House of Darkness House of Light (43 page)

Before Carolyn could be an usher in the grand theatre of life and death, she had to know far more about whom and what she was dealing with; it required educating herself on a taboo subject with which she was formerly unfamiliar. There were no tickets; no assigned seating for these patrons. How would she lead them down dark corridors to a proper place in the cosmos if she did not know where they belonged? And what if they belonged precisely where they were? And what does God have to do with any of it? Emotionally conflicted, she possessed little compassion for their plight. Beyond unsympathetic, she felt nothing but contempt for the wicked one who was known as Bathsheba. Feeling at once defeated and empowered by this process, she applied skills of a studious observer to a problem made manifest in her home.

Carolyn began to consider other aspects of their existence, spawning a holy host of questions mulling around in her mind. An intellectual evolution born of her natural curiosity quelled some of the intrinsic fear which had become a prominent aspect of her daily (and nightly) existence; never a time when she did not look and listen around the house and wonder what was coming next; never an hour when she slept peacefully even in the presence of her husband, as he was utterly incapable of protecting her, through no fault of his own. He too had become its unwitting victim and this could happen again, at virtually any moment. It could happen to her children again with her presence in their farmhouse, a few feet away, incapable of hearing them scream out for help; unable to intervene on their behalf…no means of protecting her young.

Not for an instant did she lose sight of Reality: the new paranormal. It was what perplexed her most; the love her children had for a place offering only a promise of pain and torment. Carolyn felt nothing more than self-righteous indignation for those who’d disturbed her lovely dream, converting it into a nightmare; ones who refused to relinquish their hold on a place she rightfully considered to be her own. It had called to her. It had tempted her and begged her to come. The farm all but beckoned the family to love it, to come and call it home. Then, in a home place they adored, the farmhouse did everything in its supernatural power to drive them out; after embrace came total rejection. It made no sense at all. This farmhouse had robbed her of so much, including motherhood. It was impossible to be the mother she had been prior to taking up residence. Her rapt attention had been drastically diverted. She’d become a fear-based mortal whereas once she had been carefree, happiest when with her children. Believing
all
she could do on their behalf was be watchful and listen; to do her best to protect them against this supernatural onslaught, she wondered: how could she possibly intercede? As long as the family remained in the house she believed her girls would remain continually subjected to the whims of the dead; one scary scenario after another. She had no conceivable way of defending them, short of abandoning the house altogether. According to all of her children and
her husband, for entirely different reasons, this was simply not an option. Their complicit willingness to dwell in the midst of the constant fear of intrusion was unbelievable to her.

Questions persisted, magnified further by so many discoveries made within the dust-laden shelves of the town library. Writing for hours, the woman was well aware the books she was using could not be removed from the premises. They were simply too old and fragile, far too valuable; she had no choice but to read / write simultaneously, often recording pertinent entries in shorthand. Learning much about the folks of a town, time allotted for this task was brief, usually only two or three hours. The library kept odd hours so it was a matter of getting there when she could: reading and writing until the librarian began turning off the lights. A chore with its own reward: Uncommon knowledge.

The same held true for Burrillville Town Hall. Carolyn was free to browse through archives but there were only certain hours to do so. It took months to compile the historical docudrama of a region; only the beginning of a project which consumed a great deal of her time. Mindful she had to return home, there to decipher the details of scrawled and scribbled notes, writing again in more thorough language what had been transcribed then interpreted earlier, the work frequently continued late into the night. Carolyn did not notice her attention slipping away from the children…but they did.

