House of Darkness House of Light

by Andrea Perron

  “Dad, what did you see down there?” Andrea was gentle with her words. Surely she could coax the answer to an age old question in the family.

  “Nothing.” It was his final word on that subject. As her mother predicted, it was all too much for him, even now. She had asked him about this episode many times over the years. He never revealed what he sensed or witnessed in their cellar that night, not even to his own wife. No one in the family knows what he saw, if anything. He has never found the words to describe what he seems to be withholding. Perhaps there is nothing more to tell; no more than the door, but everyone in his family has their doubt about it. They know him. Andrea’s suspicions were confirmed as she questioned him then watched her father dissolving into tears he tried to hide. As a sullen, contemplative figure, stark white to ashen gray, he was struggling with internal conflicts he could not contain. Her father’s formerly vibrant face transforming before her eyes, it suddenly appeared drawn taut with fatigue. Utterly exhausted, irrevocably altered… enlightened. Message received, loud and clear, blasting like a horn, warning him off the subject, and her as well. Don’t ask… he’ll never tell.

  “It is only when we silent the blaring sounds

  of our daily existence

  that we can finally hear the whispers of truth

  that life reveals to us,

  as it stands knocking on the doorsteps of our hearts.”

  K. T. Jong

  knocked back

  “The last function of reason is to recognize that

  there are an infinity of things which surpass it.”

  Blaise Pascal

  Let there be light from below when darkness descends from above.

  Let us abandon our fearfulness to discover the pure power of love.

  Let us be kind when it’s difficult and let us be brave when need be.

  Let it be clear you’re standing quite near to someone who isn’t me!

  ***

  Roger was mortified, struggling to understand how it could’ve happened, how that door was lifted from its hinges then tossed asunder: Impossible! So many things were impossible. As episodes occurring in the farmhouse defied all logic, reason and natural law, he was being forced to factor supernatural law into an equation that didn’t follow logically, anathema to this pragmatic man. Being challenged on every front, it made him cranky. He had become, as Nancy described, freaked out. He’d embraced his doubt like a lover, holding it close to heart as a natural shield against the supernatural onslaught. Doubt proved to be a phantom in his arms, providing no protection from the truth. It dissipated as an innocuous vapor into the stale and languid air of the cellar at the instant a beam of light revealed the truth… then there was no doubt left. None. He’d witnessed and was, in a sense emasculated by a force which had flagrantly declared its own being much stronger than him. Was it Bathsheba? Or, was it the devil that bribed her in life then claimed her in death? Was this a demon door, manipulated by a force he was ill-equipped to contend with or was it a spirit making her presence known? Leaping backward into memory, as a young boy in the church, Roger first heard holy words which suddenly made more sense: “Ask, and it shall be given to you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.” What does this phrase really mean? Was it as simple as asking God for an explanation of these events and, if so, what does God have to do with it, anyway? Roger severed his ties with the church and what faith he possessed was private and went unacknowledged. During this episode, he found the need to reconnect, a visceral urge to find a plausible believable source of information on which to base his conclusions. What did he see, what had he sensed in a cellar which was so compelling, it sent him seeking the answer from God the Omniscient? Though he has never divulged any details of what happened at the time in a space below his home, he emerged as a believer, whether or not he was yet prepared to admit it to himself, or any other mortal soul. That night was the turning point for Roger Perron. Until this time he’d refused to accept a word of it: the existence of the spirits. Even when he was not arguing a point, acquiescing to or indulging in another quip about the “ghosts” in their house, he did not believe they were actually there. He’d always assumed there had to be another explanation still eluding him. A door opened for him, literally and figuratively, changing his mind and releasing his demons. The encounter finally forced him to confront his fears. The family agrees he emerged from the cellar door a different man, humbled by whatever he had seen. It took him down a few steps, toward an awkward admission: the world’s leading authority on everything realized he was not omniscient, that he might need to seek his answers elsewhere, from a higher power to reconfirm his faith. Revelation: Sometimes it is impossible to bury the dead. They tend to live on in mind… a haunting notion.

  ***

  Nancy frequently went exploring on the land alone. She loved the peace and quiet, a privacy she found only in the woods, escaping an over-crowded farmhouse; the way to replenish what the sharing of space seemed to deplete. From the earliest days, during the first spring, she had gone off on her own, with her mother’s blessing. Carolyn had done the same thing as a child, as her mother before her. It was an ancestral tradition; a Cherokee trait. In many respects, Nancy was the one most like her mother: fiercely independent and inquisitive by nature, about Nature. It was a different time, an era when kids had more freedom and were trusted because they earned it from an early age. Expectations and obligations increased as they matured, demands were made as instructions given. All of the girls knew the rules and knew to follow them to the letter of the natural law. No climbing on rocks, no swimming alone, stay away from the well and the river and the old cellar hole.

