House of Darkness House of Light (48 page)

Mr. McKeachern befriended Carolyn, passing on whatever he knew of the infamous Bathsheba Sherman. He’d found her eagerness refreshing and must certainly have enjoyed her fascination with all things historical, closely akin to interests of his own. Sometimes they would meet in passing at the village butcher shop or inside their local bakery, prompting a cordial chat. There was a genuine fondness between them, one transcending time. He was an elderly gentleman whose attempt at discretion caused him great consternation as he struggled to describe the Bathsheba
he
knew in terms he considered suitable for feminine ears; a most endearing part of his eccentric personality. She got the message. Euphemisms aside, Bathsheba was implied a bitch from hell.

Delighted to know of their association, Mrs. Kent graciously offered access to her library as these women delved deeper into local historical records. She had an extensive collection open for lending only to close friends; a generous offer Carolyn accepted as a compliment. Edna owned an enormous collection of vintage clothing, all carefully preserved in trunks, some dating back to the early 1600s. Her mind-boggling assortment became an invaluable resource as later, when Carolyn was enlisted to be a
Band Booster
, (parents coerced into fund-raising for the high school) she put her new contacts to good use. It was a more than worthy cause. Fran and Edna produced the clothing and Carolyn willingly produced and coordinated an
antique
fashion show. Along with the tireless help of a group of fine ladies, mothers of musicians, they put on quite a display. Word was out by that time. They may have whispered a bit behind her back but presented nothing but respect for her many talents and abilities. Mrs. Kent gave Carolyn unfettered access to an attic stuffed full of vintage clothing and their fashion show was a standing-room-only success, raising a huge chunk of the money required to purchase new band uniforms and send their troupe (including her eldest daughter) off to Florida to play at the grand opening of
Disney World
in February of 1974. As Fran’s friend, Edna Kent embraced Carolyn by proxy, doing her utmost to assist in that effort any way she could. They supported one another sharing information, tossing reference materials around like so much penny candy. Each enjoyed their like-minded companions; an association beginning on frigid granite steps in Chepachet.

The three bolted for shelter when cold rain began as light showers. Carolyn said goodbye then raced for the car. Though her search through the archives proved fruitless on that day the greatest discovery had come from outside the building as she rummaged through the mind of a learned soul sister, gaining more insight than expected from this trip. Immersing herself in the history of local villages was exciting; meeting the grand dame of historians…inspiring. Finally, after so much time feeling isolated and alone, Carolyn made friends who understood her compulsion to know more, to learn as much as possible about the former inhabitants of her home. As if it was a given, as if everyone lived in a haunted house (as many in this area do) the ladies never discussed the ghostly manifestations in their homes. Research had a presumed purpose; to identify the characters with whom they had become familiar over time and space. No need for gossip about them, no point in divulging the details; what mattered was the answer to the questions: who was it and when did they live? How did they die? Where had they been buried and what did they do in life which might have compelled them to remain behind, Earth-bound in death? These were pertinent inquiries; all else qualified as peripheral to the process. A hunt for Bathsheba was on with a vengeance: Time to visit a friend again.

Mr. McKeachern happily welcomed the company, inviting Carolyn into his house. She told him about meeting Mrs. Edna Kent and he told her where to find the “old” Arnold cemetery, tombstones dating back to the 1600’s. While sharing a cozy cup of tea, some warmth to ward off the chill of another harsh winter looming, he made a veiled reference to a longstanding rumor he could repeat but not substantiate; some question regarding the final resting place of Bathsheba. He was not at all certain she had been buried in hallowed ground, after all, even though her gravestone rested in the center of the quiet village. An intriguing notion, Carolyn wondered if she was buried somewhere on the Arnold Estate, perhaps beneath the unmarked bell stone out on her property near the old cellar hole. It became her fervent intention to investigate further, come spring. In the meantime, she asked what he remembered of Bathsheba. Bitter. Vindictive. Hateful and Unholy; only a few of the words he’d chosen to describe an evil woman. She was horrible to the help; he’d accused her of starving and beating the staff in her charge at Sherman Farm. Womenfolk of the village considered her a harlot; men folk leered the same way except they did so with rapacious eyes. Bathsheba was a ravishing beauty in youth but he claimed she sacrificed both due to choices she made in life. Mr. McKeachern never tired of discussing historical aspects of this area, apparently enjoying a little gossip on the side; a pleasant perk of the research. Carolyn marveled at his memory and a resplendent Christmas cactus displayed in his kitchen. He beamed with pride speaking of his prized plant: “It’s more than one hundred years old; older than me…but not by much.” As Carolyn departed, he waved, sending her along an intrepid historical journey with an old Scottish proverb: “Be happy while you’re living…for you’re a long time dead.” His new friend got the message as prophetic advice.

