House of Darkness House of Light

by Andrea Perron

  ***

  There was hardly any decent reason to go into the cellar other than for the breakdown of equipment, which for some mysterious reason, only seemed to happen when Roger was home. Nobody ever knew when a treacherous set of stairs might collapse beneath their feet, though they never actually did fail. Then there was the necessity of having to round the coal black blind corner at the bottom of the stairs. It required a leap of faith. This, in order to turn on an inadequate second light which was supposed to illuminate the vacuum of darkness outstretched like a tunnel burrowed into the ground. It should have been deterrent enough for any mortal of sound mind, any living soul with a healthy respect for the dead. In retrospect, the family concedes a point made long ago. No matter how the girls tried to avoid cellar doors, no matter how often the man of the house was called upon to repair the hot water heater or the furnace, events would conspire to drag them down there, for one reason or another. Sam was the first to suggest then later insist that these objects, the mechanical devices were metaphysically tampered with as a shock to the heating system. Devices were destroyed, mechanisms were manipulated. He believed proper functioning was somehow being deliberately interrupted by a spirit, so to entice the living down among the dead. In fact, he attributed all subterranean activities to an entity known as Bathsheba and may well have been correct in his assessment of the situation. As infrequently as these trips occurred, no one ever emerged from a cellar door feeling unchanged by the experience. Even if nothing happened at all, nobody escaped unscathed. It was a queer sensation, as if someone pulled a plug and drained all the energy from whoever braved the trip. Roger would go down alone although the girls generally traveled in pairs, if not a pack. Comparing this quizzical sensation these many years hence, it is agreed upon. No matter what energy reserves a human being possessed when entering the cellar, little was retained upon their return from that dark pit; a hole in the ground. It was usually time for a nap, an urgent need to restore a vexed mind and recharge the body’s battery, as it was inevitable sucked dry by something!

  At the time they shared an unspoken assumption. Fatigue caused by stress was simply explained, an ensuing exhaustion, a symptom of a sense of relief. The fear-based excursion always created a heightened sense of awareness, an increased level of anxiety among everyone present in the house, even if they were not going along on a wild ride to the underworld. Once anxiety released its grip, an equivalent reduction in the stress made them feel utterly depleted. A cause and effect unquestioned, recovery was usually as quick as a cat nap. It never became a point of contention. It followed logically. Common sense.

  They were wrong. In hindsight, peering yet again into the deepest, darkest recesses of mortal memory they’ve since seen the light. They got sucked dry. After all, the cellar felt totally creepy long before anyone realized their house was haunted. Children who were normally willing to do whatever was asked of them balked at any request to enter the inner sanctum unaccompanied, just another example of the new paranormal. Request denied. On those occasions when Andrea was asked to escort one of her sisters into the cellar, the simple question posed would prompt internal conflict. Mom’s suggestion was never rejected outright, but an element of dread went along for the trip. If it came from her mother she would reluctantly agree to go; if it came from her father, he was on his own. Her angst: that cerebral argument conducted in silence in a moment of pre-panic, her brain would exclaim: “NO! Don’t go!” Her heart, heaving a heavy sigh: “Please don’t ask me. GO! So mom won’t have to go. Do it.” Protective instincts liberally dispersed amongst females in the family, responsibilities were shared and burdens were lifted. Carolyn was a magnet, a target of supernatural activity. Everyone knew it; her exposure to the cellar was limited, as a stand-in, at the ready in the wings. Without anyone having to say a word about it, kids did their best to keep their mother out of harm’s way whenever possible. If that meant going down to get the damn potatoes (and why exactly did Roger have to buy them in fifty pound bags anyway?) then it meant going down to get the damn potatoes. A root cellar, uniformly maintained at fifty-three degrees Fahrenheit, it was perfect for the storage of perishables. Unfortunately it was also located at the farthest end of the cellar. Navigating the space as quickly and efficiently as possible was their ultimate goal: to get the potatoes then get the hell out of there! It was a pure shot of adrenaline, like running with scissors, the hazards posed by scissors not half as dangerous as running with potatoes! At least the scissors could be used as a weapon as self-defense. There was no real defense against what was surreal in the cellar, lurking behind corners, hidden in shadows, inside the crevices and cubbyholes of the underworld. It is impossible to inflict a mortal wound on an immortal soul. Not a fair fight. “You can’t really kill what’s already dead.” Mrs. Warren said so. Their real enemy was a fear of the unknown.

