House of Darkness House of Light (45 page)

“Have you learned the lessons only of those who admired you, and were tender with you, and stood aside for you? Have you not learned great lessons from those who braced themselves against you, and disputed passage with you?”

Walt Whitman

 
demon doors

“Ring the bells that still can ring / Forget your perfect offering.

/ There is a crack in everything, / That’s how the light gets in.”

Leonard Cohen

The farmhouse had a life of its own. Its doors were not simply wooden and hardware barriers between rooms. They were passages between dimensions; the form and function of time travel. Each door in the house was a portal to the past and future, as well as present, but they were also utilized as an overt method of communication; for the pronouncement of a presence. The spirits were all perfectly capable of coming and going without the benefit of doors and windows. They often walked right through them, especially the children. None requiring anything tangible to make a grand entrance; their presence alone was enough to capture the attention of any mortal and yet, the wrought iron latches would mysteriously lift, creaky doors would slowly open, as if for dramatic effect. Click. Thankfully there were no doorbells; based on how they misused the telephone, a doorbell would have been, at best, an incessant nuisance. They manipulated many objects with ease. It was rather unnerving, walking past their cellar door as something wicked pounded on it from the other side. Even more rattling: to be a child trapped inside a dark space with no escape due to a door which refused to open…because that’s how the light gets in. Or, to be suddenly and inexplicably released during the course of the struggle, the violent thrashing; the begging and screaming with tears pouring from eyes which could not see in the darkness, knowing no one could hear it. Click. A vicious joke played time and time again; a hideous game of cat and mouse: the haunting and tauntingly common occurrence in their household. Click. It became an identifiable sound, an eerily familiar snap to attention for whoever was within hearing distance, prompting immediate notice. A trigger. A calling card. A warning. A threat. Click. Whoever heard it happen would instantly question: does someone want a sweater or is it the essence of death entering the room? Those few seconds were the most intolerable of all; fear of the unknown. The time to be scared; nobody knew what was coming from the other side: Next. Fear is born of the unknown; mortals are captivated by the darkest recesses of imagination. Boo! but who was holding them captive? To be locked inside a space where no lock exists on the door one is wrestling with…this is the definition of fear. The demon doors would not always allow access or escape. An incredibly powerful force could keep them closed, as if locked, when it came time to run for one’s life. The series of pathways and portals throughout the house were completely benign one minute, malignant the next. Cellar doors, pantry doors, bedroom doors, borning room, chimney closets, every entrance to the eaves: all problematic at one time or another. Each was a potential prison, all twenty-four of them. No Exit. No Entrance.

Click.

Yet another definition of fear: being the sister on the other side of the door fighting to release her captive sibling; a story all its own. So many incidents happened, it would become redundant to tell every tale, but those of marked significance have been included. Of greatest importance to note is this fact: the farmhouse was alive with death. Those who’d passed, desiring to make a grand entrance, did so in terms mortals were capable of understanding. Click. It was a signal. A clue. An omen. A harbinger of
someone
to come, perhaps (but not necessarily) someone wicked. As a putrid odor and a pervasive chill frequently accompanied whatever spirit flipped the latch, it became easier to distinguish friend from foe relatively quickly. High alert was the paranormal reality of life. After awhile, everyone came to accept it as such. Just as every spirit had its own personality, every door made an original sound all its own, based upon its weight and depth, how warped the wrought iron had become over centuries of use. So many variables; never the same sensation twice: so many souls…prepared to make a grand entrance.

It was frightful. It was likewise a gift. Not everyone on the other side was so frightening. That’s how the Light gets in; the crack of a door could often be quite illuminating. Click. Boo who knows? An intrepid journey continued.

