OUT OF THE DARKNESS - CHAPTER 1

Saint John, New Brunswick
July, 1939

She takes a sheet of linen paper, then dips the fountain pen in the ink well and begins to write...

Dear Heart,
What I am about to tell you will surely shock you to the core of your being. It is a secret I vowed to take with me to the grave, a vow I can no longer keep for the time has come to right the wrong I have done for the ghosts from the past have come seeking justice for what I did all those years ago.

It was a deed so unimaginable that in reflection, it seems unbelievable. And, it is this dastardly deed that has brought me to this ungodly place where I live buried alive, suffocating beneath the weight of a burden too heavy for me to carry any longer.

Looking back, I see it was desperation that convinced me that what I was doing was not wrong. In the face of tragedy, I had prayed to God for help, and when the situation, tragic as it was, presented itself, I took it as the answer to my prayer.

And that my Dear, is how I rationalized what I did that day all those years ago when finding myself in dire circumstances beyond my control, I took a tragic situation and turned it into a blessing. At least that is what I told myself and made myself believe when I interfered with the natural order of things, altering forever what was to be your destiny.

Now, Dear Heart, after all these years of guarding my every thought and word to keep my secret safe, I find myself living a nightmare in this old rambling mansion with these ghosts who haunt me relentlessly except when Ava is here.

Ava is the lady I have hired to help clean, cook, and run errands. She comes for four or five hours a day for four days of the week. I never know for sure which days she is coming or whether it will be morning or afternoon as she works me in around the schedule of clients she has had long before me.

I asked if she would kindly give me a telephone call ahead of time and let me know when she is coming. She got a bit snotty when I requested that, and informed me she doesn't own a telephone because she can't afford one.

Under the pretense of sparing me the trouble of having to find my way to the front door to let her in, she has requested that I give her a key so she can let herself in. When I resisted, she informed me that her other clients' have given her keys and that if I didn't trust her, I could bloody well find someone else. So, I gave her the key.

Anyhow, to get back to why I am writing to you.

It was a few months after your father's funeral after you had returned to England when I first heard those cries. I had been sitting at the kitchen table, looking at old photographs meticulously chronicled by time place and event in six photo albums.

The photo I was looking at was in black and white, but in my mind, it appeared in colour There you were standing in the backyard wearing your new blue dress. I had snapped that picture just before I walked you to your first day at school.

It was while I had been looking at that photo that I heard a faint wailing coming up from the floorboards beneath my feet.

Ma, Ma, Ma, it cried.

Every hair on my body bristled as I sat there paralyzed with fear as that wailing grew louder and louder.

Then I saw him! He had jumped up on the outside window-ledge and was rubbing his long, slinky body against the window. Then standing high on the tips of his toes with his back arched and his long, skinny tail pointing straight in the air, he stopped, turned, and stared straight at me with his enormous, luminous gold eyes. Then he twitched his ears and tail, jumped down from the ledge, and skittered over to the mound of grass that covers the doors to the root-cellar.

Just a cat in heat, I thought to myself.

After I had calmed down, I made myself a cup of tea and continued to immerse myself in those old photos. Then I heard it again.

Ma, Ma, Ma!

Goosebumps broke out all over my body. When I dared to look out the window, I could see that cat still sitting on that mound of grass staring at me with his mouth closed tighter than a drum as those cries grew louder and louder, echoing up from the floorboards beneath me.

The last time I had been down in that root-cellar was thirty years ago. I remember the exact date because it is your birth-date (January 23rd). On that day, huge snowdrifts left by a storm that had raged through the Eastern Seaboard for three days covered its entrance.

By the time I had shovelled the snow from it, I was exhausted. I still don't know how I ever found the strength to go down there, but I did. Numb with cold and fear, I went down there and did what I had to do.

When I finally came up, I nailed a couple of boards across its doors and covered them with the snow I had shovelled away earlier. In the Spring, when the snow had melted, I covered them with earth and grass seed. When the seed finally took hold, it produced a grass much darker than all the surrounding grass, never allowing me to forget the dirty deed that lay buried beneath.

Now, sitting there at the kitchen table as numb as I was the last time I had gone down there, I thought I would surely go insane as those cries continued to resonate all around me.

Then, just as suddenly as those cries had begun, they stopped. And as I sat there, I began to wonder if those cries were real or delusional. Perhaps the weight of the guilt I had lived with for so long was driving me insane.

It was at that moment I realized I needed to get away from this place and figure out what I was going to do with the rest of my life. Ever since I was a child, I had dreamed of travelling the world and had never had the opportunity until now. So with that realization, I decided I would make arrangements in the morning to do just that.

So, that night, I went to sleep dreaming of those places Papa (my father) had told me about when I was a little girl. I remember those days so vividly. They were the days' Papa came home after being away at sea for months.

