House of Darkness House of Light (13 page)

Galileo told humanity to look up; his concept of time and space Universal. Whitman told humanity to look down, describing a single blade of grass as the journey work of the stars. Truth be told, everyone must find their path to travel through life, hopefully one which leads out of the darkness and into the light. As a method of measurement based upon Nature itself, the invention of time was brilliantly conceived and still functions splendidly as the system by which humanity marks its existence: a precise, entirely arbitrary assignment yet, by its mere presence, establishing the concept of past, present and future. It is a calculated attempt to control and manipulate environment, providing a specific structure to be learned, accepted and followed by mortals in search of a purpose and meaning to an otherwise chaotic world. However, when one is close enough to touch, to smell and hear someone else who died centuries before they were born, this contact warps time and skews space for eternity. Nothing is ever the same. Nothing is ever small or compartmentalized again. An encounter of this kind rapidly expands
any
consciousness impacted by a vision that cannot be explained and cannot be denied. It does not fit the mold, that tidy little package of precepts constructed by humanity as the method to tally its toll. When mortals stare into the liquid blue eyes of an immortal soul, all time is suspended, fractured and dispersed into the ether in this moment of recognition. A tingling sensation, this infusion of energy forces any thinking being to reconsider time in a far more expansive context: Alternate Reality. Questions persist. What creates the vacancy at contact? Is there another place in space that has its own time? Does the existence of one preclude the other; functioning in terms like an over-write program superimposing itself on the instant it’s perceived? Is time significant, observed or necessary where spirits dwell? Do they attempt to measure infinity? These entities do not seem to adhere to constraints and limitations mortals impose on their own existence. Instead, they manifest in places where they do not belong, at least according to the current occupants. But what if they
do
belong? What if they never left? Suppose it is perfectly natural for them to be there…at home. There was so much to contemplate, as each encounter caused a pause for reflection. It was a stunning realization for each and every member of their family, compelling seven mortal souls to reconsider what time is and is not; to think about what it means to go backward, to have spirits come forward into shared space void of the concept of time, prompting a moment of silence. These ethereal beings are
present
in the world. No matter where they come from or where they are going, they are also here…simultaneously. Do human beings witness them as manifestation of memory? Is thought-energy so vivid, precise and intensely focused that a distant memory is capable of
appearing
in the setting where a thought or an action originally occurred? Is time an illusion, practiced by the illusionists who created it to provide them a creature comfort? Thoughtfully considering the concept, Carolyn explored while her husband continued to be actively uncomfortable with the notion. For Roger, it was only a matter time before he too would be confronted by this inconceivable, unacceptable truth; only a matter of time before he could no longer deny his own Reality.

The simplest solution to this dilemma was also the most obvious; five little girls who could not understand what they sensed, seeking respite and refuge, escaped into the woods. Nature is not abrupt or abusive. It does not come and go; it is. It is patient and passive, teaching its lessons by osmosis. Gradually retreating into four seasons, so to measure their passage of time at the farm, children were blessed to discover a certain timeless quality about the floor of a forest. In the woods, everything made perfect sense: Simpatico in Nature.

“Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.”

Lao Tzu

~ the meandering Nipmuc River ~

 
contact

“Unless you believe you will not understand.”

Saint Augustine

To become one with spirit: to be touched by an ephemeral being, no matter how briefly, is a wholly breathtaking experience; an ethereal journey through time and shared space. It leaves one profoundly and permanently altered. A perpetual questioning of the senses is abandoned over time, replaced with an unquestionable belief as mortal minds are forced to absorb then reconcile an irreconcilable difference between dimensions: alternate reality in new Light.

***

The front hallway connecting the kitchen to the dining room was the most frequently traveled route and least comfortable place in the house. Their dog refused to pass through it, regardless of any enticement offered. Over time it would be recognized and accepted as a veritable hot/cold spot of supernatural activity, though no one immediately understood its full implications. Instead, they’d scurry through this oddly disquieting passageway, ignoring what they could not see. Children moved quickly through that corridor, unconsciously sensing the presence, always feeling
watched
within its dark spaces. Nobody ever lingered long near a cellar door; no tempting fate allowed. It was where two of them had seen this man; a phantom standing in the corner behind the door, on the day they moved into the house. The other three had not yet seen him but felt a natural aversion to that cold dampness; the smell of an earthen cellar seeping through the cracks of the door to avoid. Months later, when the children began comparing mental notes on the subject, each of them reported a specific, identical sensation evoked in the hallway; a need to evade a space. Unfortunately, it was a main route through the house and went to a bedroom upstairs as well. Both of the stairwells posed their own series of hazards.

Cynthia was the first to make contact; physical with metaphysical contact. The school bus had arrived. She was not ready to go. Her books were stacked in a pile in Andrea’s bedroom stairwell, clear on the other side of their house, right where she’d left them on her way down for breakfast. All of her sisters were leaving as she rushed through the kitchen, into the hallway, her mind focused on one thing: books. Their driver was beeping the horn: “Let’s go!” Cynthia wasn’t thinking about a spooky feeling she often had in that hallway, running far too quickly to care at the time.

