It is a wonder to behold. One visit prompts the natural questions: How’d they do this? How did they construct such a masterpiece? Who chiseled this enormous hole in the ground then cut gigantic slabs of solid granite without modern machinery? How did they line the outer walls, perfectly positioning the stones in place without the benefit of heavy equipment? It appears to be impossible, much like ancient stone walls amaze the eye of the beholder, as a marvel, a challenge to their imagination, something which must be seen to be believed. Regarding a spirit dwelling within a tomb-like chasm built of sand and stone, whether she be Mrs. Arnold or Bathsheba Sherman or someone else entirely, one need not see to believe or believe to see a ghost. That’s not how it happens. It is not a matter of faith or belief, but is instead subject to reason and reality. Their existence isn’t contingent on the opinions of mortal souls. The spirit world exists whether or not we believe in it. Just ask Roger about his pain in the neck hair-raising adventures.
They all knew the truth, though this failed to set their family free of fear. Spooked as he was down below, trembling like a scared little girl, Roger said silent prayers in that stairwell while ascending those creaky, cranky steps to the landing… lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil . . . mounting his retreat as a death-defying leap of faith up and out of the darkness into the light. The dear man did not yet understand that the dark essence of her being would prove to be the holiest source of his enlightenment. Bless his soul.
“Truth is what stands the test of experience.”
Albert Einstein
~ down the hatch ~
“No journey carries one far unless, as it extends into the world
around us, it goes an equal distance into the world within.”
Lillian Smith
ye olde cellar hole
“Everybody needs beauty as well as bread,
places to play in and pray in,
where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul.”
John Muir
Planet Earth has its own elemental vibrations, energy intrinsic to a living, breathing entity. It is a life force to be reckoned with, to be respected or even worshipped by those who dwell upon the surface or deep within the crevices created by mortal souls who seek to merge with its essential nature: “Home”.
***
The old cellar hole remains a dark and mysterious place, shrouded by the dense canopy of overgrown trees surrounding it. As time passed, everyone in the family made their way into the woods. Each felt a compelling attraction, a compelling urge to escape into the heart of the ancient inverted edifice, into the land of enchantment. There was something magical, supremely powerful about this simple, small square hole in the ground, a shallow indentation dug into the planet, lined with slabs of stone. Something sacred. Though it took time for everybody to learn their way around the massive piece of property; once boundaries were established in mind, a sense of direction developed as if by intuition. It became second nature to go solo, deeply into the woods: to embark upon a transformative spiritual journey. It was an inescapable result of traversing the forest alone. Private excursions began in earnest. Flora and fauna were enticements enough. The wildflowers and wild animals beckoned to be seen and heard. There was music in the woods, never silent except after a snowfall. Only then could one discern the truly mystical quality of music as silence itself, nothing but the sound of the wind. Frozen in time, the forest is marvelous, a wonder to behold. It speaks freely without needing someone to listen or agree. The Arnold Estate was a bewitching place for girls eager to find their own way in the world, at times, by way of the netherworld.
Nancy found it first. She’d gone off on her own again, much like the old song describes it: “Over the river and through the woods, to grandmother’s house we’ll go.” This particular excursion would prove to be one of the most profound of her life, the day Nancy knew it was not just their farmhouse that was haunted. What she discovered was beyond imagination. It was reality. It was the old cellar hole Mr. Kenyon told them about, but no one had yet seen.
Always gravitating to the pond, its pristine, babbling waterfall, music to her ears, Nancy took off with her fishing pole, as if called to the concert. Her day began early and she’d be gone for hours. It was a bright spring morning, a rather unusual warm spell cast by Mother Nature. She intended to take full advantage of the gift bestowed. Grabbing her gear from the woodshed, well in advance of anyone asking her to do chores instead, she walked down the old wagon road and was out of sight… out of mind. By the time her mom realized she was missing, the kid was long gone… to infinity and beyond.
In relative peace and quiet, Nancy fished for hours, lost in thought if not in the woods. She knew her way around, almost by osmosis. Following that ancient, well-worn path, she’d found the stone state line marker protruding from the ground on top of a hill overlooking the placid pond. On a previous trip she had explored the land around the pond, returning home with pussy willows galore. An endless array of treasures to be discovered, it was the day she was destined to find a thread to weave into the tapestry of her life.
After hours spent in solitude, Nancy would soon be joined by “others” in the forest. Packing up her gear, the slanted angle of sunshine indicating that it was time to go, Nancy had nothing more on her mind than what her mother might be preparing for dinner. As she began a long trek home, a journey she had made many times, the child became disoriented. No point in yelling for help. No one would hear her from such a distance. At a branch on the trail she did not recognize, confused and apparently lost, something or someone sent up a signal in response to her internal distress call… calling her to come in another direction, calling her home. The conflict she felt was practically magic, an overwhelming desire to follow the leader; a sense of being drawn elsewhere, away from the home place she was seeking. A palpable reaction to its urgency consumed her where she stood; the girl had a keen sense of her surroundings. Nancy knew it was not the way home but something powerful compelled her to take the road less traveled, to follow the foreign path rather than her own gut instincts. In that moment of pure panic, seized by a sudden surge of adrenaline, it struck her like an arrow through the heart, pulling her closer in mind. Heeding the call of the wild side, Nancy was lured in. As she took a detour to her destiny, it took a wicked hard turn to the past, perhaps a return to a past life. Heading toward that which beckoned from the forest, the child began to hear voices… familiar voices.
