House of Darkness House of Light (61 page)

What Holly found most bizarre about this event was, as quickly as the child went into flight, as swift the motion which carried her, she did not impact the facing wall of the stairwell. Instead, she rounded a sharp corner with ease, as if gliding down the slide on a playground. Whatever had control of her had
complete
control for those few seconds as Holly went for one soft spill of a ride, bypassing the hard right angle turn with room to spare. If the girl had accidentally tripped or fallen on the staircase, there would have been no way to avoid striking the far wall in the bottom corner. According to basic laws of physics, some contact would have been necessary to halt the momentum; she would have been thumped and tumbled; guaranteed. Insisting she had been gently placed upon the bottom stair, Holly found herself there sitting upright, facing the adjacent door into the summer kitchen. Carolyn opened the door. She stood there with an armload of wood, studying the child’s face, so full of wide-eyed wonder; knowing for certain something odd had just happened to their houseguest. In that house, on that day, it was not just the living
at play.

All these many years later Holly fondly reminisces about the old farmhouse she dearly loved: a home place offering high adventure, warmth and comfort (only metaphorically), extended family and a rather wide variety of
friends
. Having witnessed innumerable incidents, she reflects upon these episodes as tertiary moments, not the primary source of her memories. The relationships she established are in the forefront of the recollections she has cherished for her lifetime. Though she rarely speaks of her supernatural encounters, Holly insists she never felt frightened in the farmhouse and always had a sense of being
looked after
and
safe
at all times; not threatened in any way. Truth be told, Nancy scared hell out of her…not the ghosts!

When Holly speaks of this now, some memories are vague and nondescript while others remain sharp and fresh in her mind. Even if she was not actually present for an encounter she knew of it by proxy, almost immediately, as one of the privileged few to hear about any significant experience; one of the few trusted and trustworthy souls; one who was visited whenever she visited the farmhouse. As manifestations began occurring in her presence, nonchalance about it was impressive, especially for one so young: No Big Deal. Even as a child her maturity and composure was evident. Her complete acceptance of the circumstances made them somehow less disturbing to her friends, far less intimidating to those forced to live in this environment full-time. By her own admission, Holly has chosen not to reveal these events from her childhood as an adult. She passed no judgment then nor does she now seek validation from uninformed, unenlightened individuals who wouldn’t understand. Holly does not care what others think…she
knows
. Though she and April have remained very close they hardly ever discuss these extraordinary episodes of their past; what happened in their presence so long ago at a farmhouse in a land far, far away. As Holly says, “It’s just a part of our family history.”

***

Cathi had come for a long overdue visit, her pug-nosed pup in tow; a pretty Pekinese named Cinnamon. They pulled in the yard driving a mail truck she bought at an auction. Cathi was always ahead of her time; recycling before it was hip. This unique vehicle with a steering wheel on the wrong side (on the right) was destined for use in the commission of a felony, aiding and abetting in the
rescue
of an old black stove; a crime which would require two intrepid trips. Bathsheba went along for the second ride. The smell was nauseating, even in an open air truck. Maybe she hated being house-bound. God knows she hated being Earth-bound! That witch hitched a ride on something other than the more conventional broomstick. Nobody saw her this day. Felt her? Yes. Smelled her? Oh, certainly so. It was to be a cool adventure in the heat of the summer. There would be junk food involved. Cathi delivered, toting a truckload of goodies; sustenance for a long journey ahead. They all crammed into the funky truck and headed into the woods of Foster, there to explore an old ramshackle estate, abandoned long ago. Carolyn had been there the day before with Fran, picking blueberries. From the moment she laid eyes on
her
stove, the mission was set in stone; cast in iron. She was certain the old place would burn to the ground. (It did, during that summer, roughly a month after their well-timed excursion.) The grand old estate was repeatedly vandalized; a tragic sight: the scene of the crime. Left exposed to the harsh elements, the windows had been shattered; its solid oak doors had been savagely fractured; splintered into kindling. All that survived these vicious attacks on a structure was something thugs and hoodlums could not destroy…it was stronger than the evil. The black stove, a
1909 Home Crawford
, stood alone in the debris, begging to be rescued; salvaged from the site. Carolyn was intent on saving it. All the men traveled together in the van; all the ladies gathered inside the mail truck. It was a bumpy, uncomfortable ride but spirits were high and the laughter, as pure as their purpose, sang along…even if their intention was to
retrieve
a valuable item from private property: Emancipation proclamation!