Perhaps that fact is precisely what left her vulnerable to attack; open to this encounter, as her defenses were down; virtually non-existent in the panic of that moment. As she stepped across the threshold of the kitchen door, Cindy was intercepted by a silky, smoky figure emerging through the cellar door. It placed itself directly in her path. There was no time to stop. No time or react. She’d inadvertently body-slammed the intruder; as she did so, it disappeared, vaporizing instantly. The apparition was indistinguishable, more a mass than an actual form. At point of impact, its intense odor and frigidity all but halted her momentum, knocking her back in her tracks. She breathed it deeply into her lungs with a gasp of frozen air. This sudden, foul influx caused her body to lurch into spasms, coughing convulsively; propelling the girl forward with violent jolts: a reflex reaction. It had literally stopped her cold. As her sisters boarded the bus their driver waited less impatiently, reassured that Cindy was on her way. She’d finally made it to the bus stop but her mother was picking her up from school within the hour. What happened adversely affected the youngster in a way she could not recognize as cause. The normally boundless energy of an eight year old had been depleted, her sprint rudely interrupted; abruptly and inexplicably, by something wicked. When Cynthia fell asleep at her desk, the teacher called the nurse. Carolyn put her into bed and there the child remained, sleeping for the next two days and straight through the night. Nobody suspected anything more sinister than the onset of a cold. In a way, that’s exactly what it was. It took time for her to fully recover from a contact which occurred between mortal and immortal one chilly winter morning.

This metaphysical intermingling, though brief, effectively robbed the child of her life force; it required an inordinate amount of time to replenish. Cindy didn’t have a virus or a cold; she had an encounter. Contact was made. It was what they did and how they did it…how they could and would usurp then divert a form of energy for their own nefarious purposes; they
took
whatever they wanted from whatever source was available, so to manifest as form. The spirits drained energy from the house and its inhabitants in a variety of ways but nobody realized it or suspected anything of the kind for months to come. Even when this did occur to Carolyn, she doubted her own intuition about it. This concept seemed entirely implausible and yet it was precisely what was happening in the house. Cynthia was the initial point of contact; the first one to feel the stunning sensation: the passing essence of death itself, stealing and stocking whatever it could as a method of manifestation…as an infiltration.

“There is a land of the living and a land of the dead

and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.”

Thornton Wilder

 
a chill in the air

“Whenever evil befalls us, we ought to ask ourselves, after the first suffering, how we can turn it into good. So shall we take occasion, from one bitter root, to raise perhaps many flowers
.”

Leigh Hunt

The frigid dampness of the house could not be overcome. It had an adverse effect on everyone, but Carolyn seemed to sense it most profoundly. Within a few days of moving into the ancient structure, her joints began to throb and ache and her knees began visibly swelling. It quickly became a chronic pain, primarily attacking the joints and connective tissue of this young, strong and agile woman. Attributing her pain to the grueling process of moving, Carolyn had invested countless hours packing…and then unpacking their belongings. The boxes were heavy and she’d lifted dozens of them. Though stiff and sore every morning, she usually ignored it, far too busy to focus on much else but her kids and their needs, especially on school days. She got up and got going. Moving around was its own form of therapy. A hot shower handled the worst of the pain, most of the time. Carolyn thought this was a temporary malady, one which would surely subside once they were settled in. It was an improper assumption to make; thinking it would heal in time and she would have time to heal. Struggling through those few remaining boxes was its own reward. It was a Christmas celebration in February. She discovered a bevy of treasures missing for months and in some cases, years. Several of these boxes yielded memories from her youth, things she’d tucked into the back of her bedroom closet well more than a decade earlier. In spite of all of her stress and strains, Carolyn kept her spirits up, taking pleasure in the little delights; simple gifts. A long lost trinket found, a book of poetry longing to revisit anxious eyes.

In spite of pain, she persevered, certain it would subside. It never did. She would often shake her head and say: “I’m too damn young to feel this old.” It was awful; a mean-spirited season. Winter was relentless; no respite. Though physical labor finally came to an end, the pain lingered, gradually worsening. Opting out of chores requiring too much of her joints, especially shoveling, Carolyn began to withdraw into a shrinking form, cocooning in blankets and heavy sweaters; doing whatever she could to avoid freezing to death though she was never really warm. Nothing helped. Eventually, this insidious aching spread throughout her entire being, as if possessing a pulse of its own; a life force, reserving the worst of its cruelty for her slender neck, settling in as if planning an extended stay. Carolyn began to complain: it felt as if something was broken. The local doctor told her to
take it easy and stay warm.
“A total waste of time and money!” was how she described the appointment. Not long afterward she realized this was a strange and different dis/ease; it had nothing to do with muscles being pulled by moving heavy objects. A dank dampness had penetrated her body. She recalls it as an oppressive weight crushing her rigid, frozen joints. The woman was becoming too cold to move and too tired to care. Retiring to the relative warmth of her bed for hours a day, the young mother felt old; decrepit. A fierce primal urge begged to be satisfied; Carolyn required the elemental comfort of fire to survive this ordeal called winter.

Why? A naturally inquisitive woman could not help but wonder why all of the fireplaces had been sealed shut. Why had Mr. Kenyon been so evasive on the subject when she broached it with him? Why were there certain spaces in the house which felt so much colder than others did? How could Carolyn see her own breath when someone standing right beside her would claim to feel perfectly comfortable at the mere mention of this observation? Increasingly agitated by a pervasive chill in the air, she began demanding answers. There had to be a logical explanation; a sensible solution to this problem. It was as though she was being held against her will; forced to stay, to live in a harsh, inhospitable environment with no hope of escape. HELL! She just got there! As if buried alive under snow, trapped in her dream home, it was the first of many nightmare scenarios yet to manifest as her destiny. Try as she might, it soon became evident to all; Carolyn could not dig herself out of this one! In too deep…already in over her head…drowning in despair and discontent.