In time, a conditioned response, a reflexive reaction became the norm with every member of the family as they learned it might
not
be a mortal entering the room. Heads up! Cynthia made this mistake only once. Lesson learned. Hide ‘n seek was destined to be abandoned as a pastime. Roger would offend a friend and April would make one. Holly felt comforted, as someone was watching over her in the night. Carolyn would find herself comforted by an unlikely confidante; a spirit who had likely been in the same position at some point during her lifetime. To hear the sound or see the light from beneath the crack of a door opening was never a mundane event, not simply a promise of procession, of someone coming and going. It was often far more significant. There was a reason to take notice; reason enough to remain mindful of who was in the farmhouse and where they were located. Mommy’s in the kitchen. Daddy’s in the parlor. Few children grow up in such circumstances, though it does make them exceedingly self-aware, with purpose. When space is shared it is best to know who is languishing in the shadows and emerging from the light; best to be alert. Friend or foe…you never know.

Opening the fireplace was essentially an overt act of removing a door, thus exposing a portal. Once that dirty deed was done, open, everything changed. Ultimately it would prove to be a pathway to uncommon knowledge; another way for the Light to get in…creating a crack in the cosmos.

What prompts a five year old child to hear a
click
then look toward a door, pointing out the true nature of the problem? How could she know
something bad happened in there
? Was its opening an invitation to discovery? No one knew. A declaration? Perhaps. It was intentional and it was a paranormal part of life: Familiar. This chapter of their story began when opening the fireplace as the pantry door in the parlor soon became a persistent dilemma. It had not “behaved” this way prior to the demolition process. As these two events had coincided, it followed logically. Some connection must exist between them, though no one has been able to determine the precise nature of this presumed attachment. April believes someone in there was trying to escape and did not succeed; she was the one who sensed a persona related to the space, insisting something awful happened to the spirit in the pantry. But why the delay? Had restoring a fireplace disrupted the Universe? Had it somehow created a ripple effect? Sent a shock wave through the space
/
time continuum? So it seems. One explanation seems as good as another when no one knows what they are talking about. Over time, one entirely dismisses the desire to know. Truth be told, there is no rational explanation for it. Period. A single event triggered something supernatural, unleashing an evil influence. A cosmic presence: A vital force of Nature as a wonder to behold. Something was already present when this family arrived at the farm, so it matters not, the reason why. It was there and it had always been there, long before they crossed the threshold. So why wonder? What difference does it make? Why does this insatiable thirst for knowledge persist when it serves no purpose? The spirits were not going anywhere and coming from everywhere? Why not accept defeat gracefully? Let the chips fall and the doors slam. Attitude is everything. Sam had said so.

It is said by those who claim to be
in the know
that when God closes a door He opens a window. But what happens when He opens a door? Who knows?

“If we wonder often, the gift of knowledge will come.”

American Indian Proverb

~ click ~

 
knock knock knock

“Fear knocked at the door. Faith answered. And lo, no one was there.”

Author Unknown

Stagnant air refused to move, refused to breathe a breeze through any open window: Oppositional. Defiant. August was brutal, an unforgiving month in the valley. Antagonistic. Belligerent. Relentless heat settled like squatters in pastures thick with fog, moist with morning dew as mist descending to Earth on a moonless night before attempted to rise and reunite with the Sun, but the air was heavy as honey and the day had just begun. A run down to their river would be the only respite. But first…Carolyn made her list. Destination: the A&P in Pascoag, there to do their shopping for the week. Under the guise of helping mom, the children went along in hopes of catching a refreshing wisp of air conditioning from the only place they could; the frozen food section of the blissfully cool business establishment. There was no point in buying ice cream. It would never survive the ride home. The delightful dairy treat would succumb to this heat; it could not endure the trunk and would surely liquefy by the time the carton made the trip, much like the kiddies crammed together in the back seat of the car. No harm in looking, though…or breathing it all in.

The vehicle was like a pressure cooker, wide open windows barely venting an unbearable steam heat. As the crowded car made its way back through the village onto a desolate Round Top Road, all but deserted of traffic during this time of day, air unfit to breathe was suffocating the lot of them, including the driver. Carolyn glanced in the rearview mirror. An artificial breeze feathering through their flowing manes, carefree kids stuck their heads out of windows, urging her to drive faster…faster…pink tongues flapping in feigned protest, wagging like a pack of wild dogs rounded up and out on a joyride. Everyone grabbed the brown paper bags from the trunk then dutifully folded them for reuse once groceries found their way onto pantry shelves, perishables into the fridge. In a few minutes, the task at hand complete, they made a break for it; downhill racing…escaping a hot house for a cool riverbed.

