House of Darkness House of Light (21 page)

“You look so tired.” Carolyn glanced up from the task at hand, responding to his comment with a deflated expression then her sparse share of whispered words, indicating a willingness to speak with little energy left to do so.

“So do you.” She abandoned the task and sat down beside him, running her fingers through locks of his thick, black hair. He was a handsome man, easy on the eyes, especially so that chilly spring evening. She was grateful to have him home. He needed to know what had occurred in his absence.

“It was a really good trip. I can afford to take a few days off. Now, what’s all this about a fireplace, a coat hanger and a horse?” He smiled, prepared to indulge a lengthy diatribe, if necessary.

Carolyn had cleaned the parlor so thoroughly her husband did not notice: it was
different
. Likewise, she had effectively vented the putrid smell from the house. Assuming its presence was primarily due to disturbing so many years of accumulated debris from a chimney which had seen its fair share of birds and bats (and Lord knows what else had gotten trapped in the narrow shaft); as he had not detected an odor she didn’t even mention it. Instead, she began her explanation of the fireplace by exclaiming the
free
wood in the woodshed was going to waste, something he’d been well aware of; a point upon which they agreed. Roger was not the least bit upset with his wife’s initiative taken in the matter. In fact, it sparked his interest. A drowsy man rose from his bed with renewed vigor, returning to the parlor to examine a hole in the wall.

As she removed its wooden façade, exposing the black hole, Roger’s face spoke of impending firelight; he glowed like kindling igniting the flames of desire. Never expecting to find a pristine enclosure suddenly at his disposal, Roger crawled up inside to assess it from within. It appeared the flue was in excellent condition though he presumed they would need a chimney sweep to be properly prepared. Roger was literally awe-inspired. He had not thought it through, having yet to consider just how many months of his life would be spent tromping through the woods, out in cold and snow, a chainsaw roaring in his hands, once their ample supply of wood was depleted. He did not think of all the work involved…the former Boy Scout wanted to build a fire.

Pointing out the splendid beehive oven, when prying it open, a piece of the paint chipped away. Carolyn picked it up to study. Dense and multi-colored; layer upon layer of paint had been amply applied to the mantel board and its wainscoting, undoubtedly gorgeous wood beneath. Suggesting they strip the paint and restore the fine colonial specimen, she was surprised when her idea met with no resistance. Her husband was not only willing to see a huge chore accomplished, he was more than willing to pitch in. Likewise, he suggested they remove the old hearthstone replacing it with granite. A plan set in stone. The salesman took a full week off road; he stayed home, there to transform a fireplace into an amazing centerpiece of a farmhouse, if the
Zip Strip
fumes did not prove to be the death of him.

As the couple stood gazing into the open façade, discussing what to do and how next to proceed with this project, they heard the distinct “click” behind them; wrought iron against wrought iron. Turning to see the latch had again dislodged from the pantry door, it slowly drifted open…of its own free will. Roger was puzzled; Carolyn, exasperated. She clearly did not appreciate the exposure of a messy, musty laundry room detracting from their parlor. It had no heat or particular charm and the house was drafty enough!

“Now
that’s
a problem. Ever since I opened the fireplace this pantry door
refuses
to remain latched. I’ve been blaming the kids. You saw it. There’s no one else in here. The door opens by itself.” The woman was disturbed by it.

Roger considered the dilemma for a moment: what could have caused it to happen? He then calmly and methodically explained his theory…as there
is
a logical explanation for everything.

“I think when you yanked all the stuffing out of the fireplace it shifted the balance of weight in floorboards. It’s probably why…I’ll tighten that latch.” He’d closed the door, looking it over in the process. The piece fit snugly into its groove; a mystery. He reopened it, stepping back abruptly as if stricken, overcome by a sudden nauseating stench, prompting his sour expression.

“Jesus Christ! Do you smell that? What the hell died in there?” Slamming the door, Roger jammed the latch down; wedging it into its place. He fled the scene with his usual dramatic flair. “It’s awful! Something
is
dead in there!”