From pure fact to folklore she dug through piles of books the way she’d dig through a mound of earth, in search of buried treasure. It was never tedious work but was instead the most fascinating endeavor, filled with the history and mystery of those long dead. It was in fact, a labor of love, in spite of the original reason she considered the chore to be a necessity. Cold winter days kept her inside for the duration of that mean season but once spring arrived, Carolyn was gone, off to some old building, sitting among volumes of even older pages; writing feverishly to chronicle extensive information at hand: a what-when-where-who-why and how; abridged version, as she summarized everything even remotely associated with her house and its history. Seeking stories of everyone who ever lived there, Carolyn believed the manifestations were people, albeit dead people, whose history within those walls left them with a reason to remain there. It was not happenstance. They were not some random spirits passing through; floating in on a lark. Of this, she was certain. They were a sudden chill in the air, recognizable figures; familiar characters by the time any attempt was made to identify them. Her children had given them names, as if they’d been pets: Manny. Oliver. As always, Carolyn held steadfastly to a belief which presumed a direct correlation between entities as former occupants. The task to prove it such was formidable.

While Carolyn worked diligently to establish the identities of many others, her own was undergoing a radical transformation as two disparate elements were combining in a conspiracy to create a woman nobody recognized. She’d shriveled up like fruit left out in the Sun. Her voice became hollow and shrill compared to the deeper, richer tones with which everybody was accustomed. Tastes and interests changed. Her language became peppered with archaic words and terms seldom heard in modern society. Presuming it was because of books in which she was immersed, her constant exposure to centuries-old terminology, no one thought much of it at first, passing it off as the result of repetition, the power of suggestion tucked within the pages of time. Carolyn assumed a variety of different traits, a collection of quirks and foibles which had not been present in her personality prior to living in the farmhouse. For a while it seemed as if death and darkness blocked all the light, shrouding her existence, bending her mind to its will beneath a blanket of utter despair. To a certain extent her identity was slipping away but it was being replaced with a more well-established understudy who brought a personality all her own to the stage. The children could see their mother changing though they’d never discussed what it was they saw happening. It was a gradual decline; the slow descent into hell for those who had to witness the metamorphosis, just as it was for the woman feeling the ravages of its effects. Though she had always been a thoughtful, self-aware woman Carolyn did not, could not comprehend the transition she was experiencing. In time she would relinquish her being, allowing the change to occur naturally; no idea of the difference perceived by others, family and friends alike. It seemed as if she simply gave up, stopped fighting it; acquiescing to the will of another. Sam had noticed within a few months of the move. His eyes did not lie. He witnessed how rapidly Carolyn was aging, how depleted she’d become. Her youthful glow extinguished, the vibrancy muted: Technicolor turning to shades of gray. Diminishing further with each passing day, deteriorating rapidly, her lust for life itself, a formerly insatiable appetite, appeared to be wasting away with her physical form.

Cathi, too, could not help but notice her friend being adversely impacted by experiences she’d endured, depriving her of something elemental, essentially altering a woman she knew well. It was distressing, especially for those who had not seen her in quite some time. When they returned to witness her state of being it was shocking, as if decades were compressed into a few months. Beyond startling, it was disheartening: Spooky. No one discussed it with her, afraid to bring up a difficult subject. Boo! Who the hell are you?

During this period, Carolyn’s saving grace arrived. As if this presence was intended to counterbalance the malignant character tormenting her, no matter how wicked, this evil spirit was no match for someone so pure of heart. Fran Sederback was a loving soul, an ethereal entity held captive by the corporeal world. She did not belong here…too damn good for the place. Yet, she took full advantage of her pause on this planet to reflect upon the true Nature of existence…the gift of life. Enjoying a lifetime of adventure and discovery, when the time came, she would not willingly relinquish it. Magic manifested when this friendship formed, as another confluence of events occurred.

Carolyn headed into Glocester, there to rummage through their archives at the town hall. Before the town of Burrillville was incorporated, it had been a part of its neighbor to the south. She was told by the clerk in Harrisville that some of the documents she was seeking could be found there. She had a very productive session in Chepachet, due primarily to unfettered access, having met a historian in the records room who’d been eager to assist in the effort.