I remember the many times I had stood with aunt Marion out on the Widow's-walk, on the roof of the house, searching for Papa's three-mast schooner (Angel of the Blue).

Sometimes there would be several schooners all returning to our shores at the same time, but I could always spot Papa's schooner by the magnificent wooden carved angel figurehead mounted on its bow. There that Angel sat high on the bow like she was guiding the ship and the crew safely home. The second I saw that Angel, I would run as fast as I could, down the stairs, out of the house, and down the road to the harbour. And overcome with excitement and joy, I would holler (Papa's home, Papa's home) every step of the way.

It was during those short intervals when Papa came home that I learned of those exotic places Papa knew so well. I can see him yet, sitting in the rocking chair in the kitchen by the window looking out at the ocean with a faraway look in his eyes.

Wanting his attention, I would pester him until he would take me up on his lap and create those places in my mind with his words, which made me long to one day see them in reality.

All of those memories were going through my mind when I went to bed that night. It took me a while to settle down and fall asleep, but when I did, I began to dream.

I dreamed I was with Papa aboard his schooner far out at sea sailing beneath a moon-lit, star-filled sky when suddenly the dream changed, and the ocean began to churn and rise in a multitude of towering waves. Then the wind tore the sails from the masts and blew them away. Thunder and lightning cracked the sky. Hail, the size of cannonballs crashed down on the deck, splitting the timbers. Then that raging ocean and the wind, tossed the ship around like it was a matchstick and threw me overboard. As the sea pulled me under, I suddenly awoke.

You can't possibly imagine what real terror is unless you have awakened from a beautiful dream that turned into a nightmare, only to find that you are still in a nightmare. Your eyes are wide open, yet you can't see a thing. The world you knew before you went to sleep has vanished. All you can see is darkness.

Now in a state of panic, your mind tries to make sense of this, but it can't. Where are the shadows and silhouettes of the dancing, wind-blown leaves that were there on the walls after you turned out the light before you fell asleep? Even on the darkest of nights, you could always see shadows in the room.

Now with ice running through your veins, you grope for the lamp on the night table and flip the switch and hear the trill of a White Throat-ed Sparrow.

Again and again, you flip that switch hoping to see the painted roses on the wallpaper, the ornate crown mouldings skirting the ceiling twelve feet above the mahogany floor, but all you see is darkness.

Again you hear the haunting trill of the White Throat-ed Sparrow, and at that moment, your mind finally grasps its terrifying meaning. You have heard that trill many times before, but never at night. It is the trill that falls on the break of dawn. The dawn that on this day, you cannot see.

Sometime during the night while you were sleeping, the vision was taken from your eyes. Now, as you stare into the endless darkness, you hear the sound of horror as it rises from the depths of your soul and flies from your mouth as an ear-piercing scream.

That is how it happened to me. I had gone to bed that night and dreamed of those far away places and awoke in the morning, blind. Hysterical blindness is what the doctors told me, for they could find nothing whatsoever wrong with my eyes.

The nurses told me it had been a truck driver who brought me into the hospital. He had nearly run me over when rounding the bend. It seems I had been stumbling down the middle of the road, leaving a trail of bloodied footprints behind.

I wondered about this for some time until I recalled falling down the stairs that morning after awaking blind. I was trying to get to the phone downstairs so I could call for help. In so doing, I tripped over the leg of the Duncan Fifth table in the foyer, sending the crystal flower vase and its contents crashing to the floor.

By the time I got up off the floor, I had shards of broken glass embedded in the palms of my hands and knees. Finally, I was able to get myself standing up and make my way to the kitchen where the wall phone was. Stepping on more scattered pieces of glass, I managed to pull the phone completely off the wall as it came crashing to the floor with me.

That is the last thing I remember before waking up in the hospital. After several months of training with a Vision Rehabilitation Therapist, I was able to return home.

I must confess, Dear Heart, living in a world of darkness was very difficult in the beginning. There were times I almost gave up, but the thought of spending the rest of my life living in a nursing home, depending on others for my survival, gave me strength and determination I never knew I possessed.

After having lived in a world of darkness for a few months, I discovered that the blind so see. Not like sighted people, but in a different way. It's as if I have an electrical field that radiates out of my body. A sensor that allows me to detect the objects in my space. I can feel this field pushing against these objects whenever I get too close. It is like the radar Bats have. I guess you could say I am blind as a Bat.

My hearing has become so acute that I wish I could turn it off. If the tap in the kitchen downstairs is dripping, I can hear it. I can be up in the attic and hear those drops of water shattering on the bottom of the sink. The longer I listen, the louder they become. The same applies to my sense of smell.

Anyhow, to get back to my new-found powers, as wonderful as they are, they can't compare to the joy I felt that day when I discovered the way out of this darkness through a pinhole of light.

I had been listening to the radio when I heard what I thought were mice skittering around in the attic. It wasn't long before that sound became so loud to my sensitive hearing that it nearly drove me crazy. So I went up to the attic to tend to the mouse traps I had set there before I went blind.

