OUT OF THE DARKNESS CHAPTER 1
OUT OF THE DARKNESS
Chapter 1
Annabelle
In the summer of 1949, Annabelle takes a sheet of paper from the pile, dips her fountain pen in the well of ink, 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 now seems unbelievable. And it is this dastardly deed that has brought me to this ungodly place where I live, seemingly buried alive, suffocating beneath the weight of a burden too heavy for me to carry any longer.
Looking back now, I realize it was desperation that convinced me what I was doing wasn't wrong. I had prayed to God for help, and when that 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, took a tragic situation, and turned it into a blessing. 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, I find myself in this old rambling mansion, living with the ghosts from my past who have returned from the dead to haunt me. The only time they leave me alone is when Erin is here.
Erin is the lady I hired to help with cleaning, cooking, and running errands. She comes for three or four hours, twice a week. I never know when she will come, or whether it will be in the morning or the afternoon, as she fits me into her schedule around her other clients. She doesn’t ring me because Mrs. Hatfield, the landlady at the boarding house where she stays, charges her for phone use, and Erin is too cheap to pay. She says, "What difference does it make? I am not going anywhere anyway, and I will always be home when she comes. "
Under the pretense of sparing me the trouble of going to the front door to let her in, she has asked me to give her a key so she may let herself in. When I resisted, she showed me all the keys to the homes of her other clients. She told me that if I didn't trust her, I could find someone else to work for me; so, I gave her the key. I don't like her walking in unannounced because I don't want her to know what I am doing here in the attic.
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 three 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. While looking at that photo, 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, 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 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 covering 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 twenty-third. 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 do 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 door and covered it with the snow I had shovelled away earlier.
In the Spring, when the snow had melted, I covered it with earth and grass seed. When those seeds finally took hold, they produced a grass much darker than all the surrounding grass, never allowing me for a moment to forget what I had done.
Now, sitting there at the kitchen table, 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. I wondered if perhaps the weight of the guilt I had lived with for so long was driving me insane. It was then that I realized I needed to get away from this place and figure out what I would do with the rest of my life.
Ever since I was a child, I had dreamed of travelling the world, but I had never had the opportunity until then. With that realization, I decided to make arrangements in the morning to do just that. That night, I went to sleep dreaming of those places Papa had told me about when I was a little girl.
I remember those days so vividly, those days when Papa came home after being away at sea for months. I remember the many times I had stood with Mama out on the Widow's walk, searching for Papa's schooner— Angel of the Blue. Sometimes there would be several schooners 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. The second I saw that figurehead, I would run as fast as I could, down the stairs, out of the house, and down the road to the harbour, shouting, Papa’s home! Papa’s home!
During those short intervals when Papa was home, I learned of those exotic places he 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 took me onto his lap.
Papa was a great storyteller. He had a way with words that painted those places in my mind so vividly that I developed, to this day, an insatiable yearning to see the world. I wrote a poem about that when I was hmmm! I don’t remember exactly when I wrote it. I guess it was when I first came here as a live-in servant back in 1919, or maybe early 1920, when I used to spend my off time up in this attic writing. Here it is below—
Frosted Panes
When winter paints those frosty ferns on my windowpane
I find myself a little girl up on your lap again
In that old house there by the sea where you wove that tapestry
With all the glorious memories of your life upon the sea
With weathered palm so deeply etched with every season past
You rubbed a porthole in the center of the frosted glass
Where outside in splendour lie a winter-wonderland
As halos rose above your head from a pipe bowl in your hand
And thereupon a rocking chair as smoke rings filled the air
We rocked across a sea of dreams, wind tangled in our hair
To lands I’d never been before...we stepped upon those shores
And through your eyes I saw each one...and still I wanted more
The morning passed in dreams between two pairs of eyes of green
As the world outside held its breath in a sea of snowy cream
And when the chill of winter melted from the windowpane
The whistling kettle on the stove brought us home again
You held my hand and looked at me with that twinkle in your eyes
And told me you would be my Captain 'til the day I died
So— when winter paints those frosty ferns on my windowpane
I find myself a little girl up on your lap again
All those memories were going through my mind when I went to bed that night. I tossed and turned for a long time before I finally fell asleep and began to dream. I dreamed I was with Papa aboard Angel of the Blue, far out at sea, sailing beneath a moon-lit, star-filled sky, when suddenly the dream changed.