Driving through beautiful downtown Chepachet was a sensual pleasure in any season; a sight to behold. There were no traffic lights and only one main drag through this village; don’t blink! To do so meant missing the quaint old haven entirely. Anxious to return home before the bus arrived, Carolyn was rushing and nearly forgot what she had intended to purchase while there. She quickly looked around, locating a perfect parking spot. There were several. Chepachet was a sleepy little hollow. Most of its residents had no choice but to travel elsewhere for work, into the city to find gainful employment. At this time of day it was all but deserted; a veritable ghost town.

No need for a list. There was only one item Carolyn wanted…and just one place to buy it. She pulled into the space right in front of
Brown & Hopkins Country Store
, there to purchase a wedge of Vermont cheddar cheese. Any excuse was a great one to step across the dimly lit threshold of this charming business establishment: America’s oldest, continuously operated retail shop. It was splendid; an antique lover’s paradise: a destination. All of the display cases and fixtures were authentic, hundreds of years old. REAL penny candy in heavy glass jars lined their oak shelves, awaiting little fingers to pillage for favorites from red and black licorice to Squirrel nuts to Mary Jane bars…and everything else imaginable. Carolyn felt guilty coming without the girls but she had only enough money to purchase the cheese so it was best if she went alone. Glancing up at the clock bought her a few extra minutes to peruse the premises and still make it home on time. High up on a shelf, deliberately out of reach, she spotted the display of old bottles. One of them caught her eye. Admiring them from a distance, the clerk asked if she would like to look at anything more closely. Yes…that one, please. It was free blown, lopsided, with a beautiful apple-green tint. The word COCAINE was embossed across the front. While studying its raw pontil bottom, deeply inset at the base, an unusual woman approached her. Without any formal introduction, she began explaining how all free blown bottles were snapped off at the stem of the blow pipe. Thus began a lively conversation regarding the digging of bottles from centuries before their own, from abandoned dumps of households like their own: old. Each had discovered a treasure trove of bottles on their own property and each knew the intrinsic value of every one of them.

“Cocaine, huh? That’ll cure what ails ya.” The petite woman was joking; an equally diminutive giggle escaping her lips as she handed the bottle back to Carolyn. Bewitched by the charming demeanor of the little lady she would soon consider a cherished friend, in a matter of moments their bond began to form. As for Carolyn, a casual acquaintance proved to be her salvation.

“Never touch the stuff myself.” Carolyn smiled at the woman, watching her pale green eyes through the round, wire-rimmed granny glasses which suited her face to perfection. “Can you even believe they used to sell cocaine for medicinal purposes at
ye olde apothecary shoppe
…cheap as dirt?”

“Ah, the good olden days!” The ladies laughed and soon lost track of time.

“Fran.” Extending her hand, she juggled her few items so not to drop them.

“Carolyn. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Returning the gesture in kind.

The price of the bottle they’d examined together was $6.00; more than fair. Carolyn knew she couldn’t afford it, offering it to a newfound friend instead. Neither of the women could justify the expenditure with a bevy of children to feed. Handing it over to the clerk with their thanks, they wandered the store together, discussing 17
th
and 18
th
Century glassware, including old medicine bottles they had salvaged, snatched back from the jaws of time and depths of Earth. The chimes of a clock struck, startling both of them. It was 3:00 p.m. and Carolyn had yet to choose a block of cheese. Fran lived close enough to make it home on time, but Carolyn knew she could not do the same without breaking the speed limit or the sound barrier. Quickly exchanging telephone numbers, as Vermont cheddar happened to be on sale, there was money left over so Fran helped her choose several pieces of candy for the girls. Waning light cast shadows as they stepped from the curb. Each departed with a wave, smiling broadly, bubbling with enthusiasm. Carolyn raced the sunset home, arriving at the farm in record-breaking time, carrying the small brown paper bag as a token of her affection and apology. Her girls were all out in the yard, wondering where their mother had gone; no note left on the table. Once they saw the bag, they knew where she’d been…and all was forgiven.