House of Darkness House of Light (30 page)

“Mommy! I had a
really
bad dream. It was terrible!”

“Oh, my God.” Carolyn scooped Cindy up in her arms.

Andrea searched her mother’s eyes, kissing her little sister on the forehead before going back upstairs to bed. Carolyn led Cindy to the sofa, listening as intently to an eerily similar rendition of a nightmare
she had heard described with identical detail only moments before. Reassuring her that it was all over, she tucked her into the soft corner of the sofa where she promptly fell asleep. Rising to tend to the fire, Carolyn paused, staring into the flames. Retrieving her tablet from the desk drawer, she stared at the figure she had sketched in some haste; an issue compounded by its discovery. The obsequious dilemma worked on her mind while she sifting through the pages of a notebook which needed to remain well-hidden
.
Milk Bread
Salt
Coming across a recent grocery list, Carolyn took comfort in its normalcy, reminding her of how life used to be
.
Mayo Butter Coffee Sugar Flour Cheese
Standing on the hearthstone, she examined what had been nothing more than a notebook the day before. Yet, with this inclusion of her incoherent scribbles and sketches, scraps of words, notes and images transcribed onto its lined pages of paper, it was inadvertently transformed into an object of some significance.

Feathering through its pages with her fingertips, she continued perusing the manuscript. Delving the depths of a tablet, she found a hodgepodge of notes and lists and lines of poetry. Addresses, phone numbers, dates to remember peppered the pages with ink spots: a series of drawings, from apple blossoms to dress designs, a list of home improvement ideas filled pages; pipe dreams. Carolyn picked up another pencil. Beneath “Replace the kitchen sink” she wrote, “Get rid of the goddamned ghosts!
That
will improve the home!” Her disdain of an evil fiend duly noted beneath its proper heading, she moved on.

Myriad images scattered in no discernible pattern, juxtaposed against most recent entries in the register, caused her to pause and reflect on the journey. It was surreal. Metamorphosis occurred on two fronts, permanently altering her concept of reality as well as the formerly utilitarian status of the simple spiral notebook. In Carolyn’s hands lay a tablet of secrets, as precious as any diary, considering the sensitive nature of insights contained within. From mundane to morbid, silly to profound, she held a virtual treasure trove which, with the lone admission of a single event, became an object to hide, covet and protect.

With the turn of another page, Carolyn came across a few precious lines of poetry which touched her heart years before; lines she would unconsciously commit to paper during moments lost in thought, giving a hand something to do. Reading the words again, it suddenly struck her; these were the lines she had recited while sitting on the lawn with Mr. Kenyon, watching as beads of water trickled down the side of a glass, resembling teardrops.

“And still other brothers and sisters,

Linked their arms together,

Walked down the dusty road where once he ran

And into the deep green valley

To sit on the stony banks of the stream he loved

And let the murmuring waters

Wash over their blood-hot feet with a springing crown of tears.”

Carolyn closed the notebook. Lodging it toward the back of a drawer inside the desk, well aware she’d need to find a more secure place for safe-keeping, there was a more immediate concern. That staggering fatigue she battled had returned with a vengeance. She again sought salvation in the kitchen; another cup of coffee…this time with a cigarette.

Head hanging heavily over a steaming cup she considered her predicament. The lethargic stupor she suffered was something beyond fatigue: Exhaustion. No. It was beyond exhaustion. Not natural; supernatural in Nature. It was the same kind of tired she had seen on her eldest daughter’s face before the child went back to bed. She recognized it. Andrea left her that morning appearing as if she’d aged overnight: a burdened soul. Cindy emerged from a stairwell in a panic; in pure desperation. Had they been the only ones? What had three other children endured in the night? Was this truly a family affair?

