House of Darkness House of Light (40 page)

“Christian fundamentalism: the doctrine that there is an absolutely powerful, infinitely knowledgeable, universe spanning entity that is deeply and personally concerned about my sex life.”

Andrew Lias

 
trial by fire

“The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire.”

Ferdinand Foch

Curled up into a ball at the center of the loveseat, knees to chin, a wounded woman gazed pensively into the fireplace, studying the sights and sounds of flames. Fire: A beautiful, powerful force of Nature; an unparalleled source of fear. It had become a test of wills: trials and tribulations to the infinite power. Carolyn closed her eyes and she prayed, hoping faith alone would sustain her through an ordeal; intangible, invisible faith. It was all she had left to rely on, all she had to call upon in the dark of night; this…and her own restless spirit.

The clock above her head remained silent, its slender tendrils fixed in place at 5:15 a.m. The timepiece seemed destined only for display, hanging in their house as vintage artwork; a legacy piece, otherwise abandoned, as if a license to claim what it all but demanded was bestowed by right (or rite) of passage. An evil presence marking her moment, from then on it remained undisturbed, eerily absent its chiming; at rest, set at precisely the time it had
twice
chosen. (Or at an hour chosen for it; a timely reminder:
all of them
are always there.) Perhaps if this clock was left alone, unwound and unprovoked in its singular position, such a passive acknowledgement might insure the absence of future manifestations. A purely superstitious notion was enough to foster a renewed sense of hopelessness in the woman; she was lost in dark shadows of fear and despair; terror illuminated by the light of torches. She stared for some time at the face of the elegant timepiece, wondering…what if it were left untouched; left to keep the time it covets: in suspended animation…appearing to be dead.

Returning to the hearthstone of a fireplace, its imagery swirling in her mind as Carolyn gazed upon the feral flames, she became transfixed by its power. Lapping at sides of logs like a wild animal licking its lips after the kill; after a brutal slaughter of something smaller than itself, something helpless locked in its jaws, crackling sounds were like its bones being crushed alive by a grip precluding all struggle, haunting the air she breathed; those invisible currents on which sound travels. Piles of gray to ghostly ashes mounded into corners, flickering with sparks of light, embers eager to reignite, as would any life on the verge of extinction, anxious to survive. Its glow resembled melting gold, glistening in the light of its former existence, always able to be rekindled, as if at will, blown back to life with the wisp of one solitary breath. Fire finds a way to persevere, much like the Phoenix reborn from the ashes of itself. She closed her eyes and saw again the vision of torches fully engulfed in flames; no smoke. She saw the face of evil illuminated by an unholy light. She heard threatening words: “Was mistress once afore ye came and mistress here will be again.” Carolyn prayed: “The Lord is my shepherd…I shall not want…He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…leadeth me beside still waters. He restoreth my soul. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for Thou art with me. Amen.” Death’s prayer in life.

Returning to the loveseat, she buried her face in the blanket. Suddenly, the heavy pendulum of their clock, a timepiece possessed, began to swing again. Its docile rocking restored, the lilting sound sang Carolyn to sleep, as it had done so many nights of her life. She did not twist around to inspect it nor did she seek an explanation for what she’d instantly perceived to be a benevolent gesture; a prayer acknowledged then answered. Carolyn crawled beneath the quilt and bowed her head in gratitude. On this night, her faith took a quantum leap, touched as she was by a force more powerful than anything manifesting in her home. She knew it was there; a holy protective influence always came when called, perhaps because it was always there, as well, as omnipresent as the spirits. Had the ghosts been the
real
gift? Was their presence a conduit to Carolyn’s burgeoning faith? Would she have discovered her beliefs without them to guide her along a journey to spiritual enlightenment? She wondered.

In time, the antique clock would stop again, at precisely 5:15 a.m. The next hiatus would prove to be its final pause for reflection in an old farmhouse. The timepiece remained quiet from then on, for the duration of its tenure. Its silence was deafening to those so familiar with its song. As the years passed, Carolyn studied its peculiar face, wondering why it would not sing anymore. It was left alone, hardly touched, displayed only as vintage artwork on a wall. The finely-crafted timepiece was not dead, merely dormant. In time the clock would sing again, once relocated to another wall entirely, in another time and place. It would not chime again until it was dwelling in a land far, far away.

“Time is the substance from which I am made. Time is a river which
carries me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger that devours me,
but I am the tiger; it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.”

Jorge Luis Borges

~ tick tock time stands still ~

 
lady bug

“Let the fear of danger be a spur to prevent it;

he that fears not, gives advantage to the danger.”

Francis Quarles

Mortal fear is visceral; a twisted gut wrenching clenched jawbone grinding sensation which consumes the soul from within. Fear has a life of its own. It lives vicariously through those who’ll provide it safe passage; a harbor in any given storm. The spawn of evil, it lurks in consciousness, beyond the shadow of a doubt, ready to spring forth into action, to make its vile presence known at a moment’s notice. It does not require a specific spark to reignite. Merely considering a concept in mind can rekindle it, as if on a whim, with a breath of fresh air blown beneath the grate of its unholy pyre.

So it was with Carolyn the day she drove into their village to do something as innocuous as buying two loaves of bread and a gallon of milk, all she had enough money on hand to purchase until Roger came home again. Perhaps it had been the trigger, what prompted a panic attack. Feast or Famine: a tough way to live, in perpetual fear of the unknown quantity of money available to properly care for her family. This was her constant burden; a permanent state of mind now known in the vernacular as a poverty consciousness. How many times she had rolled loose change, grateful she’d had it to roll, wedged as she was between the proverbial rock and a hard place to live. But why the sudden sense of dread? It was a beautiful morning, there was an ample supply of gas in her tank and a meager purchase had been made with change to spare; good omens all around: a favorable circumstance which would ordinarily be cause for celebration! So where was this terrible trepidation coming from and why?

