House of Darkness House of Light (64 page)

“You all left me there! You left me alone! I was screaming! No one came!”

Nancy’s face appeared pale and drawn. She understood precisely how it felt to be so frightened, left to her own devices. “Cindy, honest to God, we didn’t hear anything. What were we supposed to hear? What happened to you?”

“You
had
to hear me!” Cindy persisted, incapable of believing the sound of the attack escaped the attention of anyone in the house, let alone shrill cries in the night. She simply could not accept it; they weren’t telling her the truth.

“Sweetheart, tell me what happened.” Carolyn sat her daughter at the table while everyone promptly put their work aside. Christine grabbed tissues and bandages from the bathroom as her elbows had been scuffed from her fall on the stairs. April stared at her sister in silence with wide-eyed wonder.

It was as if she had absorbed the rage with which she was assaulted, as if a transfer of emotion between assailant and victim occurred during the ordeal. Cindy could not calm down. She could barely speak. It took some time for an unnerved sisterhood to recover, everyone distressed by her upset. It took time for Cindy to come to terms and tell them the whole story…about thirty years. Carolyn went upstairs with her to inspect the damage done. It was as she had described it;
stuff
everywhere. They straightened out the bedroom, gathering up her homework; assignments destined to be completed at the kitchen table with her mother by her side. Sullen and withdrawn, Cynthia said very little to anyone. Carolyn was sickened by the sight of the room. It was obvious that a child had been terrorized, brutalized by something evil in their midst. This time there was evidence, and plenty of it. The bedroom was in shambles and the child was in shock. Though Carolyn suggested she take her to a hospital, Cynthia declined, insisting she was all right. A good thing…what would she have said to the charge nurse…they would have admitted both to the psyche unit! Involuntary commitment. Theirs was a secretive existence, by design.

Later in the evening, once they all retired to the parlor, things settled down; the house, a quiet place again. Time for bed. Before Carolyn could extend an invitation for Cindy to bunk in with her, the girl began to climb her bedroom stairs as her mother bolted across the parlor, stopping Cindy in her tracks.

“Honey, wait a minute! You
don’t
have to go up there. You can sleep with me or any one of your sisters…or down here on the sofa if you’d like.”

“It’s all right, mom. I
want
to sleep in my own bed…in my own bedroom.” Cynthia’s passive / aggressive tendencies were operating at full force in spite of her exhaustion. It seemed as if she thought relinquishing the room for one night would mean relinquishing it forever; a white flag of surrender. No way.

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t mind.” Carolyn found her own pleading voice.

Cindy returned to her mother, backtracking down the stairwell. “Yes…I’m sure.” Leaning her head out to speak directly to a mom and
anyone else
who happened to be listening, Cindy bluntly stated her position. “Nothing and no one is going to scare me away from
my
room. I waited a long time to have it and I won’t give it up for anything…or
to
anyone
…not even for
one
night.” There’s a fine line between brave and stupid. Her defiance was not so passive after all; Cindy had drawn her own line then courageously stepped across it, stupid or not. Steadfast, she refused to be intimidated. Up the stairs she went.

Lying in bed, her thoughts wandering back to that horrific encounter only a few hours earlier, Cynthia became angry all over again, this time at a rather unlikely subject; Mrs. Warren. She had assured the children they could dispel a spirit or even a demon by repeating a single phrase which had proved to be faulty:
“In the name of Jesus Christ, go back to where you came from.”
Her tired mind reeling, she considered the chant and its implications. What if they are already where they came from…what if
we
are the intruders? Heady concepts for one so young but notions begging her consideration in much the same way she had begged to be rescued. She’d begged for mercy.

