House of Darkness House of Light Page 6

  “It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.” Carolyn couldn’t believe she was actually saying those words, though they were certainly appropriate in the midst of the episode. She was not finished. “I am disappointed in all of you. I’m hurt! I will never tolerate disrespect. Katy, I have fed you, sheltered you and loved you for years and this is how you return a kindness? Bringing bedlam into my home? Today you darkened my door. Don’t ever do it again or you won’t be welcome here anymore. Take this thing with you as you go, now, and never bring it back here again.” Katy took her cue… and her game.

  Go away, little girl! Teardrops froze on her ruddy cheeks as she trudged through the snow at twilight. Claiming to have destroyed the board when she got home, Carolyn never divulged the bad behavior, not even to their father. He woke none the wiser. Grateful girls appreciated their mother’s discretion. After all, hers was a sufficient punishment; an impactful and memorable loss of freedom. The natural consequence of their supernatural activities, Carolyn grounded both of her heathens for a solid month. Apparently, a consequence they already endured was deemed insufficient, as far as mom was concerned. They need never forget what they’d done; no more games, no more wreaking havoc in the house. There was trouble enough within those walls. No need to usher it over a threshold, deliberately inviting disaster! Some thing wicked had come their way… and it came to stay. It may never leave again. If it had not been there all along, it certainly made itself at home, by invitation. No happily ever after-life in the offing, Carolyn knew a door had been opened that could not be closed, all in the name of fun and games.

  ***

  There is evil in the world. It is a force to be reckoned with while rearing its ugly head, especially when foot soldiers abound, ready and willing to do its bidding. What transpired in the bedroom on that cold afternoon occurred, to best recollection, in a matter of two or three minutes, yet no one escaped it unscathed; a cosmic adventure with the wonderful Ouija board took them on one hell of a ride, in answer to one simple question, “Who is in this house?” As an exercise intended only to make contact, the connection designed to pose a few inquiries (if they got lucky), it was never meant to call forth an unholy host of who knows what! Unaware there was a demonic presence to exorcise, let it be noted that crashing the Gates of Hell is never a good idea! Instead, the girls thought they might persuade what they’d perceived as a bad influence to go forth on its merry way through the Universe and leave them be; they meant to expel only the most troublesome spirit and did not care if the rest remained behind. Katy proved to be the bad influence, admonished and expelled. Their intention was pure, as a possible solution to a problem, but they made matters worse, unleashing something beyond comprehension or control. This was not one of the spirits with whom they had grown so familiar. It was something else: a malignant, ominous, evil presence capable of malfeasance, warping time and space on its journey across an astral plane, unless it was omnipresent in the old house. Boo! Who? A pertinent question: what was this thing lurking on the periphery, awaiting an invitation? Which threshold had this crossed over to come in? Why did it release its captives? They knew it let ’em off the hook. Go away, little girls! The devil you know, but they did not know this devil when it came to call. As participants in a dangerous game, they had gotten off with a warning. Evil does exist. Its most revealing aspect: in the midst of abject horror, mercy was bestowed. Perhaps in its purest form, at its point of origin, evil exists with purpose and reason. Perhaps it too is divine by nature, as the eternal balancing act of God.

  “As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.”

  Henry David Thoreau

  ~ Boo! Who goes there? ~

  history

  “History is the unrolled scroll of prophesy.”

  James Garfield

  The farm was old but they knew nothing of its history save what little Mr. Kenyon passed on to Carolyn before he passed away. There was much more to discover about an eclectic, eccentric mix of town folk hidden within dusty archives and record rooms. Curious to a fault, Carolyn had immersed herself in an exploration process, traveling wherever she needed to go to retrieve the information so ardently sought, to the exclusion of all else at times. From the quaint and quiet Chepachet, Rhode Island to the bustling city of Worcester, Massachusetts, earliest records remain scattered; anything accumulated prior to the formal incorporation of the town of Burrillville was stored elsewhere. Because Carolyn longed to understand more, to capture the essence of a new place, to attain a sense of how it had evolved over the course of centuries, it became her imperative to unravel the mysteries of the house. By the time she began delving into its personalities, those who’d once inhabited the dwelling she called “home” Carolyn was certain; spirits they encountered belonged to her place in the country… quite certain it was their home, too.

  Over time invested in the project, a prolific paper trail revealed interesting fragments of history: the Arnold Estate was originally the Dexter Richardson Homestead. This expansive property was deeded in 1680 and another house was built further back in the woods close to the old wagon road. Though that house no longer exists, remnants of the past remain; ancient ruins. Exploring the old cellar hole was always illuminating. Everyone had a fascination with it and most of them recall a corresponding supernatural experience there.

  What began as the Dexter Richardson Homestead later became known as the Arnold Estate. This is the house with an infamous past. Harmonie Arnold died within its walls, though there was no recorded cause of death. Prudence Arnold: so young, few details of her life left to punctuate that tragic passing. It was later discovered she had been raped and murdered by a local farmhand who then took his own life. The woman who first inhabited it as mistress of the house was an Indian woman named Mary. Could she be one of the spirits who resides there, still? Johnny Arnold’s suicide had been recorded, as had Mrs. John Arnold’s suicide, in their barn. Generations of information passed before her tired eyes late into the nights, organizing her notebook, growing thicker by the week. It seemed like reams of paper, meticulous research done then thoughtfully compiled, written over an expanse of time in space shared, marking the centuries, denoting the course of lives spent within its walls.