“Maybe a mouse got trapped in the pipes. I don’t know. The house reeked this morning, the
same
odor; not something I would forget. It must have been coming from the pantry. The door was wide open when I woke up and it has stayed that way ever since. I had to open doors and windows to get rid of it. At least I
thought
I got rid of it. Did you smell anything when you came in?”

“No.
That
disgusting stink
I would have noticed right away!”

Moving quickly out of the parlor, in a futile attempt to escape the pungent odor, they noticed a drastic plunge in temperature; each could
see
the breath of the other as they spoke. Roger was already annoyed. He marched over to the thermostat to inspect the
next
problem while his wife shivered, grabbing a nearby blanket as she followed her husband into the dining room. As if the space around them had suddenly sunken into a deep freeze, a chill dissipated as rapidly as the stench once they both acknowledged it. One moment it was there and then, in the next, it was gone.

“I think the thermostat is broken…the same thing happened this morning.” Carolyn wrapped herself snugly inside the blanket; the joys of haunted home ownership. Seating herself at the table, Andrea arrived with the large bowl of beef stew for her father. Waiting for Roger to join her, he was pacing again.

“I’ve lost my appetite.” He’d scowled at the food then changed his mind as the aroma wafted up, drifting into his nostrils, replacing the formerly horrid smell trapped there, lingering too long. Andrea disappeared into the kitchen, attending to the chores her siblings had artfully avoided. Carolyn remained with Roger. There was another subject to raise. He did so before she could.

“What’s this about a coat hanger?” His appetite indeed returned. Indulging himself, Roger listened with only mild interest as Carolyn tried to explain.

“Yesterday I went into the warm room to change after taking a shower. As I walked in, I was attacked; something beat me with a coat hanger.” Her tone was somber but direct.

“You were what?” She had his complete attention. “What did you say?”

“I can’t figure out what it was…how it happened. A hanger lifted up off the rack then struck me; hit me again and again. Everyone saw it, including Mrs. Pettigrew. She stopped by to visit. I yelled out from the shock of it. Everyone in the kitchen came running. It’s not my imagination, Roger. It didn’t
bounce
off me. It
hit
me, hard; over and over again. That is exactly what happened.”

The incredulous expression on his face spoke of doubt about the incident as described. He could not believe his ears. His eyes might convince him.

“You
accidentally
knocked a coat hanger off the rack and it hit you before hitting the floor: Gravity.” There was no question in his mind. He understood the cosmic laws of the land, or so he thought.
That’s
what happened. Period. No need for further discussion: speculation. As the world’s leading authority, he stated his claim as a matter of fact then returned to the stew in earnest.

“You weren’t in the warm room, Roger. You didn’t see it happen.” Having anticipated his reaction, Carolyn was no less defensive simply because she’d known what was coming. He would need to be persuaded to think about this incident in a different way. Carolyn allowed the throw around her shoulders to slip back over the chair. She began unbuttoning her shirt.

“What are you doing?” He glanced at her suspiciously.

“Offering proof: So you don’t believe me? Then look at this.” Peeling back the fabric hiding the wounds from sight, Carolyn exposed the bruises on her neck and shoulder to the man who’d questioned her voracity.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” He stared at her then stood to examine the bruising more closely. “You must’ve done this while you were opening the fireplace. There is
no way in hell
a coat hanger could have done
this
kind of damage!” He’d reached down to touch the tender spot but she pulled away from him, to avoid contact or any further pain: Inspection over. Carolyn buttoned her shirt and gingerly reached behind to pull the blanket back over her cold shoulders. Roger assisted his wife, not knowing what more to say.

“I broke three fingernails opening the fireplace, not the blood vessels in my neck. I didn’t want to tell you in the first place. I
knew
you wouldn’t believe me.” The disgust in her voice instantly put Roger on the defensive. “I am not a liar. After thirteen years of marriage you ought to know that by now. I have
never
lied to you and I’m not about to start now.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you. I think you’re confused.” He was certain.

