For some inexplicable reason, Roger’s disposition immediately improved. Malice he’d exuded moments earlier seemed to vanish with the odor, going up the chimney as one solitary huffing puff of smoke. He calmed down then settled into a Red Sox game, as if nothing had happened at all. At least it was reason enough to ignore his wife for the rest of the night and that was fine by her. Peace and quiet restored, the girls began a tentative re-entry into the war zone. No more hot shots, a cease fire declared, no white flag was necessary. It seemed safe enough. Dad had fallen asleep on the sofa. The girls gathered around their mom as protectorate, circling the wagons, squarely in her camp. Still apprehensive, it took awhile for them to warm to their surroundings, sensing a decided chill in the air, in spite of the hot as hell fire in the hole. The children began interacting in hushed tones, asking questions in whispers.
“Mommy? Why does daddy blame you for the ghosts?” April had tugged at Carolyn’s sleeve, feeling insecure, in desperate need of attention.
“I don’t know, baby. I think because it scares him, too.” Her eyes moist, dripping with sadness, Carolyn’s somber mood persisted, though she’d made a valiant effort to disguise it. There were no secrets to be kept; her kids knew everything. Above all else, they knew they lived in a war zone.
“They were all here before we came.” Cindy’s statement was defensive.
“And they’ll still be here when we leave.” Chris completed the thought.
“We’re never leaving!” Nancy was adamant, as a declaration of intention. Staunchly opposed to such an absurd notion as surrender, she wanted no part of a ludicrous discussion. Failure was not an option. To abandon ship wasn’t only proof of catastrophic failure; it was simply out of the question, not if the vessel was still afloat. Abandoning her family along with the uncomfortable topic, Nancy’s bedroom was her fallout shelter, the place where she’d escape the worst of the aftermath which inevitably resulted in conversations about selling the farm. Too predictable for words. She had none to spare.
“Mom, I can’t even imagine living anywhere else.” Andrea’s melancholy tone was as reflective as her comment was reflexive.
Roger began to snore. Even so, the girls knew not to change that channel on the television, knowing from experience, it would wake the man instantly. He tended to follow ball games subconsciously, in an altered state of mind. Father would know the final score when he woke up, causing his family to wonder if he might hear them, too. Lingering by the fire with their mother, they happily chatted about the marvels of fast food and new shoes. Carolyn was preoccupied, lost in thought, pondering the fact that she had to build a fire in August to chase the chill of death from her home.
Suggesting the girls get ready for bed, Carolyn stood up from her spot on the hearthstone. A virtual explosion of sound reverberated through the house, originating in the cellar. The dogs: four on the floor and barking hysterically. Roger was blown upright off the sofa. Kids covered their ears instinctively, as a reflex. No! Not again! That noise was deafening and deeply disturbing, like a foghorn. So loud, it literally shook the floorboards beneath their feet.
Nancy flew from her bedroom, screaming in terror. Glass trembled in the windows. China rattling in the hutch, strings in their piano vibrating audibly, Jennifer crouched down and began growling at the cellar door in the parlor, the room they were in. No question about it, the vociferous sound resonated throughout the house but it emanated from a cellar, a resounding commotion so intense, the children huddled with their mother for comfort as Roger ran toward the only entrance to the cellar that had not been blocked off, the only conceivable point of entry. He had no weaponry with which to confront an intruder, save his volatile temper, a formidable force in its own right. The door he had earlier kicked to close was now nearly ripped from its hinges as he opened it again. His family could hear the anger in his furious footsteps, causing the wood to beg for mercy beneath his weight while descending into the darkness. Three times the horn blew: three distinct tones came back-to-back as the uproar continued. This commotion had a sickening feeling to it, literally nauseating. Roger’s sudden absence was just as horrifying for the girls, more frightening than a sound ringing in their wounded ears. They all believed he was the one in danger and would have preferred he not behave as a knight unarmed with no shining armor to carry into battle for protection, but had instead decided to remain behind with them. It stopped. The blaring noise abruptly ceased. Everybody listened intently to the sounds of a silence made all the more stunning by what had preceded it. Detecting whatever she could from the void, Carolyn heard nothing. It was completely quiet. Several minutes passed, the most frightening time of all, moments during which one had to wonder what was coming next, because the war was never really over.
When Roger emerged through their cellar door, he looked shell-shocked; ashen. It was obvious the man had an encounter of some kind. He resembled the plaster on the walls he’d just rushed past on his intrepid journey into the unknown. No longer contemptuous, instead, he appeared bereft, despondent, something the girls recognized, familiar because of what they’d already seen happening to their mother. Reclaiming his spot on the sofa, Roger hung his head, attempting to hide the facial expression he must have presumed was far too telling. Carolyn did not utter a word about it to her husband. This was not something either of them was willing to discuss in front of their kids. Andrea went to him. Placing her hand on his shoulder, she offered him what support she could. Conflicted, she felt anger and pity for him but admired his courage. This had happened before; dogs cowering behind kids, loud noises erupting from within the farmhouse… all part of the new paranormal.
