OUT OF THE DARKNESS CHAPTER 9
Chapter 9
The storm
1949
Good morning, Dear Heart, I must apologize for taking so long to get back to you, but it has been raining for the last few days, which is good, as we need the rain and it will cool things down. We’ve been in the middle of a heat wave for more than a week. From what Erin tells me, the grass is scorched, and the sidewalks have been so hot you could fry eggs on them.
Now that I think about it, it is foolish for me to apologize for taking so long to get back to you, as you have no way of knowing any of what I am writing to you anyhow, not until I complete my whole life story, which I will send to you then. In the meantime, I write every day except when there is a good reason I can’t, which there was.
A few days ago, I had been writing, telling you about the day back in 1919, when I first met Conon, and how I had fallen so deeply in love and got so lost in those memories, for how long, I don’t know. They were so beautiful that I just sat there, not writing another word, for what seemed like hours. Then suddenly it started raining—a real downpour that took me back to that year when Conon and I had taken cover beneath the overturned hull of the old shipwreck that had washed up on our shore many years before.
We had been meeting there in secret for a few weeks by then. It was the place we first consummated our love. I think I have already told you in the previous pages why we had to meet in secret. Anyhow, on that day back in 1919, dawn was breaking by the time the rain let up. I had rushed back to the house, hoping Aunt Marion was still in bed, so I could sneak in without her knowing I had been out all night, but I was too late.
As it turned out, she was sitting in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea, showing no sign of alarm or upset whatsoever. As you will already know from my previous pages, Aunt Marion was a remarkable human being— one in a million. I still miss her to this day. She simply said to bring the young man home for dinner so she could meet him. After meeting him, she knew why I loved him.
Anyhow, a few days ago, as I sat at my writing desk here in the attic, recalling all that, with the rain pouring down, a thunderclap so loud it nearly broke my eardrums cracked the sky with such force that I nearly fell off my chair, and for a split second, I saw the room in its entirety light up. I actually saw it before my sight returned to a pinhead of light, as the thunder continued to crash and the rain pounded on the roof and beat against the porthole window with such force that I thought the glass would break.
There is an old cot, covered in dusty blankets, that has sat in this attic ever since I can remember. I decided to lie down there until the storm was over. I didn’t want to try to traverse the stairs down to the main floor amid all that commotion. The noise was so loud, I thought it would surely deafen me. Wouldn’t that be something — not only would I be blind, but deaf as well.
So, there I lay clinging to the sides of that cot as it shook and rattled beneath me, and banged itself against the wall, crushing my hand. I was petrified. I thought my heart would pound its way out of my chest. Then I prayed. I prayed out loud— God! Please help me! As those cries— ma, ma, ma joined the thunder and lightning that threatened to tear this house right off its foundation. Never before, in all my years, have I ever experienced a storm of such ferocity.
It seemed hours passed before the thunder vented its rage and finally rumbled off into the distance, leaving only the rain behind. A rain that was no longer desperately trying to escape from the monster in the sky—it was now a soft, soothing summer rain—the kind I used to love to walk in with Conon. We used to walk along the path that ran along the banks above the ocean on those beautiful spring days, and sometimes we would get caught in a spring shower. One time while walking that path, we got caught in a storm and had to take cover in an old abandoned shack that had been there as long as I can remember. That memory and the beauty of it still haunt me to this day.
I actually wrote a poem about that memory, as the beauty of it compelled me to put it into the physical universe. It is entitled, “In shades of misty grey, and I have put it down on the page for you—
In shades of misty grey
On a day bathed in so many shades of misty grey
Thereupon, those rugged cliffs above the Fundy Bay
Heart pounding like the thunder in those crashing waves
Trembling lips dripping with heartfelt words I could not say
So shy, I was a teenage girl so much in love
My soul on fire like that blazing stormy sky above
Where lighting crackled and sizzled in a burning flame
As his yearning eyes searched mine, there in that wind-swept rain
Taking cover in that shack with broken window panes
Where tattered pieces of old lace curtains still remained
Peals of nervous laughter silenced in that broken frame
As the storm outside raged against us all in vain
When with tears of stormy weather still running down his face
His lips found mine there in that old abandoned place
A moment so electrifying it seared my soul
With a memory that haunts me now that I am old
When stormy weather lets me see him as he was that day
There on those lofty cliffs above the Fundy Bay
My heart pounding like the thunder in those crashing waves
As I drift in the beauty of those shades of misty grey
Anyhow, I was so exhausted—completely drained from all that had happened, that I couldn’t get up. I tried and tried, but couldn’t find the strength to get up off that cot. My mind and body were both so spent that I couldn’t think straight. All reasoning was gone. The fact that Erin might show up never even occurred to me, so I fell asleep and returned to Conon and those days back in 1919—those days of unquenchable longing and desire. Those days when every thought I had was of him, and every sleeping moment was spent in a dream recalling every waking moment I had spent with him. He was my world. And here I was, doing the same thing again — dreaming of him when suddenly, I was awakened by the jingling of keys on the rod iron rail.
Oh my God! Dear Heart, Erin was on her way up. I had to move fast. I don’t know how I did it, as I was still half asleep, and my legs felt like lead weights, but I managed to pound down those stairs at a breakneck speed and plunk myself down in my wing-back chair in the parlour just as she turned her key in the lock and entered. I was out of breath, and my hands and legs were trembling, and I hoped she wouldn’t notice, but she did.
