House of Darkness House of Light

by Andrea Perron

  They did not want to be robbed of their childhood. As questions mounted, becoming more dark and ominous by the day and night, resentment began to brew in the cauldron of discontent. At some point, it was bound to boil over. This is precisely what was happening to Cynthia and four siblings who were learning things they did not want to know. How? Exposure and repetition. Countering darker questions, they kept asking their own in songs of light: Would you like to swing on a star? Carry moonbeams home in a jar? Yes.

  They all gather together now as a congregation of five, to reminisce about the holy land. What began as a natural childhood and later transformed into a supernatural upbringing they experienced as one was the result of a move to a place in the country. They sing happily, as they once did, swinging as high in the sky as the Law of Gravity allows: Fly me to the moon and let me play among the stars. Let me see what life is like on Jupiter and Mars. They learned words are something sacred. Even the most trivial have meaning. For good or evil, the word is powerful, though not powerful enough to keep the demons away from the other side of death’s door, darkening by the day and night. Mrs. Warren taught the girls words for protection that she appeared to have the utmost faith and confidence in but they didn’t work; words meant to establish an instant spiritual connection in a crisis, to beckon assistance from beyond. Cindy heeded the call as a warning to all, and used specific language assigned with purpose and reason. Yet, when that crisis came upon her, these holy words proved wholly unsuccessful when summoned up on her behalf.

  In the name of Jesus Christ, go back to where you came from.

  There was a key ingredient missing in this recipe for disaster as sacred words memorized then repeated as the mantra they were intended to become had no particular sentiment attached. Essentially her heart wasn’t in it. She had been too busy trying to remember the precise series of words and, in the process, forgot to feel them. However, when Cindy began to beg, to plead and cry for mercy and relief, she meant every word. Oh, God! The child learned how to ask the right questions. Nothing she ever learned in church or anywhere else taught her to say it with feeling; something Cynthia had to grasp on her own. Word has it, the family that prays together, stays together. All five sisters huddled and cuddled in bed, sharing space and the heartfelt belief they would be protected from whatever might come for them in the dark of night, from dusk ’til dawn. Legitimate concerns. Pray. Deliver us from evil. Please.

  Is there really power in numbers? Would it apply to something beyond an army marching in unison to a cadence being drummed into their heads or is a solitary figure connecting with her maker equally as potent? Witches conjure powerful spells, gathering together in covens, thus increasing the potency of their chants and incantations. Is it what happened to Carolyn? She’d become a virtual centerpiece in a circle of immortal souls who’d come to threaten her as evil incarnate, banging their broomsticks in cacophonous, unholy cadence. Was God aware of their antics? Thy kingdom come Thy will be done Had they been sent as messengers? If so, that was one HELL of an introduction to Heaven. She was not happy to make their acquaintance but remains grateful to this day that help arrived, the direct pleas made of her maker, issued with heartfelt sentiment. If these manifestations of spirit were something wicked, when help arrived in the form of release, it was something sacred. Charmed. A spell cast as a chant, an incantation from beyond the grave was vanquished by a benevolent spirit arriving just in time from somewhere beyond the stars. Best to count those lucky stars as kin! The family that prays together, stays.

  “I take as metaphysical poetry that in which what is ordinarily apprehensible

  only by thought is brought within the grasp of feeling,

  or that in which what is

  ordinarily only felt is transformed into thought

  without ceasing to be feeling.”

  T. S. Eliot

  ~ In memory of Sam Olevson ~

  “Death is nothing at all,

  I have only slipped away into the next room,

  I am I and you are you;

  Whatever we were to each other, That we still are.

  Call me by my old familiar name,

  Speak to me in the easy way which you always used,

  Put no difference in your tone,

  Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

  Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we shared together.

  Let my name ever be the household word that it always was.

  Let it be spoken without effect, without the trace of a shadow on it.

  Life means all that it ever meant,

  It is the same as it ever was, there is unbroken continuity.

  Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?

  I am waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near,

  just around the corner.

  All is well.” Henry Scott Holland

  Canon of St. Paul’s Cathedral London, England

  ~ I’ll be with you in apple blossom time ~

  “People only see what they are prepared to see.”

  Ralph Waldo Emerson

  VI.

  DOWN THE HATCH

  “Walk while ye have the light, lest darkness come upon you.”

  John xii. 35

  Dangerous to descend the cellar stairs, to describe them as rickety is only as a kindness extended to the structure as a whole, as a sign of respect. Truth be told, they were certifiable health hazards, reason enough to condemn the place from ground level down. All three entrances were disquieting: the front hallway, the parlor and the scariest of them, the entrance from the woodshed. Even though it was the safest staircase, as well as the widest, it was also the darkest in many ways. That space was charged with negative energy and was naturally avoided by everyone who sensed a supernatural disturbance in the force. It wasn’t just the physical dangers associated with old creaky stairs but an implicit threat perceived, with its metaphysical implications. Descending into the pit of hell, perhaps purgatory, going down those stairs meant taking one’s destiny into their own hands; at the very least, tempting fate. What was sensed could not be seen. Fear was the most disturbing aspect of any journey below. Behold! The inanimate hazard, a clear and present danger of descent was overshadowed by what only the third eye could perceive. Witnessed by mortal souls through terrified eyes searching in shadows only a body creates, they’d cautiously creep along. Each member of the family would, at one time or another, step into shadows cast by a lone light bulb glaring down a narrow path. Knowing it could buckle and cave in at any moment, they prayerfully pressed on. From grown men to ghosts to little girls, those stairwells bore the weight of the world… and the netherworld… not so rickety, after all.

  ***

  From the day their family arrived at the farm, the cellar was considered an off-limits area of their farmhouse. It was something beyond dark and creepy! Descending any of the treacherous stairways was a life-threatening excursion and unnerving proposition. Three different doors had one thing in common. Each offered that extreme sport feel of tight rope walking, with no net. Every staircase presented its own hazards and, from the start, kids were encouraged to avoid them altogether. On those rare occasions when the journey had to be made by necessity, it was navigated with some trepidation, and justifiably so. Having eyes in the back of one’s head might have proved beneficial, except for the fact that they never saw it coming, from any given direction. Had the manifestations been consistently solid in form it may have eased the tension as most encounters happened from behind, but they could not fight what they could not see… an unfair advantage in mortal combat with immortal beings. Everyone in the family was touched at one time or another while standing in the cellar. Roger was the favorite son. The rarity was when he’d go down the hatch and was not approached below ground. He insists it was Mrs. Arnold, not Bathsheba, describing her touch as gentle and even seductive. It was no secret to anyone. Whoever she was, she liked the man. Nor did she attempt to hide this time-warped attachment, no
t even in front of his wife, in their own bed. Roger was the only one who wasn’t reluctant to go down into the cellar. He knew she would not hurt him. She posed no threat to him. It was Carolyn who was taking the brunt of her abuse. Once the man of the family began to acknowledge an underground presence in the house, after he’d been touched several times and could deny it no longer, he made friends with her. In much the same way April befriended Oliver, Roger found a companion in her, someone who stood by him literally and figuratively. An odd attachment formed between them, one difficult to describe. It was multi-dimensional.

  To deliberately go below was always an intrepid endeavor. The door was cautiously opened, releasing its distinct aroma. Once it permeates the nostrils it heads straight for a memory bank where it is destined to reside lifelong as an unforgettable fragrance. The foundation of their farmhouse was perfectly constructed: a masterwork. Earth, hollowed out then lined with the gigantic stacked slabs of solid granite, dry as a bone, as sprigs of the brittle horsehair protruding from cracked plaster create that spooky three-dimensional effect. Anyone exposed to this cellar never forgets the sensory thrill ride; a greeting extended, its messages received by any time traveler courageous enough to descend an ancient and decrepit staircase too authentically old to replicate.