The ocean began to churn and rise in a multitude of towering waves as 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, while that raging, wind-driven ocean tossed the ship around like a matchstick and threw me overboard. Then, when the sea pulled me under, I suddenly awoke.
You can't imagine what terror is, Dear Heart, unless you have awakened from a beautiful dream that turned into 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.
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 you saw on the walls before you fell asleep? Even on the darkest of nights, you could always see shadows in the room.
With ice running through your veins, you grope for the lamp on the night table, flip the switch and hear the trill of a White Throated 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 hardwood floor, but all you see is darkness.
Again, you hear the haunting trill of the White Throated 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, you went blind, and 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 faraway places, and in the morning, I woke up blind. Hysterical blindness is what the doctors told me, for they could find nothing whatsoever wrong with my eyes.
From what I have been told, it was a truck driver who brought me into the hospital. He had nearly run me over when rounding the bend as I stumbled down the middle of the road, leaving a trail of bloodied footprints behind. I have no recollection of that event whatsoever.
The last memory I have of that morning was of me falling down the stairs after waking up blind and trying to get to the phone to 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 stand steady and make my way to the kitchen, where the wall phone was. As I picked up the receiver, I slipped in my own blood, tearing the phone completely off the wall as I came crashing to the floor again. The next thing I remember was waking up in the hospital.
After several months of training with a Vision Rehabilitation Therapist, I was finally 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 people who are blind do see! so to speak, in a way that is different from sighted people. I have discovered that an electrical field radiates from my body, a sensor that allows me to detect 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 as blind as a bat.
My hearing has become so acute that I wish I could turn it off. If the kitchen tap 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.
My newfound powers, as powerful as they are, can't compare to the joy I felt that day when I discovered the way out of this darkness through a pinhole of light. One day, 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 I thought I would go 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 spent most of my free time in the attic. It had been my sanctuary. All my treasured keepsakes 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 that I had covered everything with that day, all those years ago, when I had decided to close the lid on my past forever.
They were still there, I could feel them: 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 the velvet case and took out the fountain pen Conon had given me when he left. It was the pen with which I had faithfully written to him until all my hope had died. Engraved on its golden surface were the words I remember so well— You hold my heart in your hands.
Then the memory of that day, the last day I saw Conon, came to life and played out before me. And as I looked into his beautiful bluish 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 Conon Lee, the life 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.
I would do what I had always done when I couldn’t bear what life was doing to me. I would write!
Since then, I've spent most of my waking hours here in the attic writing just like I did all those years ago when writing allowed me to escape the cruel world I lived in by creating one of my own design. Now, I thought it would give me a way to escape the torment that was haunting me.
My old writing desk still sits beneath the porthole window. I can feel the warmth from 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 Conon had given me? Was I leaving enough space between each line? Was I smudging what I had written?
I thought if I wrote about what I did that day all those years ago, it might help to unburden the guilt I have lived with for so long. So, with my newfound powers guiding me, I began to write. Then, with God as my witness, I felt the weight of each word I wrote and knew where each one was on the page.
My first attempts at 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 the day you were born, brought no relief 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.
I sat there for some time, lost in deep thought, contemplating the task ahead, when suddenly I saw it— a pinhole of light directly in front of me. And as I looked down, that pinhole of light moved with me and turned to the colour of gold. Was that the gold of my fountain pen? Then, as I moved my focus, I saw white. Then I saw the colour blue of Indian ink. Could it be?
I focused that pinhole of light all over the room for what seemed like hours before I finally picked up the pen again, and continued to write. After I had written several pages, I swear that pinhole of light had grown to the size of a pinhead! That was when I finally realized that writing was the way I could escape from this darkness. I could write my way out!
It would appear that this will be a daunting task, for I have discovered that any deviation from writing 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 when Erin arrives. I don't want her snooping into what is none of her business. She has been here on more than one occasion when the mice have been skittering around in the attic.
When she offered to go up there 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 hearing, which, for the most part, lets me know when she is on her way up the stairs to the house. Providing she has the keys out of her purse and the key ring around her finger, as most times she does, I can hear them jingling and banging against the rod-iron railing. When she finally turns the key in the lock and lets herself in, I'm there, sitting in my wing-back 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 dust particles disturbed by her heavy breathing, floating in the air.
Oh! Oh, Dear Heart— I hear her keys right now! She is on her way up! I will have to sign off.
CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 2
ONTINI
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