There was a special kind of freedom all the ladies enjoyed when Roger was away. They loved him dearly though could not help but frolic in his absence; no schedules, no expectations: Liberation!
Whenever he was gone it afforded the six who remained behind an opportunity to relax, to abolish the routine; a luxury they did not have when he was home…unless it was
his
idea. Dinner was served around eight, maybe nine; whenever it was ready and everyone was good and hungry. It tastes better that way! Nothing too elaborate: simple soup and sandwiches as a main meal; something Roger would
never
tolerate: a meat-and-potatoes Frenchman. Its timing to the table was dependent on so many other activities…not the other way around. Their music was too loud, the laughter raucous; frolicking was encouraged. In fact, it was a compulsory program during the summer, if for no more purposeful reason than to create a counterbalance to the many chores and responsibilities the children assumed as occupants of the farm. During the dog days of summer it was a priority to play with the dog, romping through the river. She got hot, too. The water was safe; low and easy to navigate. The shoals were brimming with activity, alive with the excitement of discovery.
Scrabble
and
Parcheesi
were reserved for evening hours. While the Sun was still shining a day was not done; as long as there was sufficient light to see where they were stepping, the girls retained a blissfully unfettered access to the river. There was no such thing as boredom on the farm; for a variety of reasons…never a dull moment.

Returning several hours later, everyone agreed; the only thing missing, the only one who’d kept it from being a perfect day was Cathi, her stark absence duly noted. She had recently returned to Nova Scotia again and was missed. Other than this, all the ladies thoroughly enjoyed their outing into the woods. Tick inspection time. When the unsavory ritual was finished and the girls had picked each other’s bodies like monkeys in the forest, they turned the parlor into a flop house: Crash…naps all around. The house was quiet. Carolyn was the first one off the sofa, heading for the kitchen; a pantry full of provisions giving her an array of ideas for a dinner plan congealing along the route. She decided on tuna sandwiches and tomato soup; a quick fix well-received by a drowsy crowd. Sated; time for a shower then early to bed. Early to rise: much earlier than anyone could have expected or predicted.

By 10:00 p.m. Carolyn was sloshing around in their king-sized waterbed, once all the girls were soundly asleep. Having recently renovated the summer kitchen so to escape the many perils of their unusually super/active bedroom, supernaturally speaking, Carolyn was in her new digs, minus one husband on this particular night. Exhausted by the heat, wrung out like a wet dishrag, she began falling off to sleep almost immediately. As she began to relax, a jolt of electricity passed through her, converting her body and mind instantly rigid with panic; fully alert. Danger!
What the hell was that!
The house shook. It rumbled and groaned from the impact. Jennifer was suddenly up on all four, as alarmed as her family, barking hysterically. Carolyn could not move. Her natural instinct was to rise up and investigate; to go protect her children and vanquish the intruder. Someone had pounded on the door with such force and fury it rattled a rib cage. A body oppressed by a power she couldn’t discern, it held her in place. Struggling to free herself from a virtual stranglehold so intense she could barely breathe, Carolyn heard the footsteps of her children. They were running to their mother, terrified, certain someone was attempting entry under cover of darkness. At first Andrea, then Christine and Cynthia came thundering down their bedroom stairs. Nancy and April came from the far side of the house. They’d found her lying in bed, her eyes searching their faces in desperation. Andrea went to get the flashlight and began peering out windows, peeking onto the porch. It sounded as if it had come from the front door in the parlor, or possibly the other front door situated in the hallway to the kitchen. Nancy insisted it happened on her side of the house, nearer to the kitchen, though nobody knew for sure because the explosive, booming noise reverberated throughout their farmhouse. April hovered close to her mother. An apparent paralysis afflicting the woman began to subside. It was a frantic few minutes of girls scampering beneath the overlay of a frenetic soundtrack; an incessantly barking dog. The frontal assault sounded like a battering ram striking the structure – three heavy blows in perfect syncopation – blunt force trauma for all involved. Everyone wished dad was home. Freedom isn’t free.