned.

“I was standing in the middle of our bedroom, Roger. I was wide awake!” Carolyn was not smiling. Apparently she did not
know
as much as he did.

“You had a nightmare.” He was convinced, based on her description of it.

“I called Sam.” Carolyn finally sipped her coffee. She knew disclosing the situation to their mutual friend would finally get Roger’s attention. It did.

“You did what? Why’d you do that? What did you tell him?” Roger closely scrutinized his wife. He did not want the subject discussed, especially outside of the family, but Sam
was
family. Roger knew it must be serious if Carolyn felt compelled to tell him about it. Perhaps he should learn to listen up!

“Everything; I told him everything.” Her torso heaved a sigh of relief.

“What do you mean by
everything
; what did he have to say?” Curiosity got the best of him; he
had
to pay attention to Sam, if vicariously through her.

“He said calm down…
be not afraid
…nothing to fear but fear itself; he said
they
couldn’t hurt us and then he quipped:
‘fear the living, not the dead
’ and suggested I go get some sleep. He said his house on Benefit Street is haunted, too.” (The East Side of Providence has a well-deserved reputation within the corporeal and spirit worlds alike. They
all
know how to party on the hill.)

“
They
can’t hurt us? I do not believe in ghosts.” Roger withdrew, suddenly as rigid in demeanor as was his staunch denial of her claim. He didn’t believe in ghosts, ergo, he didn’t believe his wife. If he denied them they didn’t exist.

“Well you know what? I didn’t believe in ghosts either, not until we moved into this house. I thought dead was dead and that was it. I was rather looking forward to it…a nice long nap! Imagine MY disappointment! Over the past few months I have seen enough, heard enough and felt enough to know that
something bizarre
is happening in this house! I don’t know
what
or
who
it is but I am telling you, Roger, its real, its evil and it doesn’t want
me
around!”

“You’re being…” He almost went there again.

“Don’t you
dare
say I’m being ridiculous!” Her hackles, expectantly up.

“It could be your imagination…”

“No! I don’t know what this is but I
do know
it is
not
my imagination! Sam believes me, so it seems you are the one with a problem here…odd man out.”

“Lower your voice!” Roger pointed in the direction of their youngest, who was engrossed in an episode of a favorite show. She couldn’t hear them from such a distance but her father was taking no chances. Roger suddenly rose to close the kitchen door; a precautionary measure. No need to frighten a child. Neither parent considered what strange and wondrous stories their children could have told had they only been given the opportunity; had they not been excluded from the privileged conversation. Time would tell their tale as well.

“Wait. I’ll go check on her. I’m sure the fire needs some tending anyway.” Carolyn began to rise. Roger volunteered to go instead. Settling back into her chair, staring at streaks of gray light slicing the table in half, her mind drifted back to the incident in question.

“Get another cup of coffee. I’ll be right back.” He’d left her alone with her troubled thoughts: the recurrent theme re-emerging in morning light.

When he returned to the kitchen a few minutes later Carolyn appeared as a figure set in stone. Fixed and motionless, she remained in place at their table, gazing into her empty coffee mug. Held captive by the contemplation, as she was by their house, startled by her husband’s arrival, she hadn’t noticed his presence until he reached in to retrieve the mug wedged tightly in her hands. As he turned toward the pantry she gave voice to a winter’s silent discontent.

“I want to sell the house.” Transfixed; six words uttered in a whisper stilled her husband. He had to stop and think…what to say…how to react. It could have so easily erupted into an argument. “I want out of here.” Her eyes found his as pleading as her own, for different reasons. Roger promptly returned to the table, lifting her into an embrace; a good decision made in the moment.

“Now sit down and tell me what you told Sam.” No longer placating, when Roger realized their situation had escalated beyond his perceived control, he had to reclaim it, as if he’d ever had any control of it, anymore than she did. “What did you mean by
everything
? What haven’t you told me yet? Really, isn’t it at least a
possibility
you were having a nightmare when, as you say, you saw a fire on the dresser?”

Carolyn’s body stiffened, adopting a defensive posture again. She
knew
it! She just
knew
he would not believe her! “Please let me go.” He obliged. She dropped into her seat, momentarily defeated. In the next moment, Roger was seated beside her again, this time ready to listen…and listen he did. Carolyn proceeded to go through the litany of experiences, beginning inside the barn, detailing instances in which she’d felt another presence; every time she’d felt threatened, harassed or otherwise put upon. The diatribe was a dissertation of sorts, delivered as a lecture to a skeptical student who’d finally have to admit the teacher had an all too real grasp of the material. He sat quietly. There was much to absorb, but were they lessons learned?