The way she describes this encounter now, as Nancy vividly recalls, those voices began in the center of her forehead. It was the same way Cindy heard the spirits, through what is considered by many to be the third eye, the sixth sense. She was too young to realize it at the time, but her sensory perceptions kicked in high gear as she made her way to who knows where in the woods. After several hundred yards passed below her feet, afraid she was becoming more lost by the moment, Nancy was overtaken by an inexplicable calmness, replacing the anxiety propelling her ahead. In an instant, she understood. She was following the voices in her head instead of the path beneath her feet. The panic-stricken pixie felt the sudden sense of an inner peace passing over her, reassuring her that she was indeed on the right path. Slowing her pace a bit, she listened. The voices were becoming louder, more distinct with each step. They seemed so familiar, the accent and all. As she peered through the thick underbrush into a clearing, Nancy knew she had reached her destination.
There they were, all of them. An entire family: a mother, father and three children, living in the woods. The wagon road ran right beside the small but sturdy house, well kept and lovely, surrounded by lilies and lilacs and roses. A sight for sore eyes weary of searching the netherworld for an answer to the call, there they were. Fascinated, Nancy keenly recalls feeling like one of the family. She felt drawn to them, as if she truly belonged there with them. And then they were gone. She was alone in the forest… or was she? Approaching the spot where they’d just been, where a house stood only moments before
, Nancy gazed down into the old cellar hole, marveling at a hole in the ground. But they were just there! Instead, she found well-tended roses had gone wild with the lilac bushes, suddenly super-sized compared to what she’d just seen. Substantial trees were growing from where they rooted in the center of it. No signs of life, Nancy stood at the edge, on the precipice of history, only to feel the earth moving beneath her feet. The bizarre vibration was emanating from the land itself, drawing her downward into the hole. As seismically shifting land continued to tremble, she no longer felt steady on her feet. About to fall, the child let her legs buckle and down she went, exploring this unique place in time and space. Unafraid of what she might find, Nancy plunged in.
Once her curiosity had been sufficiently satisfied, she crawled up and out, somehow knowing her way from where she’d been lost in the forest. There it was; the deeply rutted wagon road. Walking past an anomaly, Nancy paused to reflect on a large granite stone in the shape of a bell. Even as the vibration continued like tremors beneath her feet, traveling up her legs, Nancy gazed at the odd bell stone, wondering what was under it, reluctant to get too close. About to lose what daylight remained, she turned and scampered home along the old trail provided. Certain that nobody would understand or believe what happened to her, without divulging a word about it to anyone, she quietly ate her dinner then went to bed, exhausted from a remarkable journey taken over the river and through the woods on an inexplicable voyage back in time.
***
The old cellar hole was more than unique; something beyond fascination. It was a destination. Located precisely where a sweet song describes, it was over the river and through the woods, not far off the beaten path, a historical wagon road. Remnants of its rough cut ruts appearing as an optical illusion, vanishing beneath an accumulating blanket of organic debris growing thicker with each passing season. Hundreds of years prior to that time it had been a toll road, one segment of the main route between enclaves, the lone colonial passage from Worcester, Ma. to Providence, R.I. It was the way home. It still is, except now it is merely as a memory, familiar paths taken in dreams when revisiting a childhood home. Perhaps, in some former life, in some ancient time, at some alternate point in a multi-dimensional Universe, it was the way to grandmother’s house, after all. Dorothy said there’s no place like home.
When arriving at the cellar hole, its visitors would often stand along the precipice, marveling at if from above, atop the narrow ledge. Its depth comes from its history more so than any other measurement of the actual structure. The place has a vibration, inspiring a sense of wonder and awe, as if trying to speak for itself, of itself… so many stories to tell. An oak tree had sprouted decades before, from the center of the dirt floor. This hole in the ground is surrounded with tiger lilies and mountain laurel, lady slippers and wild roses; once pampered old stock plantings gone to seed well before any of them had even been born; an enlightening perspective on a former home. Visitors went into the woods to inhale the fragrance, to sip the nectar, to escape and reflect, to hide and seek its mysteries. With each intrepid journey came many great discoveries; a newfound knowledge. Each excursion provided a lesson in life and death, the study of darkness and light. Intoxicating aromas traveled from delicate blossoms releasing their perfume to air, wafting on the wind: Smell. Brilliant displays of vibrant colors dancing, dotting and decorating the forest bed, resplendent with bouquets: Sight. Birds in flight; a fluttering of wings, carried by the breeze, transporting birdsong from hidden limbs: Sound. Pure water cupped within palms tickling, trickling through fingers pressed tightly together to save then savor every drop: Taste. Ferns teasing bare legs, thorns pricking fingertips, icy water numbing toes, the bark of a maple: Touch. The forest was much more than a craving. It had an addictive quality, appealing to sensory perceptions in every conceivable way, including the sixth sense. Intuition according to some. Maybe this is what drew them in, one and all, into the woods. They shared an intense curiosity, the sense of having more to explore as silent witnesses to the cycle of life and death. The cellar hole was like having a womb of one’s own tucked discreetly away in the woods. Only shards and slivers of light could penetrate the heavy overgrowth; so amazing anything can grow in the dark! Searching a landscape, they would inevitably gravitate, as if drawn by a magnet, to the old cellar hole. They’d settle down and in to the place which seemed familiar. This was a comfort zone for most, though Nancy and Cindy had exceedingly uncomfortable experiences there, as mutually exclusive events, yet virtually identical details in every respect.