During her unexpected report, Andrea divulged hearing her mother scream in a nightmare of a wakened dream. Carolyn was certain she had been unable to utter any audible sounds in the midst of this crisis. Perplexed, wondering if the girls had been witness or participant, (perhaps both simultaneously), no question remained in her mind. Her children had been approached. Residual waves of nausea crashed against her stomach. This perpetrator committed, at the very least, a psychological assault, detrimental to all of
its victims. These thoughts evoked an oppressive sense of foreboding; a sense she feared would be forever. This was not over…not by a long shot. Carolyn began humming a sweet song Sam left behind, his rendition of
Apple Blossom Time
. It was her futile attempt to recapture the life she once knew; naïve. Perhaps her troubled mind went where it was most comfortable; a pretty place in a happy moment, longing for a time before abject terror informed, colored and time-warped her world. Carolyn’s perception of everything changed. It happened so suddenly, so drastically, she barely recognized herself in the midst of this new life in an old farmhouse coming alive with death. How to preserve a memory against a vicious onslaught? How to restore sanity to an irrational situation? How then to protect the kids and defend herself? It was war. Peace was an illusion.

There was no solace in suspicions confirmed. Carolyn lifted the cold cup of coffee to her lips, unaware so much time had lapsed while pending dilemmas brewed in her thoughts. Startled by the sensation, she drank it down anyway; bitter but potent. Needing all the help she could get during these trying times, she struggled to reconcile rapidly expanding perceptions of Life and Death.

She was cold…frozen stiff. Carolyn could barely lift her body up from the chair. As she did, carefully, deliberately, as if crippled by frigidity, thoughts occupied her mind which would haunt her consciousness for years to come; the duration of her lifetime. Each time she looked into a mirror a mother was forced to bear witness; the result of an aging process inexplicably accelerated while living in a farmhouse she had chosen, a place which would insidiously rob the young and lovely woman of her youth. “So this is how decrepit feels. This is what it looks like, feels like to be old.” Her beauty was the sacrificial lamb destined for slaughter upon an unholy altar. Transformation had begun.

Carolyn dragged her body back to the fireplace. A pile of ashes and embers required more kindling, which she slid beneath the lone charred log: Ignition. Seeking the warmth so often eluding her, Carolyn put her feet to the fire. Too close…she always stood too close to the flames. An attempt to warm oneself from without when the chill comes from within poses hazards to one’s health as a thoughtless, distracted act; like playing with fire. Leaning forward to rest her head on the mantelpiece, Carolyn allowed her eyes to close momentarily. She knew what had dispelled the demon in their midst. It did not go away on its own. An entity departed, not of its own volition; only because something even
more
powerful had intervened on her behalf at dawn. Bowing her head against the ancient wood, as though seated in the darkness of a confessional, she’d closed her tired eyes in search of Light, seeking the Holy Spirit of God. Silently engaged in a private fireside chat with her Creator, perceived as her savior, a contemplative woman felt utterly depleted, though her gratitude was entirely pure; sincere. Lamb of God…who takes away the sins of the world; have mercy on us all: A mother’s prayer…for her children.

“
Jesus Christ!
” Roger was awake. Due to this outburst, so was Cindy, still bundled on a sofa. No one took offense, except perhaps for God. His frequent proclamation was presumed by all to be his exuberant form of prayer; as an overt request for help. Opening their bedroom door, he emerged, battered and bruised; raw, bloody abrasions stinging in the cool morning air. Rubbing his tender scalp, Roger demanded to know what the HELL had happened to him! Hell happened. Turning her back toward a fire Carolyn stared at her husband. He found her eyes vacant; orbs void of hope, as cold as the hearthstone upon which she stood. Appearing calm and composed, she peered directly into his angry gaze, indicating the presence of a child in the parlor, informing him in silence with a nod. It wasn’t the time or place for any indiscretion on his part. It was clear; a serious conversation was called for, but it would have to wait. Instead, Carolyn quietly issued a proclamation of her own, a singular demand made of a man distraught and confused; one who did not want to understand what was occurring in the house, in their own bedroom, for that spirit matter. These words, as did her eyes, pierced the light of sunrise with their darkness, telling him all he needed to know at the moment.

“Get dressed. We’re going to church.”