  ***

  With entrances located in the parlor, the woodshed and the front hallway, it was often difficult to ignore an omnipresent sense of dread about what lay beneath the structure, especially when the doors could open at will, releasing the rising aroma, along with whatever else chose to travel on that draft, as it swept up a stairwell with a vengeance. At times, the scent was intoxicating, like detecting a hint of sweetness in the air, becoming more pungent as they descended the staircase. The slightest whiff of it was enough to startle then stop dead in their tracks, any unsuspecting soul: the pause that refreshes an urgency to run from an out-of-this-world aroma, so to avoid a death-defying trip down the hatch. Enticing, it was, beckoning visitors from above. “No!” Not going into a hole in the ground. “Stop!” What is it that calls as a clarion, summoning the ranks? That’s an order, soldier. “Do not obey!” It was not as a suggestion or a request. Christine felt the tug of war and often fought with herself to resist the charge. She recalls, describing the scent of the cellar as a fragrance rather than an odor, as her mother recalls it. A chosen terminology, fluid-based, she remembers it as a feeling of being submerged, immersed in the essence of perfume. This Aquarian child was quite adept at sensing water in the air. She used the cellar as a testing ground for her gift. It is where she developed supernatural skills acquired only through the use of a sixth sense. Attracted to the distinctly musty aroma permeating the air down there, this insubordinate soul knew better, resisting the urge, exhibiting self-discipline. “Don’t do it.” Click. As she’d open the door, its whining hinges would sing to a curious kid peeking through that crack, no more than an inch or so wide. That’s how the light gets in. Peering into the bleak black hole, tempting fate, there was nothing to see. Ah, but then, to breathe it in, siphoning the scent of a woman from the cellar. It was a unique fragrance, an essence of spirit permeating moisture-laden air, traveling on a draft, up and into her mind. Contact.

  Always sensationally struck by the languid pool of cool air rising up into her nostrils, she would drink it in, filling her lungs, on its way to her soul. The memory is one of her most vivid, of feeling that astonishing blast from below; a blast from the past. It took only a few moments before her common sense kicked in. “Close that door!” Click. Clarion call dismissed, the battle was over before it began. Christine’s internal struggles about descending that set of stairs often ended in a draw. FEAR claimed the victory. Her quivering legs could not quite muster the courage to step further down into the alcove, tempted as she was to cautiously proceed onto the landing. One had to know when to say when, how to listen up when the wiser inner voice says: “Stop!” A fight or flight mechanism built into her system, intact, this child knew the magnetic draw of the cellar all too well. Too big a leap of faith required… no guarantee of a soft landing. Close that door and keep on truckin’ . . . the only wise course of action to take when tempting fate in a house alive with death.

