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| Andrea Perron |
Some terrifying tales must be told in person, stories passed on around a campfire then swept into the ether as smoke signals. Some lend themselves well to literature; the words seem to belong together, tucked neatly within the bound pages of a book. There are intimate tales which should be whispered discreetly while others leap from the page, blasting their way into the cosmos, taking on a life of their own, even if the subject matter is death and the tale comes from beyond the grave. Others coalesce, seeping into deeper levels of consciousness while we sleep; time away from what we've already absorbed. Such is the case, on all counts, with "House of Darkness House of Light". It is the portrait of a family who once lived in an ancient farmhouse which remains alive with death; the collective memoir of a decade spent watching, waiting and wondering what was coming next.
From the age of twelve, when I first saw a full-body apparition, I knew there was something beyond mortal existence. No church or preacher was involved with my decision to accept what I had seen. No one needed to convince me of the presence of spirit in this realm. I believed my eyes. Two of my younger sisters had already seen him, on the day we moved into the house. He was watching Mr. Kenyon pack his few final possessions, items left behind in the ordeal, those from a built-in china closet. His full round face and caring eyes were focused solely on the old man, as he'd undoubtedly come to say goodbye. Perhaps this entity had been there all along, not coming or going, but merely visible or invisible. Whatever he was or wasn't, it was an utterly astounding vision.
In June of 1970 our mother decided she wanted to raise her five daughters away from the mayhem which suddenly erupted around them. Cumberland, Rhode Island had once been a placid and peaceful community, one which instantly transformed for reasons beyond the grasp of her comprehension. Former playmates became thugs and criminals, seemingly overnight. Life as they'd known it perished within a few short months and Carolyn was desperate to remove her children from a neighborhood which had quickly become mean-spirited in the extreme. She wanted a place in the country.
Darkness & Light. Our time spent dwelling among the spirits was both -- searching the shadows for what lurked within, illuminated by the awareness that something was there. It took six months to purchase the farm my mother located in Harrisville, R.I. She went to view the property while my father was away on business. When he returned home, she had already found us another home and had emptied the bank account to secure it. Her impulsive act was unnecessary. The call to the listing agent was the only call the woman ever received on the property and it was made by my mother on the first day the farm was advertised: meant-to-be in many respects.
It was as if the Universe had conspired on our behalf. Everything fell together in spite of the fact that the old Arnold estate was unaffordable. Two hundred acres of land, a river, pond, a huge barn and an equally enormous farmhouse. It cost a fortune: $75,000.00. These days people pay that for a car but in 1970 it was a lot of money. Of course, while describing the piece of surreal estate to my mother on the phone, the woman failed to mention the eight generations who'd previously called it home, some of whom never left after death. No need to mourn them...they're not really gone. One of the originalProvidence Plantations, the land was deeded in 1680, the house as it is, completed in 1736. Weathering the 1938 Hurricane, the barn was constructed by a master shipwright. Its bowed beams sway with the wind and now remains one of the few surviving structures from that era.
This story has waited a full thirty years to be told, with good reason. The vast majority of people were not ready for it three decades ago, nor were we as a family prepared to disclose our closely-guarded secrets. Essentially, it is an unbelievable tale, requiring a leap of faith. Ours is no ordinary ghost story, if there is such a thing. It is instead a philosophical treatise on the supernatural, positing new theory, revealing concepts and challenging the reader to come along on a remarkable excursion. After years of suppressing the memories, it was amazing how close to the surface they'd been buried. Exhuming the dead is no easy task. It required a great deal of emotional effort from every member of our family. My mother had suffered most during that tumultuous decade, under siege from a force so powerful, there would be no reconciling, no reckoning; only escape. This spirit perceived herself to be mistress of the house and did not appreciate the competition. She was attracted to my father, coveted the children, and wholly loathed my mother. It was a bizarre way to grow up. We could not divulge our secrets to others for fear of being rejected as we tried to make new friends in a new and very different place. Strange how a mere twenty miles can seem like light years away from normalcy. Ours was a paranormal existence. We all found the farm so familiar, as if we had all been there before. As it turned out, that was not such an odd thought. There was something which called us to the farm and something which held us there, in spite of the willingness of my parents to part with it once we all recognized the hazard of remaining within its ancient, mysterious walls. It was something familial in nature.
A portal cleverly disguised as a farmhouse, we soon learned to travel in a pack and share space as we must to survive in the home of our dreams and eventual nightmares. Most of the spirits were benign, but the one malignant entity made her presence known. Bathsheba...a God-forsaken soul. Though acquitted of the charge, she had been accused of sacrificing the life of an infant in her care. Apparently whatever happened caused people to come from miles around to the inquest just to see the raving beauty accused of practicing witchcraft, the one presumed to have sold her soul to the devil for eternal youth. There was no evidence against her, save the lone needle extricated from the base of the baby's skull. No DNA, only her word that she did not know how it occurred but must have been an accident. Escaping the glare of a courtroom unscathed, Bathsheba never did escape the accusation in life and died an old, bitter and shriveled woman. According to the documents, her body froze up like stone. She died of "Paralysis". Hers was a cursed existence, one which continues to this day. A priest from the Vatican came and walked the house, pausing in each room to murmur his prayers. As he left, the kind and gentle man took my mother by the hand and said: "I'm so sorry Mrs. Perron. This house cannot be cleansed." It was not the only time she would hear those painful words.
In June of 1980 our family sold the farm to the abutting landowners and fled to Georgia. It was pointless to run away. There are some things impaled in a memory, some things a mortal mind is incapable of forgetting. No matter where you go, there they are. Exposure to the supernatural from a young age leaves one receptive lifelong and we were no exception to the rule. At the age of fifty-three, I know as little now as I did then about what I witnessed in my childhood home. Only one thing rings certain for me: there is something beyond our mortal existence and the immortal souls surrounding us hold the key to the mystery. This is a haunting read in every conceivable sense of the word. It will forever alter your perceptions of life and death and will linger with you long after you close the book. Volume One of the trilogy was released last spring to rave reviews but it is only the beginning of the journey. As stated in the prologue, the cast of characters is extensive but the house has the lead. What happens in this house if far more significant than to whom it happens. That is the quintessential truth of a memoir which continues to shake its readers to the core of their being. It is not for the faint of heart and certainly NOT for children. This isn't a facsimile of Harry Potter. It is a horrifying and ultimately illuminating quest for knowledge beyond this realm, an ethereal excursion of discovery and a testament to the resilience of the human spirit.
I am neither oracle or sage, simply a humble messenger with a phenomenal story to share with the world, one whose time has come. In my heart I believe it was my destiny to fulfill. Now I am free, unencumbered from the place in the country which claimed me as a child, liberated from the lone remaining fear I've harbored all these years. I do not want to return to the portal after death but wish to move on in spirit from a house which has claimed so many other souls over the centuries. I seek my release within its pages and have accomplished my objective by honestly and authentically telling a story from the ages, for the ages.
There is nothing to fear. Peace be with you.
Yours in spirit ~ Andrea Perron