***

Bathsheba: A God-forsaken Soul. By all accounts, her life had been tragic. It was easy for some to believe she was evil; to pass swift judgment and then suggest a harsher punishment. Harder still to listen to such a horror story and
not
believe there was at least some merit to an accusation leveled against her. In her time, there was not DNA evidence to exonerate her or, for that matter, conclusively pin that event upon her as a brutal crime committed. She’d said it was an accidental death. Some said she was a witch, exclaiming her actions those of an evil temptress, a child used as lamb in a sadistic ritual, a sacrifice made; a deal struck with the devil…in exchange for preserving her youth and beauty for eternity. Words are weapons…as sharp as any needle on Earth.

“When one tears away the veils and shows them naked,

people’s souls give off a pungent smell of decay.”

Octave Mirbeau

 
a stitch in time

“Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.”

Carl Sagan

The evening never did relinquish the heat of the day, coveting it instead. A refreshing breeze tickled the lace curtains as it feebly attempted to enter the house, causing the fabric to flutter, dancing gracefully inside window frames. Carolyn had no objection to the heat. She always warmly welcomed summer, embracing it as some long lost friend, inviting it in to stay as long as it liked; welcome home. It was quite late, perhaps 1:00 a.m. as Carolyn lay sprawled across their long leather sofa, belly down, taking full advantage of lamp light from the end table. Engrossed in a book, she felt nothing but a comfort zone of calm around her as familiar words she’d revisited many times in the past. Entire passages of it had been memorized long before, but she went back to it whenever sleep eluded her, using these words as a natural tranquilizer.

Dressed in a sleeveless blouse and white cotton shorts, quite comfortable in every regard, Carolyn’s thoughts remained uncluttered. The house had been quiet for hours and she had nothing pressing to resolve. There had been no manifestations for months; such a prolonged absence of activity, duly noted. Of late, everyone had been feeling much more at ease. While laying in place, enjoying the solitude, relishing beautiful language unfolding page after page before her eyes, Carolyn was abruptly struck…attacked from behind.

She felt a sharp stabbing pain in her calf. Turning quickly around to see if a bee had stung her, Carolyn saw nothing on her leg except a mounding puddle of blood at the point of impact. The wound was deep, plunging well into the muscle. She leapt up from the sofa, certain a creature was loose in the parlor, preparing to strike again; perhaps a wasp or maybe a beetle. It did not occur to her this event was anything other than a
natural
phenomenon; to consider she was not alone. There had been none of the normally expected indications usually accompanying paranormal episodes; no sudden drop in temperature, no odors in the room; nothing which would compel her to believe otherwise. The pain was real; the blood was real. Her muscle went into spasm, hobbling the woman. As the “Charlie horse” subsided, she began looking around in the parlor, initiating a thorough search of their premises to determine where the culprit might be hiding. She checked the sofa over for sharp, foreign objects. The windows were clear of flying critters, as were the curtains, a cozy place to cling. The notion of a bee sting was remote; little chance a bee would have stung her at night. She pulled the sofa away from the wall, peering behind it. There were no insects or stray objects on the floor; no empirical evidence of anything unusual, nothing protruding from the cushion of the sofa on which she’d been laying, nothing on the coffee table: Nothing.