  Every step of every staircase had its own distinctive creak, much like the click of the doors. While shifting stairs beneath the weight of any mortal was unnerving enough, it was nothing compared to the sounds of one aggressive spirit ascending that same staircase. Over time, every member of their family became familiar with an eerie intrusion and learned what to listen for, how to identify the very specific sounds these spirits made within those stairwells, especially the thoroughly obnoxious sounds emanating from within the belly and bowels of their house. Roger was the one most exposed to the presence in the cellar, as he was their Mister Fix It. When he had no alternative but to repair that furnace or a hot water heater, both fixtures rather conspicuously located down there, he’d bravely descend the rickety set of wooden stairs, his tool box in hand, to begin the arduous task of, once again, saving them a small fortune by salvaging an old piece of equipment which needed to be replaced a full ten years before they’d arrived at the farm. His children recall their father as fearless, though he’ll now admit how much it spooked him going down the hatch. If, God forbid, he required an assistant, this too was problematic. “No way! I’m not going down there!” Though the girls were usually anxious to be daddy’s little helper, not when it meant going into the cellar. Cindy was always the one to volunteer, fascinated with the place and its many mysteries contained within. According to Cynthia, based on recent reflections, it meant the chance to go exploring… when she felt most safe… a father by her side. She considered it an opportunity instead of a chore.

  “Let’s take a walk.” Down they went, beginning the journey with a click of the door and a tug on the thin cloth cord attached to the lone exposed bulb dangling from the top of the landing. At least three times her weight, Roger’s creaking sounded like the footsteps of a giant compared with his daughter’s diminutive steps. They remained silent while descended the stairs, listening. Cindy held onto the rail and watched her own shadow keeping pace with her father’s image, while wobbly knees and quivering legs threatened to buckle like the wood beneath her feet. Dragging a few fingers across the surface of the stone, the curious child could feel her palm being tickled by the horsehair plaster set in between them, an unusual tactile sensation with which she had become accustomed. Ya get used to it.

  Rounding the corner at the bottom of the staircase, Roger grabbed another solitary string swinging from the second bulb hanging over the main beam. There. Let there be light bulb! He began his task while Cindy peered over his shoulder, down through a long dreary corridor, riddled with ancient secrets.

  Once her services were no longer required, she began the trek to the other end of a dark cellar, peaking into one room after another, beginning with the farthest; a built-in root cellar where fruits or vegetables were stored. Though an equally barren bulb hung suspended at the far end of the space, she could not reach it and did not even try. Cynthia was unafraid. Her father’s presence sufficiently bolstering her confidence, yet there was something intimidating about the enormous door located at the far end. It was constructed of solid wood, nearly twice the width and height of any standard door: Special order. The monstrosity was practically impossible to open or close. Her dad was the only person with brute strength enough to handle that job, and he too struggled with it, as an adversary. Apparently it had been used as an entrance for livestock. It weighed a ton, perhaps literally so. That woodshed door had captured her attention long before. Cindy was as fascinated as terrified by it, in equal measure. A sense of wonderment drew her to the site and a sense of revulsion repelled her once she had felt a power the child could not discern. Instead, she relied upon her visceral reaction… the sense of a threat… fight or flight mechanisms triggering in her brain, setting her petite feet in motion; an urgent need to flee, to get fast away from whatever it was she perceived as a threat. Emboldened by her father’s presence, she’d lingered, to be brazen, if not brave, studying the built-in fruit chute beside the door, probably used for offloading and storage of perishables. While working her way slowly, very methodically back toward her father, Cynthia made one brief “pit” stop after another. The candle room was peaceful, serene when compared to the space beside it, meat cleavers hanging from the rafters; ancient tools, hundreds of years old, each as sharp as a razor. Amazing. Roaming along, she entered a room with the well centered in the floor, safely covered with a huge circular slab of granite. Tempting fate, as usual, the inquisitive child stepped onto the well. Instantly, the ground began to tremble. A rock beneath her feet felt as if it was shifting. Her equilibrium disrupted, it was as if she was falling, falling in! As was her way, Cindy’s immediate reaction was to draw in a breath then hold it in until the queasy sensation stopped, but it didn’t stop. She described this overwhelming feeling as a vibration pulsing throughout her entire body, causing her to quake. All sensory perceptions become immediately skewed, producing a feeling of being drawn in then down by an intense and powerful force, an elemental tug or some gravitational pull. She well remembers the pure panic she associated with the moment when the little girl realized she could not move! Whether due to fearfulness or perhaps a wicked spell cast upon her, again, the child could not move and could not speak… to call for help. It was as if she was stuck in a time warp, magnet to steel. Her father was merely a few feet away but she could not let him know that she was in trouble. Cindy was in the bubble. She knew from experience, even if she cried out, he would not be able to hear her, yet she was not alone.