On her way home, meandering along Round Top Road, Carolyn was quite startled; struck by the inexplicable urgency seemingly coming from nowhere and everywhere simultaneously. As she had done many times, she dismissed it from her thoughts: “Don’t bug me!” A gut feeling persisted, in spite of her normally successful approach to resolving such problems. Again, knocking at the door of her consciousness, attempting to make entry, Carolyn implored it to go far, far away…all the way back to the devil. The hellish image began to form. Thus began a quarrel raging inside her mind. Intuition sounding the alarm, the woman could feel her foot, as if it were unattached from the rest of her body, pressing pedal-to-the metal against the gas. This was that moment; a shadow of a doubt. It was when she least trusted her own instincts because of a fear so powerful it altered her behavior, forcing her to take action against her better judgment. Faster she went…at light speed…to get to her children.

A nursery rhyme traveling the ether had lodged in her brain. She’d listened:

“Lady bug, lady bug, fly away home.

Your house is on fire, your children all alone.”

Where the hell did that come from? Hell, presumably. It was not as if one of those delicate creatures had been trapped on the dashboard, reminding her of the limerick. This poetry was potent. Best to fly away home. Better safe than sorry! The imagery haunting her was automatically suspect because its origin was likely spawned from the encounters she’d had with a spirit who enjoyed tormenting the woman with fire. Her children
were
home alone: Danger! Had she been able to truly trust adept protective instincts, they alone would have told her that the girls were fine and everything was as she left it when she left but it was not to be. Instead, she raced up the road; a calculated risk taken as she floored the pedal and pressed the engine into service. They had come too close to disaster too many times in that house already, and she was not going to relax and dismiss this persistent and perilous notion: better to risk feeling foolish when she arrived…a small price to pay for being wrong…being right was something wicked she simply could not tolerate in mind and so she sped up, revving her mental engine into high gear, along with her automobile: Try to avoid becoming nervous wreckage in the process! Invading thoughts were impairing her sense of direction; knowing the way, yet feeling confused by familiar surroundings, trying to gauge where she was along the rural route. In panic; mortal fear taking its toll on the road of life at an intersection of death. Critically important; imperative she get home as fast as possible…but what if this was a part of the plan? As a ploy to compel her to drive too fast? Charge! Paranoia strikes deep…it was creeping through her mind, in every cell of her being. “Fear is that little darkroom where negatives are developed.” (Michael Pritchard) Carolyn’s fears were being used against her, no matter the source, which was never actually established. Point of origin was not the point at all. When the niggling little voice speaks it’s best to listen;
better safe than sorry
assuming an entirely new meaning. An urgent sense identified, it was always best to err on the safer side of self-doubt. That is what she told herself as she crested the top of the driveway to see all of her children playing in their yard, right where she left them. She had only been gone a few minutes yet returned to them feeling somehow altered by an absence. Having questioned her sense of direction along that intrepid journey, she looked up, getting her bearings and giving thanks to the over-riding power which got her there. Perronoid?

“I do not believe in a fate that falls on men however they act;

but I do believe in a fate that falls on man unless they act.”

G. K. Chesterton

 
burnin’ down the house

“Fate is nothing but the deeds committed in a prior state of existence.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson

The inclusion of these mysterious episodes may not in fact, be warranted. It could be they were not
supernatural in origin, but were instead several rather strange flukes of fate; bitter but random happenstance. It’s impossible for the family to determine if the odd incidents were the result of a nefarious force at work or blessings in disguise. Perhaps both apply. Nobody in this life can be certain. However, in every case, something frightening occurred: Dangerous! Whether natural or supernatural at its source it certainly did appear as if there was someone benevolent in Nature intervening on their behalf to preserve an ancient farmhouse and protect the family living within its clapboard walls.

***

Their second winter proved to be as brutal as the first.
“Ya get used to it.”
Not so. Everybody in the family heard the phrase somewhere in their travels on a consistent basis. It was always snowing; whether a lot or weather a little, its presence was
Omni
in Nature. Frozen ground never had a chance to thaw or get all filthy dirty before the next layer arrived, the pristine cover of winter whiteness obscuring previous blemishes. As the fireplace raged on in protest, the family gathered to absorb whatever warmth could be generated from that simple hole in the wall; its smoke stack doing double-duty, and then some. It seemed, at times, as if most of the precious heat was being swept up then out the chimney…carried by the winter wind to places and spaces far, far away.

During the previous autumn, after a full summer of nesting and perching no one noticed, the chimney had become littered with debris. One chilly night in September Roger decided it was time to fire her up! A few pieces of kindling were ablaze in moments. Suddenly, the lining of a chimney ignited in a flash. This powerful force, a rush of fire erupted into an inferno; a chimney fire so spectacular, it literally stopped passing traffic. The chimney burst into flames with such fury it sounded like a distant, muffled explosion. “Whoosh!” Bird nests began falling onto the flames, each fully engaged with the furious burn. Engulfed, crackling and hissing; tiny, meticulously twisted fragments of dry timber sprinkled the landscape with flecks of fire. It was twilight. Roger flew outside to examine the extent of the damage occurring. Carolyn propped the screen in place then ran for the hose behind the house, shouting at everybody to
get out!
It was a frantic few minutes, everyone scrambling to evacuate the premises, children directed to follow their parents in one direction or another. The spitting, spewing ashes and embers were rapidly escaping their chimney, bouncing off the roof then scattering on the lawn, producing a vivid display: a frightfully cruel intermingling of darkness and light. Fire in the chimney!