“Oh, Annabelle,” she said. You’re trembling. “You must have been terrified. Here all night by yourself during that terrible, terrible storm. And what have you done to your hand? It's all red and swollen. Don’t worry, dear, I will tend to it. I don’t think anything is broken. I’ll make you a cold pack, then a cup of tea. That will warm you up. God! It's cold in here. Let me get you a blanket.”
I never said a word. I just sat there while she rambled on and on. I could hear her footsteps and her voice trailing off as she went into my bedroom, brought back the feather tick comforter, and tucked it in all around me.
“Don’t tell me you sat up all night in this chair,” she said to me. “Your bed hasn’t been slept in. Oh! Annabelle, why didn’t you call me? Mrs. Hatfield would have called me to the phone. You have her number. I would have come over and spent the night with you. It breaks my heart to think of you living alone in this big old house. God only knows what could happen to you. And, you have plenty of spare rooms. I would pay you room and board just like I do at the boarding house. Think about it,” she said.
I must admit, Dear Heart, she was certainly pulling at my heartstrings. If it weren’t for the fact that she is a snoop, I wouldn’t hesitate to have her come live with me, as she really is a good soul, and I wouldn’t charge her a thing, but I can’t have her snooping around.
Oh my God! If she ever got up into the attic and read what I am writing, and found out about the root cellar, she would have the cops here in a heartbeat. Oh God! I can’t even think about it. You will understand why when you read the story of my life.
She has also hinted that she wishes she had a car on more than one occasion, especially when I let her drive mine to town to get supplies and do my banking. Sometimes, I go with her, and we have lunch together.
I know she walks here, and a car would certainly make her life easier. I don’t know why she doesn’t take a bus. They do come here, but you need to make a few transfers, so I suppose she would still have to stand out in all kinds of weather while she waits to transfer buses. Or maybe she doesn’t want to spend the money. Anyhow, I can’t give her the car because I may need it myself if I ever get my vision back.
Well, to get back to her finding me after the storm. She was in a terrible state after finding the kitchen window open, and that sizzle I had heard the night before—well, apparently the lightning had come through the open window and struck the metal breadbox on the kitchen counter, melting it. A good thing the counter is stone, otherwise, the house could have burned to the ground. Apparently, the counter is now blackened and has a large crack that runs its length.
After that, she rambled on and on about how I shouldn’t be left alone. “See what almost happened,” she said. “If the counter were wood, the house probably would have burned down,” she scolded.
Yes! She was probably right, so I assured her I would make sure the windows were closed before I went to bed each night and then pretended to fall asleep in my chair. She woke me up after she had cleaned everything and prepared some casseroles that would see me through for the next few days, and asked if there was anything else I needed. I assured her I was okay and could manage.
As it turned out, after she had gone, I tried to go back up to the attic, but my legs were so weak that I couldn't climb the stairs. For the next few days, I remained downstairs. Erin has been calling me in the evening to make sure I am okay and that I have closed the windows and locked the doors.
Oh yes! I meant to tell you that after being downstairs for the past few days, I could hear all kinds of sounds coming from every part of the house. It seems the storm has really unsettled it, and, as you mentioned when you were last here, the house is old and in need of repairs, and I should consider getting a tradesman in to carry out some work. Well, you know how long ago that was.
I must confess, Dear Heart, I told you I would take care of it, but I didn't. The thought of a workman going through the entire house terrified me. What if he had to go down in the root cellar to check the foundation? God! I couldn’t allow that.
Before I went blind, I realized things were really starting to fall apart. I tried to fix some things myself. The wind used to come in around the windows and under the door sills. I sealed every one of them, but during the last storm, as I told you earlier, it nearly shook the house off its foundation. As I sit here writing, I can hear the wind whistling through the cracks that have obviously opened again, and I can feel the draft that’s coming in.
All the faucets leak; Erin always complains about it every time she’s here. And the enamel on the sinks has worn off, and from what I remember, there are rust stains running right into the drains from the constant drips. I guess the pipes are rusting.
The hardwood floors squeak—especially when Erin walks on them. It’s all I can do not to laugh when she waddles around in the parlour when she is dusting the furniture, while at the same time babbling on and on and about the leaking faucets, the key to the front door sticking, the hinges on the kitchen cabinets coming loose, bla, bla, bla.
All this she babbles while the floors beneath her squeak and sag with every step she takes. For some reason, it really strikes my funny bone. It sounds like music to my ears. I like to think of it as Erin’s concerto in D Minor.
I had a hard time getting up the stairs to the attic today as my legs are still a bit weak, but I made it. Those stairs also squeak, and set the mice to skittering. I keep setting the traps, but somehow, they manage to avoid them. Erin says they’re getting into the rice and sugar bags, so we bought some glass containers for all the dried goods. That will hopefully solve that problem.
One day, when she was here, she let out a high-pitched scream that could have woken the dead. Apparently, a live mouse jumped out of the cupboard when she opened it. We now have mouse traps set in every room downstairs. She says we need to get an exterminator in to handle the problem. Instead, we went to the hardware store and bought rat poison. Hopefully, that will do the trick. I didn’t hear any mice skittering up here today. I will have to check around for dead bodies.
Well, Dear Heart, I still haven't regained all my strength yet, but I am getting better every day. I have a cold—that's all. I am a little tired today, so I won’t write for too long. I’ll write again tomorrow after a good night's sleep. Love you!
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