***
Mortals evolve. They change and grow, learning the errors of their ways. Carl Johnson was once drawn to the darkest side of existence, fascinated by devil worship. He is no longer that reckless bad boy of his youth. Thirty-five years hence, he has matured into a thoughtful, erudite individual with much to contribute to a never-ending conversation regarding the netherworld. His vast accumulation of knowledge is generously shared, used only to the good. It was long ago and far away. Amends have been made with contact which is welcome. His true personality has emerged and he can now be described as a “twin” in every conceivable sense of the word, exhibiting qualities which he reflects as a mirror-image of his brother. Carl Johnson has seen the Light. He found his inner glow. It required courage to abandon the enticing powers of a dark spirit, to his great credit. His good work continues, spreading the word and keeping the faith. It radiates from within, illuminating his chosen path to enlightenment. Those who know him now would never believe who he was then, a young man struggling to establish an identity of his own, separate and distinct; opposite of his brother. This alone should inspire anyone on a journey.
Keith Johnson had made quite an impression on the bevy of young ladies. When he hugged Andrea goodbye Nancy got jealous but that’s a whole other story, perhaps another book. First impressions tend to last. Jesus freak. Bible in hand, looking every bit the part he seemed to be playing, at first glance, it was not an act. Keith proved to be pure of heart, eager to help all humankind. Do not judge, lest ye be judged; a valuable lesson learned. Reunited, a bond of friendship re-established some thirty-four years later, as destiny dictated, Andrea and Keith are as thick as thieves. Truth be told, they were all hippies, freaks and misfits in a narrow-minded world, including a family that was lost and found by those who understood. Birds of a feather do tend to flock together.
“I have an existential map. It has
‘You are here’ written all over it.”
Steven Wright
~ Nancy knows more than she shows off ~
blessings and curses
“Never to suffer would never to have been blessed.”
Edgar Allan Poe
There were too many blessings to count. Blessings abound when someone knows where to look, and if one is looking everywhere all the time, they will be seen like spirit itself… omnipresent. In spite of their trials and tribulations, there was perpetual lightheartedness, an ethereal spectral wonder about being in the place they truly loved. The children were particularly tolerant of what their mother perceived as a curse. It was the price they paid to have the home they adored and it was not such a heavy toll, most of the time. When escapes became necessary there was always a fair forest calling, lovely, dark and deep. Promises to keep to one another, they protected their mindset by traveling all together to a peaceful pond or a babbling brook. The girls learned early how to count their blessings. As time passed, as events transpired, it became more imperative to notice what was good and pure and true. However, one cannot escape the fact, there were horrors to behold. It was during these times when they found comfort and solace with each other, embraced by the loving arms of those who endured the same and understood this fear… their saving grace. Strange as it may seem, suffering as one, feeling that pain with and for one another was a blessing in disguise. They were never alone in the dark. They had each other. No stronger bond exists than one formed by sheer necessity.
There is something to be said for being surrounded by those who instantly believe, by those who never question if what was seen was real. It preserved and enhanced the bonds which have lasted a lifetime. In spite of what may be perceived as a childhood cursed, they would all beg to differ. They shared a common secret, prayed a common prayer and worked in common purpose at a farmhouse blessed from within by an uncommon grace and an eternal love. The decade spent steeped in discovery was the ultimate childhood adventure, for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as they all shall live, perhaps even longer. When someone is young and has no sense of how fragile life is, being surrounded by and reminded about death can be a saving grace in its own respect. There is nothing wrong with having a healthy respect for death. It helps mindful souls become more aware of the intrinsic value of life. Developing an appreciation for both matures a mind, unlocking the gate. It is one of the keys to Enlightenment. Once that path is sufficiently illuminated one is less likely to stumble over an obstacle or take a wrong turn in the dark. Seeing is believing as the eyes of the beholder is gifted with a sight too bright to believe at first, found in the shadows of one’s peripheral vision. To see the other side of existence is a blessing, not a curse.
Bestowed with uncommon knowledge coveted in silence, kept a perpetual secret for three decades after the fact, part of this process is awakening to the notion that this is not the kind of news one should take to the grave. Having major implications for all mankind, it would be selfish to withhold evidence; sin of omission. That it happened with purpose and reason is reason enough to assume a significant discovery; compelling information meant to disperse. The world waited patiently, for thirty years, not knowing what it had missed. There is merit in telling the truth when it benefits others, no matter the risk to one’s reputation. The Perron family had to get past the fear of rejection and a scrutiny that would surely accompany any pronouncement of this nature. As a fate was accepted, so was the responsibility which accompanied it. To bear witness to such events then to divulge the details in earnest requires courage.
There are elements of this memoir which are quite literally unbelievable, requiring a leap of faith. Therein lies the risk… not being believed. There was a time when such rejection seemed a fate worse than death. No more. They overcame their fear of mortals in much the same way they overcame the fear of immortal souls. With the awareness came a willingness to cast doubt aside and share with those who do believe, so they too may find some peace.