It was all Fran’s fault. She was constantly dragging Carolyn off to
new
old places to explore, providing an exciting journey, to be sure; Fran as a virtual tour guide…one fascinating historical trek after another. The morning before the heist, Fran popped her head in the kitchen door: “Want to go for a ride?” There was a devilish glint in the eyes of an angel.

“Famous last words…so where to
this
time?” Carolyn giggled with delight. “Don’t even bother telling me you just happened to be in the neighborhood and want some company; you want a co-conspirator!”

“To pick blueberries? I’m hurt! What could be more innocent?” Fran soon had her convinced. Carolyn abandoned her chores…again. They shared a cup of coffee before hitting the happy trail.

“Where are we going?” The hostess served her friend at the kitchen table.

“Out to the old Stanton Estate in Foster; there are hundreds of blueberry bushes there dripping with ripe fruit.”

“Private property?” Based on Fran’s history, a legitimate question she had to ask, though a response in the affirmative had never stopped them before.

“Well, technically speaking…don’t you know the story? It’s a famous one in these parts.”

“More folklore? Do tell!” Carolyn claimed a seat. Fran could hardly wait to tell her another tragic tale of yore…days gone by…a personal predisposition.

“The Stanton family built the house in the early 1800’s. After both parents died, the brother and sister kept the place and lived there together for the next sixty-five years. He used to do the shopping in the village but she never left their property; reclusive, I guess. Anyway, they were both into their eighties when it came to the attention of some villagers that Mr. Stanton was missing. He hadn’t been seen for weeks. So the sheriff went out to their house and the old lady started shooting at him! Wouldn’t let him anywhere near the place! Dementia; they had to take the poor woman by force…very sad. They found her brother’s rancid, decomposing body in the bed where he died. She would not part with him and put up one hell of a fight; the state police got involved. It was in all the papers. They placed her in a nursing home where she died a short time later. The house has been deserted ever since, for years…all those berries…going to waste. Come on! I’ll show you! Bring some big buckets!” Gulping her coffee, Fran headed for the kitchen door. Carolyn was intrigued and dutifully followed her friend. The girls had plans of their own, though a couple went along for the ride. Arriving home later in the day, Carolyn froze the blueberries then called Cathi, in search of another willing co-conspirator! Fran had been quick to introduce her cohort to the old black stove, endorsing the grand rescue plan though she did not participate in its liberation. Truth be told, she never thought Carolyn would actually do it!

Getting an early start was paramount. At first light the contingent headed to Foster, both get-away vehicles on the road by 6:00 a.m., before the promise of another hot day had a chance to manifest in form. When the group arrived at the site there was no time to waste, no chance to explore…quick: let’s go! The work was hard and heavy. Everyone pitched in, stripping a stove of each detachable piece of cast iron, leaving only a vacant shell behind. And then they were off…just that fast…thick as the thieves they were. Stove pipe had been carefully dismantled and removed from a chimney flue; it went with the first load. Within half an hour the deed was half done. Their trip home was a long one but not long enough to recover from all the exertion. An enormous amount of energy expended during the morning, the worst of this chore was still ahead of them. Her mail truck practically dragging bottom, Cathi was vigilant in her attempt to avoid the potholes rural Rhode Island is infamous for, hoping to return to the farm with her prized truck intact. Everyone was a nervous Wreck of the Hesperus; sweaty, dirty, skin smeared, hair streaked with the rusty residual debris of unkempt iron. Escaping unscathed bolstered their confidence even though Cathi kept glancing into the rear view mirror all the way home, watching for the blue light special squad car,
the stove police
laying-in-wait, ready to bring their adventures to an abrupt and unfortunate conclusion: Gotcha! Pulses raced and faces flushed. Riding shotgun, the kids kept eager eyes focused
out
, scanning the luscious landscape for the fuzz! A thrill ride: the rush of an imaginary low-speed chase. How absolutely brazen they’d been: sheer audacity at dawn. With the first round of blatant pilfering behind them, everyone felt a real sense of satisfaction. Pulling into the yard, having pulled off the devilish heist with a heavenly host, in their light hearts and aching muscles they all knew that to finish the task meant a more painful return for the second, even heavier load. The girls were excited and ready to go. Adults were feeling it by this time; their enthusiasm waning. At least the trip back to the farm had been, though cramped, more comfortable: ballast. It made for a much smoother ride; this classic chase topping out at just about twenty-five miles per hour all the way from the backwoods of Foster to the backwoods of Harrisville. Rather than being nabbed for speeding through a town, fugitives from justice were far
more
likely to be stopped for driving so suspiciously slowly! No need to get busted by the fuzz for rescuing a stove. Best to pick up the pace!