Many years ago, I had spent most of my free time in the attic. It had been my sanctuary. All the treasured keepsakes from my past were stored there in an old steamer trunk. I hadn't looked in that trunk since the day I went down into the root cellar for the last time.

Now, for some reason, as I stood there among the skittering mice and buzzing flies, I felt compelled to open that trunk. As I lifted the lid, the sound of skittering mice stopped.

Down on my knees, I reached into the trunk and removed the tissue paper I had covered everything with the day I had decided to close the lid on my past forever.

They were still there: The reams of paper, bottles of ink, the box with all the poems, short stories, the novelette I had written, and the velvet case. My hands began to tremble as I opened it and took out the fountain pen Cannon had given me when I was seventeen. It was the pen with which I had faithfully written to him until all hope was lost. Engraved on its golden surface were the same words graved on my soul (YOU HOLD MY HEART IN YOUR HANDS).

It was then that the memory of that day (the last day I saw him), came to life and played out before me. And as I looked into his beautiful blue, green eyes, I heard him say: My dear sweet Annabelle, you know I have no choice, I must leave you now, but I will return, and when I do, I will marry you.

Then, while still on my knees in the attic among the pungent odour of old mothballs, dust, and rodent droppings still holding the pen I had years ago laid to rest in a trunk filled with broken dreams, I watched him leave again.

Then I wept for the loss of Cannon Lee, the family I'd left behind, and the girl who had once been me, as those cries (Ma, Ma, Ma), rose from the floorboards beneath me.

Then before my sightless eyes, I saw her as clearly as I did the day we met. Charlotte, in all her pale beauty, stood before me, begging me to set her spirit free. It was then that I knew what I must do.

Since then, I have spent most of my waking hours here in the attic writing just like I did all those years ago. It was my writing that allowed me to escape the cruel world of reality I lived in, by creating a world designed by me.

My old writing desk still sits beneath the porthole window. I can feel the warmth of the sun on my face as I write. At first, I found it difficult without the benefit of sight. Did I have enough or too much ink on the nib of the fountain pen Cannon had given me? Was I leaving enough space between each line? Was I smudging what I had written?

Finally, I decided I would just write and let my new-found powers guide me. Then surely with God as my witness, I felt the weight of each word I wrote and knew where each one lay on the page.

My first attempts in writing to you ended up as crumpled balls of paper, which I hurled across the room. Others ended up heaped around my feet.

The fact that I had written in brevity, telling you only of the dastardly deed I had committed on that day (the day you were born), brought no relief to me whatsoever. The truth of the matter was, without me telling the whole story of what led up to that day, I would forever be found guilty of committing a heinous crime by anyone who read my poignant confession.

So, there I sat, lost in deep thoughts while contemplating the task ahead if ever I were to defend myself when suddenly, a pinhole of light appeared directly in front of me. And more to my amazement, I could see colour in that pinhole of light. And as I looked down, I could see the colour of gold. Was that my fountain pen? Then as I moved my focus, I saw white. Then I saw the colour blue (the paper and ink). Could it be?

I continued to look at that spectacle for some time before I began to write again. After I had written several pages, I swear that pinhole of light had grown to the size of a pinhead. It was at that moment I realized the truth would set me free and lead me out of the darkness. It would appear that this will be a daunting task, for I have discovered that any deviation from the truth (no matter how small) takes me back to total darkness.

So, Dear Heart, here I sit writing the true story of my life, and when you have read it, I pray you will forgive me.

But for the chiming of the Grandfather clock downstairs, time ceases to exist in my world as I sit here and write. I do, however, have to put it aside and get back downstairs when Ava arrives and lets herself in, as I don't want her snooping into what is none of her business.

On more that one occasion, she has been downstairs when the mice were skittering around up here in the attic. When she offered to come up here and set traps, I had to think fast. I told her she needed a key to get into the attic and that I didn't know where it was. I know she has been looking for it, but she will never find it, for I keep it hidden in the pocket of whatever I am wearing. I will have to make sure I keep those mousetraps set.

Thank God for my heightened sense of hearing that allows me to know when she is on her way up the hill to the house. The second she sets foot on the first stair, I hear her keys jingling as they bang against the rod-iron railing as she makes her way up the remaining forty-seven stairs.

By the time she turns the key in the lock and lets herself in, I'm there, sitting in my favourite chair in the parlour, ready to greet her. The springs in the Queen Anne chair squeak as she plunks herself down. There she sits for a few minutes, wheezing and gasping for breath. I stare into space, giving her no indication that I can see the floating dust particles in the air that her heavy breathing has disturbed.

Oh! Oh! I hear her keys. She is on her way up. I will have to sign off for now, Dear Heart.


Love, Annabelle

FOR THE CONTINUATION OF THIS STORY...GO TO CHAPTER 2

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