“Girls, say goodnight to your father. It’s time for bed.” April crawled into her daddy’s lap then hugged his neck. Cindy began a sincere chorus, a round of “thanks for the shoes” and “we had fun tonight” which, considering their current circumstances seemed oddly out of place. He must have appreciated it during such a trying time. Trials and tribulation. Even though they were all quite frightened, no one asked to remain behind with their parents. Instead, they called both dogs upstairs. Embracing their mother on the way, all of the children clustered in Andrea’s bedroom again, anxious to eavesdrop on the inevitable conversation about to begin. Emotions flooded the air up there, with heartfelt sympathy for both of their parents. They prayed together.
Carolyn felt she had no choice but to discuss this event with her husband. As alienated as she was from him that night, she was likewise grateful he’d been home when it occurred. Too often copping the blame and coping with the aftermath, she handled far too much alone on her own over the years. He needed to be there, for her.
“What happened down there?” Stoking and poking the fire, she turned to study his face, the bleak, blighted expression, a precursor to his comment.
“That bitch…”
“Did you see her?”
“No, but she touched me.” Roger’s voice lowered. So difficult to admit it. “Across my back… my shoulders and neck… more than once.”
“Where were you when she touched you?”
“At the far door then again at the bottom of the stairs, before I came up.”
“Roger. Don’t you understand? She called you downstairs.”
“You don’t know that.” The familiar growl had crept back into his voice. “There was nothing down there. Nothing. I looked everywhere.”
“So nothing touched you?” His wife stared him down.
“I don’t know what touched me!” Grinding out words he resented having to say, Roger was quickly slipping back into a rage against a cosmic machine he did not know how to fix, like everything else he had to repair in the cellar. This was beyond his grasp. He was ill-equipped to handle the challenge.
“I’m not the one who did it. Stop treating me like I am the guilty party.” Her words struck him like an arrow from an unholy crossbow, into the heart. Roger realized his tone was as severe as his aggression was misplaced.
“What the he
ll was that . . . some kind of horn?” The man was stymied.
“Does it really matter?” It didn’t, really. Carolyn felt no need to identify a specific sound. It served no purpose and certainly didn’t explain its presence. “It happens… that’s what matters… and you know it has happened before.”
“This was different than the last time. It was… closer.”
“Roger, haven’t you noticed? This only happens when you are home. It’s how she calls you.” To the point of epiphany, she felt the need to share it.
“Bullshit.” Making another profane point all his own.
“I am telling you, whatever it is in that cellar knows when you’re here and knows you will come when called, if for no other reason, than to protect your family. She knows it.”
“That’s insane.” A man of few words when he wanted to be, Roger kept it short and sarcastic.
“No. On the contrary, it is entirely plausible. I wish I could get you to hop that fast when I call you! Follow her directions… and she will find you.”
Hard to believe, but Roger did not want to argue anymore. He was weary, overwrought. Exhausted. He had not retained enough energy in the aftermath of this incident to invest another ounce of it anywhere else. Reclining into his overstuffed chair, he closed his eyes and promptly fell asleep. Carolyn curled up with a book on the sofa. The children went to their own beds. Show over. Done for the night, or so they thought.
Roger awoke an hour or so later, refreshed. He’d turned on the late show, never considering it might be a noisy distraction while his wife was reading. Without saying a word, she closed the book and placed it on the coffee table, there to wait its turn, again, after he’d gone to bed. The weather forecast was foreboding. A cold front arriving; kiss all the seasonable warmth goodbye. A first taste of fall. As predicted, the night air had become frigid, a shock to the system. Carolyn felt it coming the last time she’d gone into the woodshed as the temperature was dropping like botflies. Rising from his seat, intending to stoke the fire, an incredible explosion stopped the man dead in his tracks. The eruption did not come from the cellar. It came from their front yard.
Andrea leapt from her bed. By the time she arrived downstairs her parents were already outside. As she ran over to the door, left open in the parlor, her mom emerged from the front porch, stopping her with a list of instructions. Triage had already begun. Time to use a lifeline… phone a friend for help!
“Call the police. Tell them there’s been a car accident; three victims with serious injuries. Tell them to send an ambulance NOW! Send more than one! Go, Annie… go call for help!” Her mother’s expression informed everything. It was a matter of life and death. “Tell your sisters to stay upstairs. Bring me every blanket you can find.” Following her directions, the teenager ran to the phone, hands trembling while placing that frantic call, relaying her message received to the proper authorities in town. She then ran throughout the house, hastily stripping every blanket from every bed, breathlessly explaining what had happened to her sisters, based on what little she knew. With an armload of quilts, Andrea bolted through the front door into a morbid scene she could never have imagined in her wildest dreams. It was as she feared, a virtual nightmare come to life and death, in Technicolor. Even beneath the shroud of darkness she saw it was a blood bath, broken bodies scattered everywhere.
Neither parent wanted the child exposed to what she was seeing, but they needed her to stay and help. Roger yelled to the girls inside to turn on all the lights. Defying a direct order four faces were plastered against windowpanes, staring into the darkness, unaware of the gruesome scene unfolding in front of them, sprawled out on their lawn. Two of the three young men had been thrown from the vehicle on impact. The driver was still pinned beneath the wreckage, moaning in agony, crying, begging for his mother.