  ***

  At times it was dry, acrid odor seeping into the residence, an accumulated assortment of aromas the cellar absorbed and retained over the centuries. The ancient earth holds secrets… the blood, sweat and tear
s of countless souls; a simmering cauldron of toil and trouble. Mortal fluids had been spilled below the surface, solicitous of attention from above. It had an essence, the enticing aroma, though markedly different; like the scent of a woman, each unique to that individual. Supposing a noted change in scent was primarily attributable to an omnipresent dampness whenever the water table was up, it nevertheless remained dry in the cellar all year round: a marvel of construction. However, the dense black earth was prone to becoming noticeably drier during summer months, dusty; a natural phenomenon occurring within a supernatural abode. This was when their farmhouse would flood with the aromas of aged earth, attracting those who would naturally gravitate to the woods or a garden spot, arousing their desire to go elemental. When the ground was driest, one could easily discern the emergence of the well-worn footpath etched into that cellar floor, over time, appearing distinctly like a shallow rut, revealing the traffic pattern as a slight indentation only when the ground was drained of moisture. Once the rain returned, that image vanished, becoming invisible to the naked eye as the earth plumped up to the point of saturation. Of course, by then, the family knew about the mysteries associated with the history of the cellar. If it was, as rumored, a pit stop along a route of the Underground Railroad, then a partially obscured pathway assumes more significance because it has borne the weight of all humanity. Such a burden carried would surely leave a mark, an irreversible scar upon the planet, each footprint telling a story of its own. Likewise, they had all become keenly aware of the fact that something does not have to be visible to exist. “Just because you can’t see it does not mean it isn’t there!” This, according to Nancy: High Priestess of the double negative. It took years for their family to recognize the whole truth of it… the reality of their situation. Experience is the solution to every riddle, the key to opening every door. They were being psychically drawn down the hatch. It was hard to resist. A crack in the door is an open invitation to disaster. There is a crack in everything… . how the Light gets in. Theirs was an enlightening journey through time and space shared. It required some time to distinguish between the emotions solicited within a convoluted, complicated place in the country. However, once a clear realization collectively occurred, it proved to be their only real defense against a powerful force unleashed, rearing its ugly head. Knowledge is power, too. Employing a series of evasive, tactical maneuvers developed to avoid altercations proved beneficial to the cause, mitigating the effects, to a certain extent. Keep the peace and keep from provoking a war. It was a passive / aggressive approach to any spirits who dwelled in that cellar. Intrigued as they were, those wise enough to be wary maintained a constant awareness of what transpired around (and beneath) them and therefore fared best in the midst of a madhouse. Being perpetually on guard had its rewards, finer minds focused on the mission at hand… essential to remain at attention.

  ***

  Memories of the cellar are as fresh as its air remains pungent; so stagnant. That dark and mysterious hole in the ground made a powerful impression on everyone in the family. The current reflections and recollections are still very specific, vivid and precise. Roger spent the most time down below, by far, and learned to expect being approached, seduced by the touch of a woman who got his attention. Every time he was contacted it was an identical stroke, across the back and shoulder, across the nape of the neck. No way to mount a defense. She always approached from behind. At first, he would feel that icy sense of her at his back then smell the stench of death searing in his nostrils and then came the stroke. Initially, when it became clear to him that this was not his imagination, Roger was fearful. Though he now admits to it, earlier years of his life were spent cloaked beneath a false bravado. He rarely spoke of the farm and when he did his remarks had nothing to do with the spirits. It made him uncomfortable, not a topic for discussion, as it occasionally was with the rest of his family. They assumed he had an aversion to anything he could not comprehend. In this respect, all seven mortals involved shared the same fate. It is one thing to know what is and is not and quite another thing to spend a lifetime wondering who—what—when—where—why and how it could happen. Boo! It is disquieting, unsettling to dwell upon and yet, Roger has finally attained a comfort level regarding spirit matters and he has been forthcoming about his personal experiences. One particularly stunning story revealed the essence of a spirit in a lopsided relationship, the close encounter going horribly wrong, leaving the man regretful and dispirited for life about an opportunity squandered, never to re-emerge again.

  Though the air was always pungent its unmistakably earthy aroma was an ever-present reminder of what lay beneath, dispersing throughout a dwelling. Traveling airborne whenever anyone opened a cellar door and did, of course, whenever any one of the cellar doors opened themselves, a far more common occurrence, it would vaporize into the ether. Only when the malevolent spirit decided to manifest as form and substance did the smell become nauseating. She certainly knows how to make an entrance, her presence and appearance known to all. Her overt convergence with Roger was rather covert in nature. Though she had twice accosted him in the bedroom, advances were far more tenuous in the cellar. No sense of impending doom attached, she was quite attached to Roger. If a tentative, sensuous stroking of his broad shoulders did not provide evidence enough of this attraction, the fact that she’d repeatedly followed him up the staircase was indication of her intentions. Truth be told, he was nice to her, too afraid to be anything otherwise, and his acceptance of her presence (as if he had any choice in the matter) had altered her previous approach to him. Whenever, wherever they coincided he was on her turf. She might have felt at ease expressing sentiments from within the catacombs. It was interesting how she and Carolyn perceived each other as a threat while sharing space, as well as a man. Their relationship was adversarial by nature, right from the inception of her stay at the farm, even before Carolyn knew it. Something in the air… a decided chill. The cold shoulder. In the midst of the supernatural deep freeze, the mortal mistress was the one taking the heat.