To live unencumbered, free of the fear of death, to embrace the present moment is a holy endeavor. To be in touch with the planet, observing its transitions to and from darkness and light or sense the Earth spinning, to feel its vibrations beneath bare feet is a gift. As a variation on the theme, they have put that old Yankee adage to good use: Live free or die trying! Ask any of the children what they think about those formative years as adults: “It was the best time, the best decade of my life. What a blessing.” Valuable lessons were learned. To honor the past by living well in the present, unconcerned about the future, is liberating to the mortal soul. A lifetime spent knowing there is a hereafter, that there is, without a doubt, something beyond our mortal existence is truly a blessing. God. Who could consider such uncommon knowledge a curse?
“Better to lose count while naming your blessings
than to lose your blessings to counting your troubles.”
Maltbie D. Babcock
darkest before the dawn
“The black moment is the moment when the real message of
transformation is going to come. At the darkest moment comes the light.”
Joseph Campbell
When all has turned from gray to black, when looking forward requires an all-too-painful journey through pure self-doubt, and looking backward is not allowed, looking inward is darker than the blackness filling space with itself. When there is no point of light, it is time to seek assistance. When one can no longer discern the century or identify the year of the Lord it is time to humbly ask for help. Ed and Lorraine Warren seemed the most likely source of comfort and support, yet Carolyn feared what would become an ordeal. Their uncommon knowledge, once imparted, evolved into a burden in mind. She couldn’t imagine what this couple might conjure up to clear the house of spirits, to banish the demon forever. God. She had no idea what to expect.
A decision had to be made. It was a matter of natural selection regarding the supernatural dilemma. Carolyn chose the path of least resistance. Famous for being an easy way out of difficulties, this path exi
sts only when needed, when the confrontation can be avoided. It provides an escape route: a flight over fight option. Carolyn finally decided to leave well enough alone. She was not well enough to determine the consequences, to see or to know where the path might lead. Hers was a lonely intrepid excursion through desolation, despair disguised as that singular solitude she sought within the woods. Her mind became capable of a self-deception, convincing her everything would be all right in the end, when she knew better, all along. It was time. A decision had to be made, involving matters no less significant than life and death. Carolyn had to navigate blind or develop an ability to see in the dark.
“Lose not yourself in a far off time,
seize the moment that is thine.”
Friedrich Schiller
Vacant and disillusioned, she decided to dig bottles with her friend, Fran. She deliberately went to a place in mind where she felt comfort and security, a place where she became free to fully express herself. Clinging for dear life to what little optimism remained in her spirit, appearing infrequently, in few fleeting moments, a weakened woman kept her hands busy buried up to the elbows in dirt on her scavenger hunt through history. Research continued as well, another way of getting lost, if not in the woods, among ancient particles of parchment on dust laden library shelves. She would watch it rise from the pages, a vision captured by daylight streaming through rippled panes of glass to illuminate the new world order from her unique vantage point.
Or, off to old graveyards, they’d go to walk among lilies and lavender, so to pay their respects for the dead, long gone but not forgotten. Breathing in a fragrant wind is therapeutic, soothing to a soul. Seeking solace where others go only to grieve, Fran and Carolyn were equally fascinated by an ornate and often heart-wrenching collection of tombstones in the old Arnold Cemetery. Buried deeply in the woods, it was abandoned long ago, little or no upkeep to show for its care or concern over the centuries. There, sprinkled among its forlorn ruins were splendid remnants of tributes past, its old stock plantings pointing toward Heaven, bowing in reverence at graveyard gates. There, they would wander along peaceful paths, ambling between weather worn stones, a somber and reflective journey through the infinite darkness of time gone by, prayerfully meandering toward the Light.
Together, they’d haunt antique shops to find vintage clothing which they would then wear into local villages where they would shop some more. An interesting couple of women began to turn heads or prompt whispers behind their backs, and they didn’t give a fig. They’d use archaic language in public, just for fun; making fun of those who made fun of them. Thick as thieves.
Paranoia strikes deep. Into her heart it would creep. Melancholy seemed to be the only mood she had retained. Not depression. Introspection. Though fully functional, she wandered through her days. The rest she so desperately needed eluded her during the night. Sleep-deprived, she would curl up in the corner of the sofa like a cat. She could not, would not close her eyes. Instead, she read or wrote of reasons why she could not escape. It was a time to pause and reflect, her time to brace against what may come. To dream wide awake.
Who sleeps here unturned
by dream in stillness
stark as death?
This is not rest
this is retreat
and my one comfort now
is wakefulness.