Sustenance being served on the porch: all hands on deck! Chicken and tuna sandwiches prepared the night before, at Cathi’s direction, the kids grabbed lunch then went to sit on the lawn. There Carolyn was not likely to notice all the
garbage
bags; assorted chips and cookies hidden among the gangly mix of arms and legs; another felonious act. Cathi had pulled three bags from her secret hiding spot underneath the transom of the truck: her stash. Completely surrounded, hands up, discreetly passing contraband within a tight circle of sisters; their devious criminal minds co-conspired to hide a bright yellow bag of Lay’s Potato Chips because it’s true what they say; you
can’t
eat just one!

All fat and happy, everybody returned to their respective vehicles; time to unload the
other
stash. Once all the pieces of the stove were heaved into the barn, exhaustion began setting in but there was no turning back; the deed was only half done. It had to be finished; time for a second round, a second wind required in lieu of a nap. Cathi had a clandestine cooler hidden in the truck: Coca-Cola…the real thing! She’d held it in reserve, suspecting the beverage would become a necessary evil; a component of the workday. Divulging her secret to Carolyn, a covert cooler stocked with caffeine, the mother grinned. Brilliant! It was hot. They were tired. What better drug to ply the hordes with in regards to increased productivity? Artificial stimulation: Yes! The perfect solution for lethargy; Carolyn requested her portion be infused intravenously. Nectar of the gods, it was; not the devil’s brew their mother often made it out to be, especially for these five children who’d rarely tasted the sweet treat on their lips. Each one of them downed an entire can. Laughter erupted with the bowels of somebody unaccustomed to digesting such waste products, so they presumed. Let the blame games begin! Who was to blame for this fragrant, flagrant offense? As the little
ladies
loaded into the back of a wide-open mail truck a rancid stench became overpowering. Something inside had died, gone to hell…and it had come back to haunt them.

“Okay, which one of you cut the Cheetos?” (A tendency toward bluntness; Cathi retains this propensity.) It was an odor pungent enough to bring tears to the eyes of its victims, which is what happened…from laughing so hard.

“Cheetos?” An inquiring mind, Carolyn had to know; Cathi holding out on her? “Any left for me?” Handing over a brightly-colored bag, Cathi stared as Carolyn shoveled junk in her mouth while stating the obvious: “You’re a bad influence on these brats!” Her sarcasm instantly retrieved an admonishment, one feigned in the first place. They had a unique way of teasing one another.

“Terrible. I know. And you are quite a role model, destroying the evidence! By the way, your face is orange. Remind me who called last night for help to steal a stove.” The cheese that goes crunch all over her chin: bless this mess.

“…to
rescue
a stove…” Carolyn: adamant about semantics, a proper usage in proper context with an unusually nuanced rationalization.

“Oh, yes, that’s right, and who was it suggesting the kids come along to do the heavy lifting?” Be damned the Inquisition! Mom, mounting her defense:

“They’re
really
strong!” A mother’s pride: beaming through playful eyes.

“Yes! They certainly are!” Cathi waved a hand to her nose, indicating that God-awful odor had yet to dissipate. “So tell me, whose idea was this?”