The same scenario played out again and again over the course of the next four years but Cynthia held her ground then held onto her bed knobs for dear life. Every time the bed levitated it would shake violently. She would cling to the headboard or grab onto its spindles; something sturdy enough to keep her from being flung off the mattress. Every time she’d say her prayers, begging God, believing a guardian angel or
someone
benevolent would be dispatched from above to halt a malfeasant force; someone to protect and defend her in the midst of madness. Cindy insists her prayers were always answered. “Dear God, please make it stop!” It did. It always did finally stop, if abruptly so, whether by divine intervention or because the offending spirit became weary of tormenting the child. Receding back into the mist of the Netherworld, this powerful evil would hover, waiting to strike again. Eventually she came to an inevitable conclusion. It had been a futile effort to move on and take another bedroom. There was no point in attempting to evade or
to avoid these spirits. They were everywhere, omnipresent; like God. They knew where and how to find her; no escape from the persistent haunting and taunting she’d endured. Once this child realized there would be no release from her cosmic captivity, Cindy accepted it as fate. As for spirits invading her space; perhaps it was the other way around. It was ludicrous to think they would ever leave her alone for long. Instead, she prayed for them…then prayed them away.

In time, everyone in the family learned to acknowledge the presence. It was the beginning of a truce, of mutual acceptance: a path to peace. On one point, Cindy would simply not relent; refusing to compromise. It was
her
bedroom, at least most of the time. She would tolerate voices, hollow indentations on the mattress, breathing blankets; she endured what she must, yet still enjoyed having her own space and time to herself; a real luxury in such a big family. Dwelling in a farmhouse riddled with uninvited guests, though she remained wary whenever she entered her room, it was much like it had been with the space she had formerly occupied. “Ya get used to it.” Besides, Cynthia had a plan; a strategy. No surrender. Before she would make peace…it was war.

“Enjoy when you can, and endure when you must.”

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

 
broomsticks

“Housework is a treadmill from futility to oblivion

with stop-offs at tedium and counter productivity.”

Erma Bombeck

Witch way did she go? Their broom was not relegated merely to a fictitious mode of transportation for spirits; modus operandi, as the object has so often been portrayed in scary fairy tales. The straw broom in the Perron household served a dual purpose, one of which, as a signal from beyond; an overt form of communication, frequently moving from its safe designated storage space. Andrea
knew
none of her sisters were using it. So, boo who moved it again? In the alcove shared by the bathroom and second kitchen pantry doors, there was a rack discreetly tucked away in the corner, mounted on the wall. It held the mop, dust pan and brush and a straw broom. When not in use
this
was the space where these items were to be properly stored and kept out of the way. Carolyn repeatedly requested that these few objects
not
be floated all over an expansive residence; but instead, used and replaced where they came from so each use did not first require an extensive, exhaustive and unnecessary search of the premises. The kids were generally compliant with the mother’s orders, as so few of them were ever issued. They did as they were told;
not
the ones being uncooperative. Whenever the broom was found out of place, becoming a chronic problem, the kids copped the blame. Boo! Who moved the broom?

Cindy walked into the kitchen through the front hallway, the spooky cellar door, something to avoid. Looking straight ahead as she made her brisk little move, she nearly missed what was going on to her left side as she entered the kitchen. The broom was sweeping the floor. It did not appear to be attached to anybody, but someone
had
to be manipulating the object! Right? The first time it occurred in her presence Cynthia was about nine. The girl was aghast; her mouth dropping open as she watched it in silence. With flair and rhythm, the broom swished and sashayed around the room, as if dancing in the arms of another, then abruptly fell onto the floor. Swept away by the sight, she did not know what or who she had witnessed…a housekeeper in residence?

As example and description of the method by which children adapt to their circumstances, Cynthia had precisely the same encounter again, several years later, though her reaction to it was decidedly different. In the interim, she had experienced so many inexplicable, beyond implausible episodes in the house, by means of overexposure she’d become somewhat jaded, even desensitized to their supernatural environment. She just was not that impressed anymore. Guess they were right; ya get used to it: following vignette as a case in point:

Keep on truckin’ baby! Cindy was late: pedal-to-the-metal-put-the-hammer down: late. All of her sisters were waiting in the car as the child was hauling ashes through the house, a wholly polite euphemism the girls used to indicate someone moving their ass! Running through the kitchen, there it was again; that solitary broom, briskly whisking its way across the floor. Glancing over toward it along her trek to the door, Cindy barely gave it a second look, but said: “Good!
You
do it!
I’m
late for school!” Snidely whiplashing the kitchen witch with her flapping tongue, Cynthia opened the door and as she did, the broomstick went flying across the expansive room, clearly flung in disgust, instantly becoming wedged between the black stove and the chimney. Aha!
That’s
who keeps putting it there! Whoever
that
is! Epiphany: Running up to the car, Cindy disclosed to her sisters what she’d just seen in the house. They weren’t surprised but they were tardy for school, late slips from the principle tardy, all the fault of that damned kitchen witch, no doubt…the blame game.