***

Some date night: A date with destiny. A date with death. The kiss, bestowed. Roger’s night out with his wife struck a chord in the Netherworld; the timing of it, too suspect. Good and evil in bed together. Carolyn wasn’t the only one to experience an encounter too close for comfort, but her husband had been spared the curse of consciousness in the midst of evil. His wife: not as lucky. Roger dared to take a lady out to dinner and a movie and there would be hell to pay when he got home. Only a date: but with which mistress of the house?

“Oh God, early in the morning I cry to you.

Help me to pray and gather my thoughts to you, I cannot do it alone.

In me it is dark, but with you there is light;

I am lonely, but you do not desert me;

My courage fails me, but with you there is help;

I am restless, but with you there is peace;

In me there is bitterness, but with you there is patience;

I do not understand your ways, but you know the way for me.”

Dietrich Bonhoeffer

 
omens

“Hope is some extraordinary spiritual grace that God

gives us to control our fears, not to oust them.”

Vincent McNabb

Nearly another year passed before Carolyn was visited again. In the interim much transpired. Roger did his best to stay as close to home as possible but their emotional turmoil kept driving him away, literally, for periods of respite under the guise of doing his job. There were times when it seemed as though all of his business was elsewhere…
anywhere
else! His spouse was no longer concerned about having him around as a protective presence; he had virtually no influence or power to prevent an assault sustained and could not even help himself: as it was one thing to be lulled into a false sense of security but quite another to be lulled into a coma. Rescue came from a higher power. Touched by a benevolent spirit which vanquished an evil presence in darkness before dawn, Carolyn had become forever changed. She did not need him anymore.

***

Though the entity vanished, perpetual fear of it remained. A constant sense of dread tormented Carolyn, as if the stunning apparition were omnipresent; merely invisible. It occurred to her: she had no viable options; all she could do was wait to see how powerful her prayers had been. Was an evil presence gone for good? Did she dare to hope it was over? Was the home repair prayer a real fix…or a temporary patch job? Anxiety proved a thief in its own right, depleting her energy and stealing an enthusiasm for life. Partnering with fear, together they had spawned a toxic environment; a persistent, low-level terror. The terrorist among them won initial battles of this war, as success in conflict is measured by the attack…likewise by its aftermath. A terrorist takes certain satisfaction by instilling the permanent sense of foreboding within the psyche of its victims; establishing an expectation of future attack: what next? When?

Stress was magnified further by the pressing need to keep a secret. Carolyn had to be discreet; exclusive, reserving her supernatural suspicions for only a few close personal friends. It was critical she be selective, choosing souls she trusted implicitly; Cathi Urbonas and Samuel Olevson: a short list to be sure. Roger was duly informed, provided with all the gory details of the encounter, pictures as proof. He claimed to accept her account of events at that time, his body bearing the evidentiary scars, having been subject to a
nightmare
of his own. Secretly, he blamed her for his wounds…and vice versa.

Carolyn had rightfully perceived the visitation as a warning and a threat; an omen. Wandering the house in light of day, certain knowledge cast a constant shadow over her consciousness. Awake and watchful in the dark of night, she kept a constant vigil. Withdrawn and withering away, Carolyn made a valiant attempt to disguise the all-consuming fear devouring her. Insidious thoughts became a perpetual distraction, plaguing her, depriving her of the happiness she sought: joy interrupted. Flashbacks to trauma lurked within her troubled mind, traipsing through it, running like an incessant series of film clips. The girls knew; something was wrong with mommy. Andrea knew precisely what that
something
was yet had to abide by her mother’s wishes. Keep the secret. Play pretend. It proved a futile effort. Spirits who dwelled among the living were revealing themselves in death, haunting all the inhabitants of the house. The phenomenon had effectively touched every mortal, sometimes literally, at one time or another. They’d simply neglected to talk about it, but that was about to change. Within weeks of the manifestation there would be no more secrets kept; disclosures forthcoming with a stunning rapidity. Sisters began approaching the eldest among them, offering anecdotal evidence; disturbing revelations: cause for alarm. A clarion call to arms prompted by a truth being told, the girls were seeking nothing less than validation. Enlisting a sister, her role as a formal representative on their behalf, they sought relief but were all hesitant to burden their mother further. No parent could ever be prepared for what they would share in confidence…they all had a story to tell.