  The farmhouse is a living museum, testament to those who constructed it, completing the task at hand in 1736. Requiring years to build and then build onto, in its present form the house is at its best, having been painstakingly, so lovingly restored with impeccable detail by its current caretakers. Yet, this house has an ethereal history as well. As the metaphysical marvel, a portal to the past, this place in the country offers the inhabitants insights as it teaches lessons and reveals its secrets to those who listen up in class. A rarity among homes, Carolyn often wondered when this haunting began. At what point did manifestations of previous occupants begin to occur? How many mortals had seen apparitions before them? It could not have started with the unsuspecting family fresh from the suburbs, could it? Was it something unleashed by their presence on the farm? Was there a specific reason why it had called to them? Was it “love at first sight” or did they have a family history there?

  Though brimming with spirits, it is likewise a spiritual place, surrounded by the endless bounty of Mother Nature in all her glory, ripe for the picking, prime time and space for exploration across an infinite expanse reaching into the netherworld, perhaps an integral part of it. Cindy insists the farmhouse is as powerful as the spirits who reside within it, if not more so. Her sense of its significance is shared. The family knows they are only the messengers.

  Carolyn’s diligently prepared research, once placed into Lorraine’s presumably trustworthy hands, those of a friend, was lost to her, never to be seen again. Intending to expand the knowledge and deepen the understanding of the two specific people investigating supernatural activity in their house, Carolyn’s personal materials and mementos were generously extended—as a loan, not as a gift. Too bad. It was an awful loss; deep disappointment. Though she wo
uld love to retrieve these items, as keepsakes for her children, as pieces of their history, she has kept other souvenirs from the farm and has no shortage of memories. As the decades pass she is sustained and enriched by reflection. Looking back with a temperate eye she sees, now as the beholder from afar, what she learned from the farmhouse. Perspectives change over time. In her mind’s eye Carolyn sees the farm and her experience in a far different light. Darkness was its disguise. It is clear to her now, in hindsight, that the mere existence of spirits is the source of enlightenment. Their lightness of being is perceived when dark shadows cast begin to distinguish one from the other. Attempting to make finite that which is infinite, mortals limit the bounds of understanding. Acceptance is the key. Nature reveals its own. They are an integral part of incredible history lessons learned. Perceptions altered, minds changed while dwelling in a house alive with death. Revisiting the past has its own rewards to offset the pain of awakening to Reality.

  Perhaps it would behoove humanity to observe its history from a broader perspective, a more expansive mindset. Abandoning the concept of time as a linear series of events is a first step, a quantum leap toward comprehension. As the mind grapples with it, liberation begins to occur. When one frees their mind to reconsider time, it opens the doors of space for dimensional thought, along the continuum… to infinity and beyond. The Perrons had no choice, essentially forced to absorb heady concepts. Even the youngest among them, learning quickly, felt compelled to process information at a rapid-fire rate. It came at them from every direction, at every turn. Click. BOO! Who the hell was that? It forced them to think outside the sphere, to ponder their plight in universal terms, in reference to a portal cleverly disguised as a farmhouse. It proved to be where time and space were dismissed as irrelevant to ongoing lessons being learned at a place in the country they called home.

  What if human history has existed through millennia as recycled souls, as lifetimes all tied together like a strand of pearls? Does this thing called life officially end? There is an ancient Chinese curse: “May you live forever.” It sounds like a fate worse than death. Immortality may not be as desirable a state-of-being as most mortals portend. Based upon the alternative, ashes and dust, it might appear to be an attractive option, short term… another time or two around is fine but forever? Objective analysis indicates its inherent flaw. No rest at all, for the wicked and for good alike. As a philosophical premise, immortality is somewhat less appealing to those who’ve found this go ’round a trial by fire. The one reason anyone gravitates to the fundamentally hopeful idea is due to this predisposition most living creatures cannot seem to shake: a fear of death… the unknown.

  It is often said, we cannot live fully until we love deeply and fear nothing. In the interim, the human race progresses. Increasingly self-aware, our mortal fear evolves with us. We once feared everything. A solar eclipse was cause for worldwide panic. Ideally, the more we learn the less we will fear and yet, mortals remain fixated, absolutely mortified by our own mortality, terrified of that unknown quantity beyond this world, or worse yet, the fear there is nothing at all beyond this world. Fear is precisely what keeps human beings up at night, locked in a paralyzing state of apprehension. So few people ever realize their fullest potential in life, as a visceral desire to fulfill their dreams is consumed by worry and doubt. This is not so much a matter of economics or intentions. Where there’s a will, there is usually a way. It is because they are way too busy concocting then inviting trouble, conjuring an incongruous series of nightmare scenarios which correspond with the potential adventures they dreamed up. Fear of dying can certainly keep one from living. It is often said that thoughts are things… that you are what you think. Our imaginations are a blessing, though they’ll also function as a curse, hobbling those whose thoughts are preoccupied with what comes next… after life or after dinner.