They had come to her before dawn, in darkness lingering just prior to daybreak. It seemed they were quite adept at barely evading the Light. The first glimmer of it, creeping upon the horizon, had banished them from sight. An old clock had marked their arrival. This vivid imagery remained with her. Omnipresence; an unholy host gathered like a coven in her consciousness. When would they return? Immersed in a volume of Edna St. Vincent Millay, her tired eyes fell upon several lines which rang clear through to her soul, by prompting a resurgence of visions Carolyn sought to dismiss, to forget about, but there was no forgetting what she had seen and what she knew of them.
“A Fear that in the deep night starts awake
Perpetually, to find its senses strained
Against the taut strings of the quivering air,
Awaiting the return of some dread chord?”
When would they revisit? When would they again dare to drag her out of bed, tearing her from sleep, prying her eyes open, compelling her to look up, to peer through the smoke, to gaze into the mirror, searching for a reflection not her own? When would they re-emerge through timelessness, pushing her around, provoking the woman to bear witness to the essence of her mortality and their immortality from another dimension where dark hearts do not beat?
Closing the volume she’d propped between trembling knees, unwilling to venture any further into the poem which told her own tale, Carolyn observed the quivering cigarette between her fingers, weary eyes following the trail of smoke as it traveled through the room, making its way up the chimney shaft, riding the draft as its only escape route. It was true; she’d lived in pure dread, with a perpetual cloud of suspicion hanging over her head like the Sword of Damocles, dwelling within an insipid hell hole of a house which offered her no comfort or protection, nothing but hopelessness… a door prize for coming to call, daring to cross over this threshold. Thrusting her cold body forward, forcing it to rise from the ashes which had casually dropped from a neglected cigarette onto her feet, Carolyn sought release from within the shell she had hollowed out on the sofa. Wandering the parlor, peering through its windows at the break of dawn, she wondered when they’d come again and what they wanted from her. There she stood, gazing inward, into the nothingness of her being during moments when she was not sure she was still there, present and accounted for, sentry at her post. And then, there, on the darkest of horizons sat the burnished glow of sunrise; full-throated promise of another day dawning: hot coffee and sweet kisses from five children. Peace at last, as that sense of freedom found in the arms of those who did not know she had been there all night long, wide awake, keeping vigil, watching over them in the darkness as a beacon of Light to show them the way home. As footsteps overhead broke a bleak spell cast, it was time to forsake the specter of death and rejoin her clan in the land of the living, escaping the land of the lost and gone. A pause for reflection: a welcome pause refreshed a soul hungry for company. Good mourning, girls. How did you sleep?
“If you want peace, stop fighting.
If you want peace of mind, stop fighting with your thoughts.”
Peter McWilliams
death becomes her
“We know what we are, but not what we may be.”
William Shakespeare
The Warrens were becoming veritable fixtures in the Perron family, expressing enormous interest in the most mundane episodes. Lorraine would call at least once, sometimes twice a week, speaking with whoever answered the telephone, adult or child, intuiting a sense of what might be happening with that individual and the family overall. They all trusted Ed and Lorraine and were quite forthcoming, at times battling for the telephone so they could describe their latest incidents without fear of reprisal or judgment, providing them a certain comfort and freedom to disclose. Living in perpetual secrecy, their relationships with the Warrens created a safe haven, an outlet for inner conflict, giving Ed and Lorraine further clues and insights pertaining to the level of supernatural activity in the home. The clear open air communication enhanced the fundamental background required for thorough investigation.
Sometimes everything was peaceful and quiet, just the way they liked it. Sometimes that was not the case, at all. One afternoon, Lorraine called then shared a conversation with Andrea, a chat which became the catalyst for the most significant event involving the Warrens. The eldest was home alone, free to speak her mind. Andrea told Lorraine about her heartfelt concerns; a worry for her mother who seemed to be slipping away from their family. She described the withdrawal symptoms, the rapid weight loss, a frail, frequently fainting woman she adored and was frightened for; it was a real burden for a youngster who felt helpless
to affect any positive change. Carolyn had taken a turn for the worse. Her energy was dissipating, an interest in life apparently waning. Andrea expressed deep feelings of abandonment. Though not prone to complaint, she let it be known, much of the responsibility for their house and her siblings was falling on her. The children were quite often alone when arriving home from school, as Carolyn was off somewhere else, deep in the woods, digging ancient dumps for bottles. Latch-key kids, except there were no keys or locks and all of the latches had minds of their own. Click. It had become an obsession. Chris was usually able to find her but the absence was stunning. The girls had always been able to rely on her presence and it felt as if she had lost interest in them, too. It was a painful time. Carolyn would get so wrapped up in her dump-digging, she would lose track of time altogether. Christine would often seek her out, sensing where she was on their property. She too soon became obsessed with unearthing glass artifacts. They would be out of the house, gone for hours, forced to abandon the effort at twilight. Then they would return home filthy and exhausted, carefully toting its spoils, remains of the day, antiquities to add to the burgeoning collection. It was all fun and games until someone got hurt, and that someone was Andrea… cut to the bone, left all alone with memories of a mom long gone… but not forgotten.
House of Darkness House of Light Page 36