  As the sole maleficent spirit present, the one known by most as Bathsheba made it known that a home cannot have more than one mistress at a time, but in which time was Bathsheba the mistress and why did she covet the man of the house? Though trouble was brewing between the two women, Roger was far less threatened by the entity than his wife, likely because she never reared her ugly head in his presence. Apparently she saved manifesting in substance and form for others. For quite some time he kept their encounters to himself, to avoid upsetting Carolyn more. In this respect theirs was a bizarre, if prime example of an often clandestine relationship conducted between dimensions. Bathsheba’s access was unfettered in the cellar and this was when she would be tender with him, what Roger describes as friendly. Her sociable overtures were quite the surprise when they began, within just a few months of moving into the house. As time passed, he became less fearful of a presence he could not explain yet could not deny. Perhaps she’d considered him attainable in private, though she also used him for her own nefarious purposes, to taunt and terrify Carolyn in their own bed. Well! Blow me down the hatch!

  According to Roger, at first her touches were slight, almost imperceptible. That smell then corresponding chill announced her arrival. A dead giveaway. He recalls the hair on his body standing at attention, as if electrically charged by her presence. She would frequently follow him up the stairs then stop at the door. He would sense her in the darkness once he turned off the light, closing the passage she could penetrate at will. Rarely emerging from the abyss during daylight hours, when she did, it was not an appearance made in form and substance. Manifestations occurred primarily between twilight and dawn. Those who saw this entity knew she had various methods of making manifest; anything from a spot of light to a grim figure hovering overhead. Sometimes she was kind, if a bit coercive, summoning the children to join her. Sometimes she was overtly threatening. At other times, merely intrusive. When with Roger, she was as solicitous of h
is affections as any suitor ever was with her in life. Enticement implies the coupling of hope with desire. Bathsheba’s delicate touch was light, as if embarrassed by her own behavior. One shy stroke of the shoulders instantly captured this man’s attention. An implicit message received… an indecent proposal.

  All empirical evidence aside, there is no doubt about it. The cellar of that farmhouse is the dwelling place for a spirit who communicates with mortals, at will. She has a volatile temperament, passionate desires for good and evil, in darkness and in light. Bathsheba hated Carolyn. She coveted her children and lusted after her husband. She made no attempt to disguise her intentions. The frequency of her appearances was based upon her acquisition of energy required to manifest in form, whatever she could pilfer from the house or its unsuspecting inhabitants. Perhaps she was living vicariously, as a being who did not even know she was dead. Their realization proved to be the only real defense against her, in knowledge borne of experience. Eventually, they all understood the dynamics of their dilemma. Ultimately, it came down to an utterly simplistic solution to the convoluted collection of propositions posed. Surrender, Carolyn. No matter how huge the home place, there was not space enough to share. Truth be told, there could only be one mistress of the house.

  ***

  The cellar of the farmhouse, a place in the country formerly known as the Arnold Estate, harbors many secrets and contains many mysteries. It remains the same as always, an enticement to mortal imaginations, as a confrontation to all of the senses. One trip down the hatch provokes intense memories and familiar thoughts. Feelings come as a rush, flooding deep space like a tidal wave, drowning out any sense of calm. It becomes so difficult to distinguish between them yet easy to recognize as a visceral reaction. Excursion into the depths of its darkness is a mind-altering, unforgettable journey down a set of stairs on an intrepid, nether-worldly, four-dimensional dip in the deep end of infinity… and beyond. What made this family unusual was their capacity for understanding that the only way one keeps their head above water is to take the plunge then develop the ability to breathe in an under-water underworld saturated with the scent of a woman long gone, yet omnipresent. Pungent aromas still fill the air down there. Breathing in her essence, the nature of a lost soul, is an enlightening endeavor… a spiritual voyage worth the trip.