  Then there are the daredevils among us, those who tempt fate, as a matter of course. Some become obsessed with keeping a fountain of youthful glow, determined to cheat death, in perpetual denial of what lurks in the shadows. An invisible threat: an ever-present hold on their throats. Eventually it comes to call for all. Some actually hasten its arrival. Human beings frequently kill themselves, for a variety of reasons. Too many do it accidentally, just trying to have some fun, to feel thoroughly alive. Risking life and limb to do so, too often the moment of life they find most thrilling tragically intersects with the moment of death. So thin, the line between the two… how tenuous the grasp.

  Most people seem to want to preserve their lives as long as possible and it is almost always because they have a family they cherish. The family Bible is an archive, recording the births and deaths, marriages and other significant events as a family history. As a treasured keepsake for those who espouse its tenets, it plays a role which is two-fold, religious and secular. Human beings construct belief systems which help ease our fear and banish our doubt, most including a promise of everlasting life after death. Faith in a higher power, a benevolent source of creation in the Universe purges us of the fear associated with an age old question: Is there something beyond our mortal existence? What if that question had been suddenly answered? For the Perron family, it has been. According to Marianne Williamson, “You must learn a new way to think before you can master a new way to be.” They’d had no choice in the spirit matter, no choice but to think differently to be where they were… and where they were caused them to think differently. Seeing is believing: a wonder to behold.

  What to make of this fascination with history? Why not live existentially, day by day, no regard paid to who came before us or who will come later? It is human nature to form attachments, to bond with our young and to honor our elders, those who’ve paved the way; something intrinsic to the human condition. Because all of us eventually perish, we long to leave something of ourselves behind, for the sake of posterity. We share a symbiotic relationship with our ancestors, because something reaches through the veil to touch us to the core. Whether it manifests in spirit or remains an intense longing to know where we’ve come from, to find our place, as a single strand, a cosmic thread woven into the tapestry of life, or to determine what genetic flaws we carried into yet another generation (or incarnation), the fascination cannot be denied. On a base level, we want to know who we are, and why we are here. Living inside our minds, we manifest our own reality, hoping what we leave behind matters to someone. We propagate the species as an act of our immortality. We travel to graveyards with flowers, an act of respect for the dead. Those who have encountered spirit know of what they speak, privileged to carry the torch and light the way. The Perron family has come to terms with their own role in this historical drama: a passion play. They are the foot soldiers, the couriers and the scribes. As ancillary characters, they all know the farmhouse has the lead. Likewise, they’re aware that having faith IS a higher power.

  Death may be merely a conversion of pure energy, a life force dissipating into ether, there to reconfigure into another expression of itself. Theosophists believe there is an astral body which coexists with our finite, mortal forms; a being within a being that survives death of the physical body then ascends to become again; a compelling theory. Carolyn developed a theory of her own. She listened closely to her children. Cindy described the little girl wandering her room as someone eerily familiar, someone closely resembling her eldest sibling at that age. Andrea saw herself in the eyes of another soul. Were they all meant to see their family resemblance, then make an ethereal connection? Had they all lived there before, perhaps in another lifetime? Were they meant to return home? How long a family history shared? The Law of Attraction is mysterious. The time would come for Carolyn to beg her ancient ancestors to help; a plea for mercy… release. Bless their souls, they answered the call.

  “History is the witness that testifies to the passing of time;

  it illumines reality,

  vitalizes memory, provides guidance in daily life

  and brings us tidings of antiqu
ity.”

  Cicero [106 BC—43 BC] Pro Publio Sestio

  all fun and games until someone gets hurt

  “This is an evil in all that happens under the sun,

  that the same fate comes to everyone.

  Moreover, the hearts of all are full of evil;

  madness is in their hearts while they live,

  and after that they go to the dead.

  But whoever is joined with all the living has hope,

  for a living dog is better than a dead lion.”

  Ecclesiastes 9:3

  An innocent child at play is something lovely to watch and watched she was, by those she could not see. Cynthia was playing all alone in the middle bedroom. Shadows having nothing to do with a sunset began moving on the floor, across the toys at her feet. Crouched down in a position hovering over the barnyard she had built, as the shadows passed overhead, they resembled crows in flight. Shifting direction, landing on bare white walls, the patterns changed. The dark, foreboding images began to emerge in silhouette, stirring slowly, deliberately around the bedroom with purpose and reason: Intention. The walls came to life as figures, swirling within the haze of grayish smoke. Look up! As the child sat motionless she could do nothing but stare, muted by their hypnotic movement. A shallow gasp of air inhaled, but then she held her breath, mesmerized by the vision. A little girl free to flee the scene chose to remain, inclined to observe this gathering rather than escaping the crowd. This time she decided to decipher the cryptic message received. In a moment, transformation occurred. The birds became darker figures in shadow dance.