  During one of her many excursions, the kid tempted fate, going off to the cellar hole alone. She had been told, forewarned to stay away from it and the well beneath the bell stone; an off-limits area deemed unsafe. It was an order repeatedly issued by the platoon sergeant, drummed into their thick skulls. And yet, left to her devices, Nancy went where she felt compelled to explore. It was a perfect day. Everything was itching to bloom, buds begging to burst, but it was still a little too early. Sweetness in the air issued its full-throated promise of spring. The underbrush, subdued by the harsh winter, had not yet sprung to life, so it was relatively easy for her to navigate the obscured path. Relying on her senses and the memory of having been there with her family, Nancy found the old cellar hole rather quickly. She stood there, mesmerized by the place, peering down into the depths of its history. An attachment she could not comprehend consumed her thoughts, allowing her imagination the same freedom to roam as that granted by a trusting mother to a naughty girl who’d chosen to deliberately disobey a direct order. Nancy tried to visualize those who’d lived in that house hundreds of years before and how they lived, drawing their own water, no electricity, only a fireplace for heat. She tried to catapult herself back into their time for a moment or two; to draw the images of another time in mind. As she reveled in the natural wonders of this place, something bizarre occurred. It was a profound pull, one gravitational in Nature.

  In one moment she was standing perfectly upright, as still as the wind. In the next, she was being drawn in then sucked down into the vortex of a mini-twister. The spontaneous wind was swirling around her, threatening to knock her off kilter, backward and forward into a deep pit. The youngster panicked. Terrified, her equilibrium compromised, she grabbed the limb of a bush to regain some stability. The ground shook as if something was forcing its way up to the surface, ready to burst through the crust of the Earth. A fierce wind surrounding the scared and unsuspecting child struck her like a shock wave. A force field encased her, spinning and twirling her body while boggling her young mind. Of course she wanted to run! Nancy could not budge her legs. Trembling uncontrollably, she vividly recalls feeling entirely out-of-control, describing a sensation of feeling like Jell-O, inside and out. Waves of nausea then dizziness nearly caused her to swoon: those nasty symptoms of vertigo. Nancy felt sick, twisted int
o a knot. As tears flowed down her face, a far cry for help escaped her lips. She screamed, not that any mortal soul would have heard her pleas from such a great distance. She was on her own. Having been called home, over the river, through the woods… she was all alone.

  Yet not alone… something was physically manipulating the frantic child, constricting her movement, controlling her body and mind. Scared out of her quick wits, the tumultuous whirlwind kept dashing its debris in her direction, from every possible direction as a cluster of cones and leaves, twigs and pine straw, splattering her face, sticking against moist cheeks, tangling in her hair. With one final blow, an ill wind knocked her back from the rim of the cellar hole as a supernatural grand body slam. It was over. The brisk, blustery wind and everything trapped within it, including Nancy, was instantly freed to fall onto the ground, which is precisely what she did, thankfully backwards. Any forward tumble would’ve sent the youngster plummeting into a stone cellar hole ten feet deep. Scratches and scrapes heal; that would’ve been a disaster, a mortal wound inflicted. Beyond hazardous, maybe deadly. As a mother had forewarned, don’t break your neck, kid!

  There was nothing natural about it! Nancy did not pause to reflect on the too-close-for-comfort encounter. No need. Instead, she ran all the way home, at light speed she did not know she could attain, or maintain, for half a mile. A curious kid reached adulthood without divulging her off-limits excursion into the outer off—limits of the property. Nobody knew of her wicked ordeal in the woods, unwilling as she was to confess a transgression. Nancy kept it a secret for more than thirty years. It was a traumatic event in her young life, only eleven at the time. As far as Nancy is concerned, she was old enough to know better. She knows for a fact what she endured that day was not normal, it was paranormal. Not a natural phenomenon, it was instead supernatural in Nature. She knew enough to realize, tornadoes do not spontaneously erupt, nor does a forest floor. Distraught, she had no choice but to hide her raw and fragile emotions; the girl was freaked out! She perceived the whirlwind as an attacker and felt victimized by its presence. It was something wicked, more serious than merely being warned away. She considers it assaultive behavior, assuming she’d been dealt a harsh blow, severely disciplined for disobeying a direct order: a supernatural consequence. It remains her strongest sense of the episode. Carolyn certainly would have been disturbed by the details of an incident that never should have happened, had a mischievous daughter been able of adhere to a few simple, specific instructions. Had her mother known, she may have told her father, reason enough to keep mum. Forget about it, as if she ever could. She never did.

  On the clear, calm, bright and beautiful spring afternoon, a mortified child ran from the woods she loved, as if being chased, escaping from something invisible; sensing it encroaching, one step behind her, all the way back to the house. Discreetly slipping in through the woodshed, Nancy went up the back stairwell, straight into her bedroom. She was a mess: sobbing, shaking, dirty and hurt, having fallen several times during the intrepid journey. Who knows what made her feel safe in her bedroom. It was only an illusion. There was no safe place and there would be no escape from the omnipresent influence within and beyond those walls. The spirits were like the air, usually invisible but always there.