“I’m
not
confused. I’m convinced. Something happened in the closet that I can’t explain and neither can you but since you weren’t there to see it, don’t bother trying.” Those sharp words and harsher tone told Roger to save all the theories and skepticism…and swallow them down with his stew. “Go ahead. Finish your dinner. It’s getting cold…little wonder in
this
house!” Carolyn stood abruptly, prepared to abandon her husband…so to return the favor.

“You’re being ridiculous.” The irascible one had to make matters worse.

“Oh, really? Fine. You can eat alone
and
sleep alone. Welcome home.”

Metal against metal, a “click” echoed through the room, silencing a debate.

“Your turn.” Pivoting in place, Carolyn left the room, joining her eldest in the kitchen. Assisting with evening chores, she stewed as long and hot as the sumptuous meal she’d prepared for her family. Hoisting the heavy stainless steel pot from the surface of the stove, it occurred to her: a
pressure cooker
was becoming a metaphor of her marriage. A symbol. An omen.

Bolting back into the parlor, Roger found the putrid stench overpowering, spoiling his dinner and souring his foul mood further. He saw the pantry door propped wide open as if it had been pushed back rather than drifting open as before. Slamming it shut, wedging the latch down into its slot, Roger glanced behind him while walking back toward the dining room, sensing a disturbing presence…one other than his own. Of course, it was only his imagination. A startling chill swept through his frame, stilling him en route. Contact. Fear. It seized him. Roger knew of only one reaction to have to fear and frustration; anger. All his huffing and puffing appeared in the air, visible as mist from his lips; a jolt of unfamiliar sensations caused a shaken soul to pause, reflecting upon the circumstances in a feeble attempt to identify an unidentifiable force. A power beyond mortal recognition had claimed him for a moment. Thinking someone just touched him, Roger swung around as if to take a swing at the intruder but she was out of sight, yet not out of mind; his mortal eyes did not behold her. Dismissing it as so much nonsense, he sat down hard in his chair, punishing
it
for being there, no doubt.

To this point, the dining room had been remarkably free of flies, especially so considering the presence of fragrant food. This was no longer the case. An absence went unnoticed until their presence filled the void. Buzzing his head with a vengeance, Roger swatted it away; worse yet, one of the evil demons perched itself on the rim of his bowl, effectively squelching his appetite, this time, permanently. It taunted him until the man exploded. Pounding his fist on the table…good aim; crushing his tormentor into the surface. Pushing the bowl away, he raged through the kitchen then into the bathroom to wash his defiled hand. All the overt grumbling beneath his breath was barely audible. Carolyn and Andrea remained in the pantry, grateful they could not hear the words flowing from this disgruntled man. As he passed through the kitchen again, Andrea peeked around the corner of the pantry to observe. Returning to her mother’s side, a nervous child asked what happened. She had vaguely heard an altercation; details escaped her at a distance but no one had missed the impact of his fist on solid maple. Andrea whispered her question.

“Mom. What’s wrong with dad?” The inquiry was sincere, full of concern.

“Well, now
that’s
the million dollar question.” Carolyn could muster only the weakest smile. “I think he’s having a temper tantrum. Don’t worry. He’ll calm down. All boys do in time, usually by the age of fifty…though that’s not true in
every
case!” she forewarned.

Attempting to make light of the situation, Carolyn was well aware her little Libran abhorred discord of any kind, especially in the home. Obviously upset by the ongoing dispute, a mother felt the need to reassure her eldest child.

“Is he mad about the fireplace?” Andrea’s dewy eyes tugged for an answer.

“No honey. He’s just MAD.” By lobbing a dollop of soapsuds on the tip of her daughter’s nose, Carolyn indicated she did not care to discuss it further. While scrubbing the thick steel wall of a bulky pressure cooker she lifted it from the sink, wincing as its weight pulled against damaged shoulder muscle, reminding her of the REAL issue on the table.

Unaware of the extent of the injuries she sustained, Andrea was concerned and gently pressed her mother for some answers.

“Are you all right, mom? Does it hurt much?” Her alarm was evident.

“I’m fine.” She raised the arm above her head to prove she could. “See?” It relieved some tension in the muscle…and in the room.