While telling their individual stories, an interesting duplication occurred. Nancy and Cindy both told the same saga, though neither had ever discussed it with the other. This had to be brought to their attention. It stands to reason: woods happen. However, in this circumstantial case, the literal and figurative whirlwind of fresh information solicited from childhood memories, imparted as adults, proved a hypothesis: supernatural activity did not occur only in the house. The presence was felt elsewhere on the property as well, as a specific manifestation shared by two siblings who both chose to remain silent on the subject for decades. Notification prompted a pause for reflection throughout the entire family. Well, blow me down! They were both blown away.
On two separate occasions, in entirely disparate circumstances, Cindy and Nancy had visited the old cellar hole. Each was there by herself, peacefully sipping the nectar, like a fawn on the banks of the creek. Taking it all in, enjoying the beautiful landscape, the privacy afforded by seclusion, each was swept up in a sudden twist of wind that seemingly came from nowhere… and everywhere, at once. A phenomenon was not caused by the natural elements. Each had traveled on a placid day. Excursions were often made when it was bright, sunny and warm, nary a breeze, the perfect day for exploration. What happened in the woods down at the old cellar hole was not natural… it was, without a doubt, supernatural in origin. Nancy vividly recalls standing at the edge of it, staring down when she was suddenly surrounded by the fierce, circular wind sucking her off her feet, blowing her forward, down the hatch. She could barely see through it, so much debris from the floor of the forest was swirling in front of her eyes. An instant sensation of vertigo compelled her to grab the bush beside her and hold on! For dear life. It would have been quite a fall, had she lost her balance, tumbling into a dark abyss chiseled into the ground. Describing it as being stuck in the vortex of a stationary tornado, Nancy remembers the panic, a sensation of being swept away by a wind that was not lifting her up but dragging her into the hole. Violently twisting her torso around, when it stopped as abruptly as it had begun, Nancy ran all the way home feeling chased by a presence she sensed was still with her, behind her on the path. As the girl was so fond of saying at the time, she was totally freaked out, quite literally blown away by that bizarre experience. Mortified, she entered the farmhouse and never spoke a word of it for over thirty years.
Cynthia’s account was virtually identical. Once this was brought to their attention, they discussed it, including the sense of awe and wonder it inspired after the initial fright and shock had subsided. Neither knows why she never shared it before. Perhaps it was because they had been warned (and scolded) for going to the old cellar hole alone. Carolyn preferred her children to travel in a pack, for safety’s sake. According to their mother, it was too dangerous. She was, of course, considering the natural hazards posed by Mother Nature. It did not occur to her, or anyone else in the family, that the woods were just as haunted as their house, possessed by spirits and demons alike. All agreed, they did certainly presume to own and control their environment. Possession, they say, is nine-tenths of the law. Does this rule apply to Natural Law, too? Law of Gravity? Is there a Supernatural Law which supersedes all others?
Neither of the girls ever went back to the cellar hole alone but they did go back. Something about a place in time and space drew them in, magnetically toward it, in much the same way the farm had called to their mother. She too enjoyed an occasional romp, a solitary esc
ape into the woods, as fascinated by a holy hole in the ground. It remains there as a sacred shrine, historically significant, its mere existence inextricably bound to the past. However, there is a timeless quality, a mystical, magical power associated with it, as well. Most would observe it as an innocuous spot, had they not experienced these wondrous force it exhibits. Neither Cindy nor Nancy could fully comprehend or explain what the heaven or hell happened with them. Interpretations vary. Cynthia said it best: “No matter where you went there they were.” What they do know, all they know is this: something absolutely incredible happened to both of them, at separate times in the same place… something wicked which changed their minds for good… even if the power itself was evil. Ultimately, it did not hurt them and it taught them a lesson. They were never alone in the woods. What existed in the house was not confined to parameters encased in clapboard walls but was as free to roam as they were. Land was shared space and spirits have property rights. Truth be told, it was their land too. Whether wicked or fanciful, mischievous or malignant, threat or a practically magical joke, the presence was finally accepted. In time, everyone realized they were perfectly super/natural, like children running wild through the woods, off the beaten path. It was best to let them be… free to explore. Free to be dazzling.
House of Darkness House of Light Page 15