Carolyn finally abandoned her search. She went in the bathroom to cleanse the wound inflicted. It was still bleeding profusely. Once the point of impact became visible, she noticed the size of the puncture wound. It was distinctly round, quite deep, as if a large sewing needle had impaled her skin, leaving behind a perfectly concentric circle; a sudden stick doing more damage than merely scratching the surface. Her calf was very swollen, though not the way it would have been had some type of venom been injected into a tender area. Limping as she went along, Carolyn tried to walk off then rub out the spasm. Returning to the parlor, a perplexed woman investigated the immediate area around the point of contact, attempting to determine the nature of an injury sustained. Confounded, she gave up and revisited her book.

Dismissing this event as some sort of anomaly, several days passed before the wound healed, stiff muscle softened and a painful leg returned to normal. Life went on; time to prepare for the girls’ return to school in September. She was a busy mother and simply forgot about the queer incident, shoving it into the back of her mind. It would be a couple of years before she recalled this episode, during a conversation she had with Ed and Lorraine Warren. While Carolyn was displaying her research to the couple, she told them the story of Bathsheba Sherman: The needle. Was it even possible? Could it be true? Had the woman taken a weapon with her into the afterlife? Could she use it from beyond this world…beyond the grave? Lorraine posited a theory of her own: demons are indeed capable of inflicting pain upon mortals; capable of doing harm across dimensions, defying
time
as we perceive it. Their conversation triggered her memory of this strangely disquieting incident and so it remains; a painful consideration. Intuition revealed a likely suspect; a logical lead to a culprit. Divulging the tale of a woman supposedly wielding a weapon in life, from that point forward this psychic presumed it was
her
needlework doing the devil’s footwork; a needle and the damage it had done in life and perhaps in the afterlife. From then on Mrs. Warren referred to the God-forsaken spirit as the lone demonic presence in their house, calling her by name: Bathsheba.

“Since we fear most that which is unknown to us, defining

moments of change occur when we choose to know our fear.”

Lee J. Cohen

 
from insult to injury

“Think twice before you speak, and then you may be able to say

something more insulting than if you spoke right out at once.”

Evan Esar

Roger would never believe this! What would be the point in telling him? A needle or some other long, thin, sharp object had been plunged into her leg. It drew a substantial amount of blood then caused her calf to cramp into a knot; a striking sensation in every conceivable sense of the word. It was a can-of-worms moment. Pandora wanted in on it. No ugly bugs lurking in the parlor. Nothing had flown into the room to bite or sting her that evening. Instead, the woman had been blatantly attacked from beyond the grave: physical damage done. Extrapolating out, it meant the spirits were capable of inflicting injury. It
felt
like an evil intention to deliberately harm another, albeit from another dimension! If it was indeed crossing over which culminated in an aggressive encounter, it posed a physical threat: Punishment. The weapon of choice was an interesting pick; jamming into her skin with some force and real velocity. It was no accident, not a coincidence. Not a beetle or a bee; the depth of this wound precluding any insect from a list of usual suspects. In fact, the suspect in this case was quite unusual and she had a history: Bathsheba.

Was she capable of reaching through time and space to draw blood? If so, was it a clue to her identity? As an omen: as the harbinger of things to come? Carolyn was learning much of her sordid history, accusation levied; details of a crime she had supposedly committed in life which some said claimed her in death. If she was the culprit, one suspected of using a needle to get her point across, the only evidence left behind at the scene of the crime was blood.

However, it was a corresponding lack of evidence which caused Carolyn’s investigation to continue. The parlor had been thoroughly searched after this assault occurred. There was no explanation for it in the natural world and, as strange as it may seem, a supernatural explanation was the most likely and
logical
regarding the recondite event; a viable option, after all. Over time and with a concerted effort, research revealed Bathsheba Sherman’s personality. Mr. McKeachern did much to advance the cause. He’d described her as being prone to violence; a spiteful, vindictive woman capable of inflicting physical harm on another as she’d been known to do with her servants or farm hands; loathed and feared, in equal measure. If she had shown someone compassion in life, it was later kept as a well-guarded secret in death and was certainly in conflict with her reputation. She was considered diabolical by many souls.