Carolyn knew about her. She had seen her or seen the absence of her many times. Whether as a fleeting glimpse or long, hardened stare, she was always there and yet not there. Like some stoic romantic figure lost on the moors of history, it was difficult to discern her presence based solely upon appearance because she so frequently disappeared…yet remained. She had to be sensed, and sensed she was, by those whose paths she crossed like a cat lost in space. Actually, this spirit was cross! Though Carolyn expressed her frustrations at times, especially before realizing who the
real
culprit was, angst was minor in comparison to exasperation displayed by this perturbed, disgruntled ghost; one who obviously required her kitchen be kept a certain way…at
all
times. Unrealistic expectations: thereby setting her up for an existence mired in the muck of perpetual obstructionism…like dwelling in Congress! Hell on Earth!

Once the black stove arrived, she became more visible. When invisible, she became more active, often demonstrating her disapproval by leaving a pile of debris in the center of the kitchen floor with the dustpan beside it. There was nothing subtle about her approach. Wooden floor: each plank lined with deep grooves; crevices craving dirt from the bottom of work boots were magnets for whatever got tracked in. It was a farm! Short of sweeping incessantly, to the exclusion of virtually every other chore, there was no way to keep those floors spotlessly clean. The traffic was too steady; the other chores, too dirty. When particularly annoyed, she would
switch
the broom, twitching it rapidly back and forth; covering about a square foot. Indicating extreme agitation, she’d then toss it onto the floor. Irk and ire; it was easy to arouse her wrath: making a mess will make a temper manifest. Spill some coffee grounds in the pantry or drop a few woodchips at the base of the stove. It drove her crazy! This irascible spirit must have become infuriated during harvest time as their kitchen was always a wreck! Of all the spirits-in-residence, she was the one expressing her sentiment effectively; radiating gamma waves of resentment; her most righteous indignation regarding a perceived neglect of the premises. Essentially, she’d begun impacting
their
environment rather than visiting one formerly her own from another time. The spirit was not sweeping a floor two hundred years prior…she was
present
in the moment and made her presence known; disdain seething from every invisible pore: Obsessive-Compulsive: This level of irritation evidenced by her reaction; the shocking immediacy of her response to Cynthia’s terse comment. It was no coincidence. She’d flung the broom across the room with malice, targeting the precise spot, the place it had been found many times before,
misplaced
beside the stove. There was no mistaking her intention. Everyone suffered her shrew-like symptoms, part of her disturbed complicated persona. This aspect of the spirit altered over time. A contempt borne of familiarity, she appeared to evolve beyond it.

The longer the family remained in the home, the less she acted out, finally exhibiting characteristics more subdued; reactions muted, as if with maturity, as if
she
was growing up…
with
them. This young woman, presumed to be an earlier occupant of the house, rarely revealed herself to mortals. Andrea saw her only once, a brief sighting; just a glimpse. Slender and slight, this entity appeared in the alcove, standing inside the dark corner beyond the threshold of the second pantry. Her auburn hair, washed out by the Sun. Body stooped forward; Andrea could not see her face, focusing instead on the curves of her shoulders, the outline of bones protruding from beneath the fabric of a rather drab full-length dress. In life, she’d gone hungry. There she stood, emaciated, a hollow figure, just inside the storage pantry…where all their food was kept. Slowly the door began to close. Its latch clicked. Andrea walked away, as she was unwilling to reopen it; to take another peek into another dimension. An opportunity for contact missed, it was simply too painful to watch.