  By the time this manifestation occurred, the child was well-versed in the routine. Curiosity can be a blessing and a curse. In this case, it had taken her where she did not belong yet it taught her things she needed to know. There was something about that well. It was somehow connected with spirits; a concept Cindy did not give much credence or consideration at the time. No one in the family had pursued this concept due to the implausible nature of it. After all, how could the spirits have had anything to do with well water? It made no sense at all and yet, there she stood, sensing the shattering presence shuddering throughout her entire body. She remained rigidly in place, scared out of her mind. During those few terrifying moments the child, in a bit over her head, began having visions of being surrounded by blood-streaked walls. Overcome by the nausea often associated with vertigo, Cindy felt woozy and weak, as if about to topple over. Her body began to tremble uncontrollably. Her teeth began to chatter. Describing this as becoming sealed within a solid block of ice, she readily recalls the helplessness then hopelessness of feeling locked in the force field: no exit. She prayed to God. All vibrations abruptly ceased, subsiding as a sudden jolt of stillness. The bubble had burst. Release! Cindy leapt from the well stone then ran straight to her father. In the severity of the circumstance,
during a tumultuous ordeal, a little girl no older than ten at the time had retained the presence of mind to practice the presence of God. Flying from the well room like a captive bird escaping from its cage, Cindy gratefully acknowledged her liberator on the way out. Every time she found herself caught in a precarious position she relied upon her faith, the steadfast belief that good would prevail and God would provide a way out! Not once was she left unattended in a crisis. Traveling at the speed of light warp factor six, the girl was overcome with what some would presume was an irrational fear that the stone would suddenly shift and she would take the plunge, an ill spill, down the hatch. She knew better. Anything was possible at the farm.

  Perhaps she startled him. Maybe he had already been spooked prior to her arrival by his side. In either case, Roger jerked his head around, the terrified expression on that face, in his eyes, indicative of far more than her presence, as if he did not even recognize his own… as if she was the ghost in the hole! Though he made no disclosure of his own, Cindy knew something happened, and not just to her. Whatever it was had successfully drained all of the blood from Roger’s hairline to his neck. His wild, deeply set eyes appeared crazed and glazed over, in fear. One glance at her father sent Cynthia racing up the stairs in search of the creature comfort to be found in her mother’s arms. Her father frightened her more than the cold encounter in the well room. In spite of its obvious enticements to wonderment, Cindy declined invitations to visit the cellar for months afterward. Dad had to find a new daddy’s helper as the troops were thinning rapidly. Andrea refused the excursion, though she was always polite about it. Insubordinate? Maybe. Her diplomatic skills were put to good use. April was too young to ask. Chris would disappear as discreetly as a spirit, so Nancy would be the one left holding the bag of tools. In time, the identical force which had expelled Cynthia from the cellar drew her back down the hatch again. Its call was irresistible. Its grasp was undeniable. God would not forsake her along the path on an incredible journey of discovery.