Those first few minutes were as critical as the injuries they had sustained. Thankfully, all of them were drunk. Rounding that sharp corner approaching the house, they’d struck the stump of a tree the state had cut down but never bothered to come back and grind down. An impact at God knows what speed had caused the vehicle to literally blow apart. Gasoline and other fluids were leaking out of the engine, saturating the boy who’d been trapped beneath it. Roger could not budge the car or help him out from underneath the frame. His belt served the purpose and his skillful use of a tourniquet saved a life. Meanwhile, Carolyn was doing the same for the victim she was tending to, several yards away from Andrea, telling her eldest what to do for the one she was with, the boy closest to the farmhouse, the one who had been catapulted through the windshield. His leg was almost completely severed at the thigh. Roger did the triage, discovering a gruesome wound. The kid was bleeding out. He told her what to do and how to do it then left her to her own devices, returning to a boy trapped beneath a car. Put pressure directly on the wound. Cover him up. Get as close to him as possible, for the benefits of body heat, and talk to him! It was most important to keep him talking. Roger knew all three were in shock. If Andrea’s charge went to sleep, he would never wake up again. She did as she was told and what she was not told to do… pray. As their gut-wrenching battle cries rang through the valley, the fierce fight for their lives continued unabated.
Shattered glass was scattered all over the road. After several minutes, the few cars traveling such a remote stretch so late at night had no choice but to stop. A crowd began to gather on the periphery as neighbors who’d heard the virtual sonic boom began emerging from their homes, walking down the road to investigate it. Screaming sirens detected from a distance were small comfort; a welcome sound to be sure, but still too far away to count as help. As the air was moist and chilly, it carried the promise of hope, though it seemed to take forever for help to arrive; two fire trucks followed by the captain’s car. Ambulances appeared simultaneously, discovering devastation. Rugged souls, burly men leapt from their vehicles, literally lifting the car off one victim. As three young men were loaded onto stretchers, three Perrons were able to step away and let the professionals take over. The chief would later tell Roger that he and his family did all the right things. Because the accident victims received immediate and appropriate care it saved their lives: message well-received by all. Do unto others as though you were the others. God forbid. God bless them, every one.
The following spring, two of the three passengers of that ill-fated flight up Round Top Road came back to the scene of their near-death experience. The young men were so grateful, truly humbled by the gentle care taken with their lives. Each of them spent months in the hospital recovering and both were tracked with scars as permanent reminders of formerly gaping wounds and the inherent danger of traveling at light speed. They sustained numerous critical injuries during an ordeal they barely remembered. Tender mercies as blessings bestowed. One of them gave Mrs. Perron a package, returning the quilt that went for a ride in an ambulance. Naturally, she inquired about their friend, the third occupant of the vehicle. He couldn’t come with them. Spinal injury, he had been paralyzed from the waist down, confined to a wheelchair for life. It was all over at age nineteen. Their hearts broke for the young men who were quick to remind them as mourners that they were not dead. Lives were spared and they’d survived because of what the Perrons did for them on a dark, chilly night eight months earlier. It was a highly emotional exchange. Even though they were unknown to the family prior to this horrendous event, it left an indelible imprint on everybody involved. One brief but profound conversation established a connection, a bond which can never be broken, forged in memories during a dialogue none of them will ever forget.
True. This is a gory story to be sure, but one with a happy ending. At least none of the three boys involved succumbed to their critical, life-threatening injuries. However, it is made even more significant because of an impression it left behind. That terrible accident touched many lives and left many marks: scars. It was nothing less than a crisis; the intervention was divine by nature. Obviously, no direct correlation can be drawn
between the incident occurring within their home and what then occurred beyond its doors. Neither can it be entirely ruled out. It remains anecdotal, inferential with purpose and reason, as an important part of the collective memory of a family. Due primarily to a shocking, yet redemptive quality it possessed as a singular event, it was also a matter of timing, a startling occurrence in context with the dark, disturbing events transpiring within the farmhouse. That night, above all others, it felt to those who dwelled within those walls as if their farmhouse was cursed. The horn was an ominous call to arms as a harbinger of things to come. Timing is everything in life… and death… and the coincidental timing of these events was bizarre, leading to substantial speculation on the part of the participants. There had been a lot of living and dying on their farm over the centuries, providing its residents with a decidedly different perspective; cause enough to examine shades of gray wedged uncomfortably between black and white. There is an almost imperceptible veil which exists between life and death, so thin it becomes transparent, seen through like a shady used car salesman.
Was it a truly cosmic convergence? Was there an evil presence involved, drawing disaster to their door or was it a coincidence, as a matter of unhappy happenstance? There are those who believe the concept of coincidence was invented by mortals as a matter of convenience, arbitrarily imposed upon reality, to quickly explain away the otherwise inexplicable. There are those who believe that virtually anything is possible, and those who are convinced that a spiritual connection exists, as fine lines drawn between these incidents. Only time will tell, or not. Some questions have no answers in this realm.
House of Darkness House of Light Page 22