  It was not until her story was being told that the family realized it was a duplicate, virtually identical to a story Cindy told, likewise retaining a vivid memory of the event. Lessons learned the hard way? One would think so. As it turns out, both of them went back to that old cellar hole alone, on separate occasions, enduring a similar punishment, as if they hadn’t suffered enough during their first not-so-merry-go-rounds. Kids are stupid. While listening to the replication of an eerily similar circumstance, Carolyn cocked an eyebrow at her two grown daughters, wondering how they survived such a hazardous childhood, much of their own making. She had one pertinent point to inject:

  “Disobedient heathens get what they deserve.” Her understated and rather unsympathetic tone was well-deserved by two of her own. Carolyn had quite enough exploits and episodes to hold against her naughty daughter Nancy, so why bother providing extra ammunition? Cindy’s news came as a surprise. Confession is not always good for the soul. Nancy felt ashamed. To this day she cannot believe, as scared as she was at the old cellar hole that day, she was foolish enough to return, but it was true. She went back for more and did so all on her own, without the benefit of reinforcements. They had both been sufficiently reprimanded long ago, a mighty smite coming in the form of an ill wind. According to mother, a cross wind. No further admonishments were warranted. Carolyn knew why they’d both gone back, risking further attacks. Her children were drawn to the old cellar hole. Nancy had a sense she’d been caught doing something wicked, and suffered the consequence. Cindy sensed the same but also interpreted that frightful gust as communication rather than an overt persecution. Both believe something called them over the river and through the woods. Both believe it provided an inexplicable sense of home, enticing them to return. It was a powerful invitation, one they simply could not ignore, so they did what children do. They’d succumbed to curiosity and followed their instincts as a path. There was no escaping it. One by one, each member of the family was compelled to acknowledge the truth and come to terms with the circumstances. They were completely surrounded, the twister as a metaphor. Nancy would feel that queasy, disorienting sensation again, at another place and time. Cindy encountered a similar whirlwind in a borning room with Lori. Holly would go for a ride on the wind down a treacherous set of stairs and Roger felt the swirling draft from an open cellar door lifted off its hinges. Life and death went on along a linear path, as part of a more complicated continuum no one could explain.

  It was usually difficult to distinguish between the normal and paranormal; not always black and white but shades of gray as well. However, when major manifestations occurred, there would be no mistaking it for something else. During those moments, contemplation and interpretation are unnecessary. As Nancy declares, “It is what it is and it is up in your face!” She knows of what she speaks, from experience. Cindy agreed. “No matter where you go, there they are!” They laugh about it now but it was no laughing matter at the time. The girls learned to navigate treacherous metaphysical terrain, to walk a fine line between alternate dimensions as an extreme sport… tight rope walking, no net. While they reminisced together several more incidents were revealed. Emerging as a study in shades of gray, until it all became black and white, darkness and light, Nancy remembered another story. It had begun as a chat between sisters, resulting in a revelation for those seated at the kitchen table.

  ***

  The horses belonged to everybody, though Nancy and Cindy did think of them as their own and cared for them as such, as precious pets. They took the job quite seriously. It was not unusual for them to spend hours a day with the stately creatures, either inside the barn or out on the property, grooming then riding the boys. As the epitome of pampered pets, the horses were spoiled rotten, both indulged and adored by their children. Each of these girls had a special affinity with animals but Cynthia and Nancy were totally committed to the horses, devoting countless hours to their care. Therefore, exposure was greater, as the dutiful duo shoveled stalls, baled hay and filled feed buckets. What happens in that barn is more than meets the eye of the beholder.

  There were numerous instances of supernatural activity in the barn but it was such a hectic place, it was difficult to distinguish or attribute the cause or to point a finger at the culprits. It was more of a frustration, a nuisance, really; currycombs and other tools of the trade had a tendency to temporarily disappear, relocating at will. The bridle, always hung on the same peg on the nearest wall to the stall, would suddenly vanish, only to be found later on the opposite side of the barn, hanging upside down in some dark, obscure corner never used for anything, by any living soul. Too busy for juvenile practical jokes, the girls soon realized that it was not some playful prank but rather the pronouncement of a pre
sence. Still, proving this assertion to be true would be virtually impossible. Circumstantial evidence may not hold up in the court of public opinion… just not convincing enough for skeptics who presumed the existence of a logical explanation. Yet, it is logical, if one believes in the existence of mischievous spirits who chomp at the bit to wreak havoc!

  Their supernatural shenanigans seemed to be intended as annoyances, to distract, maybe even to keep the kids in the barn a little longer, due to delays deliberately caused: searching for lost, misplaced, pilfered items they needed to do their jobs. No, the girls were not amused by these antics. Actually, they became chronic complainers on that matter, growing weary of their perpetual scavenger hunts. The game got old and, according to the mother, the whining got older. Eventually the girls gave up the ghost, accepting their lot in life, at least while in the barn. Empty accusations fell upon deaf ears… no point in pointing fingers. There was nobody there… or is there? Boo! Who to blame?

  There was a time when the rafters they stood beneath held the weight of a woman’s body, swinging from the end of a rope. They could never afford to forget this while working out in the barn, yet they didn’t even know about it for several years after moving to the farm. No one ever bothered to mention Mrs. Arnold. Carolyn’s research revealed the truth of her life… and her death. No wonder its rafters rattled. The wasting of one’s precious time on Earth would emerge as a theme in the history of the old Arnold Estate.