In the spring time, it sets off yellow-green clusters of spiked flowers that attracts thousands of bees. When I was just a kid, I’d leave the window open to hear them. Sometimes the buzzing was so loud my room vibrated and I felt transported to a peaceful place of mind and solitude. It was like riding the wind on a leaf, with no cares, no silence, no crazy, no feeling different, just floating inside a long chant of the universe. When autumn came, the leaves dropped and took my heart with them. The bees disappeared and the silence of my bedroom drove me insane. The tree is huge now, so much the outer bark has grown around three pin back buttons Mag and I placed there as kids. They were from the television show, Welcome back Mr. Kotter. The grain has swallowed John Travolta’s head, leaving only the gleam of his toothy smile. Horseshack’s fish eyes and forehead are bizarre and Mr. Kotter’s afro has shrunk considerably to a flat top. These are but small remnants of my childhood left behind in the grueling battle to remember and forget, to deny or confront. Who shall win, I have no idea, but either way, I fear I shall be a prisoner, regardless. I catch a glimpse of something in the tree tops but the suns glare, blurs my vision. I unhinge from my man pillow to open the window and get a better view. A slight dislodging occurs in my chest, inside the room—the room that everyone says doesn’t exist.
I open a window. She opens a window. What happens here is happening there. A twin of myself, carefree and young is acting out my every move. It’s odd at first, and I stop if only for a second but then continue on. I have learned to look past things of this nature. Everyone says it doesn’t exist—and maybe they’re right, so I try to think as they do. I grab my man pillow and lean my head out the window, taking in the breeze and rays of the sun for the first time in months. The Texas humidity slaps me like a damp dish rag. Orange, red and brown leaves clink from spindly limbs like sky chandeliers. I close my eyes and absorb the Vitamin D my body is craving from being in utter darkness, inwardly and outwardly. After a good soaking, I open my eyes and come undone.
It was high up in the wondering tree, waiting for me to acknowledge its presence, bow to its kingship, and grovel in its majesty. I lost my breath with its sight, lush and dripping with morning dew. The drops glistened and bounced across the fabric of its sticky weave. I had always been leery of spiders in general, but their craftsmanship was astounding and often left me in awe. I wondered how something so small could create such beauty time and time again, over and over as if it simply wasn’t going to quit. And then I wondered why I couldn’t do the same? The spider web was three foot across, one limb to another and draped with a gallery of crisp, colorful leaf curtains. The small brown spider clung to the stretchy yarn but that’s not what held my gaze and made my heart drop. In the center of the web, hanging from a single thread and clinging to a brown leaf was my redemption. I could feel a tear pool up in my eyes, left over in time, waiting on this very moment to spill out, to release. The tiny cicada crackle clung to a dried maple leaf.
Like me. Holding on. Tossed in the wind. Drifting. Waiting. Stuck.
Memories flood inside my mind, bits and pieces, childhood relics so vivid and real, I feared I would die from their impact. The leaf crackle spun blurry in my vision, around and around it toiled and my mind connected to it, drifting from past to present and yearning for something unknown, unseen. Suddenly I emerged into another realm, a world of forgotten magic, held up in a lost childhood that sought to reclaim me. Maw Sue appeared at the foot of my bed, ghastly, ghostly again and scaring me to death.
“Make lovely your losses, Willodean.”
My heart shattered like pellets of window glass as if it understood the meaning for the first time. She vanished, once again, leaving me to grieve in my wake of incredible afflictions. I saw nothing lovely. It didn't feel lovely. How is one to make lovely the pain? Make lovely our losses. It’s simply mad. I glanced at the crackle as if it would speak and tell me the answers I needed. Instead, I saw myself in its place, stuck, brittle bones, clinging to threads, tangled up, spinning and unable to escape the peril, drifting through days without direction, focus, and left to the mercy of the gusting winds. Unreleased. Captive. There was a thread in me that felt mysteriously attached to these objects, the wind, the web, the leaf, and the crackle shell, all appearing like snapshots from my childhood. The wind would gently sway and move the leaf crackle and at the same time, my heart would flutter and move with it, aching and ravaged with lost desires. My mind spun a web of thoughts. A leaf didn’t belong in a spider web. Nor did a crackle. How did it get there? Did it marry the wrong man, make a gazillion bad decisions, drink liquor to null the pain, horde up in a house of horrors, have sex with strangers, fight internal demons, or swallow bottles of pills to kill the pain? Did it give up? Did it fight a great sadness? Was it gifted and cursed? Was it searching for meaning? Was its namesake nameless? Did it wish for death every day? Did it feel dead already? How did it get there? Where did it start? And how will it end?
A deep quiver rumbled from a dark place, a hidden room inside the house, beside my heart. Underneath. Below. It was unsettling. Something grabbed my hand and pulled me. Invisible force. Strong. It dragged me to another realm, out from my bedroom and into a dark passageway. I kicked and screamed. My skin scraped and buckled in the hallways, passing room after room. I noticed the brass plate descriptions on each door of every room; tower, pity, numbing, shame, sexpot, namesake, seven. As I read each one, something in me broke, ragged glass cutting and slicing.
“LET ME GO!” I screamed at the invisible force pulling me. And then as if my mind had no choice, I remembered where I was. No one could hear me. I was inside my own house, the house inside me. I knew there were more rooms, many rooms, secret and hidden but suddenly, whatever had me, stopped and left me still. I sat dazed at the end of a familiar hallway. It was eerie as if seeing it with new eyes and my skin pricked. A gleam of gold peered down at me. I looked up at the nameplate on the door. I read the bold black letters on the square. CRACKLE. Then in a flash, I saw the door knob rattle and turn and the heavy door swung open and without warning, I was shoved in by the same force that drug me here. Before I could think straight, I heard the sound of the door slam. My heart bolted inside. My flesh goosed out in a cold sweat and I felt clammy. Everything was different. Everything was the same. Something was and something wasn’t. I was me. I was her. Two people. It was odd, ethereal, a drifting in of two worlds. Lost but found. Here but there.
In one world, I was an adult, sitting on my cherry blossom bed, staring out the window, and clutching my man pillow. But in the other world I was inside the house, inside the CRACKLE room and she is here with me. I can feel her presence in me, in the room, around me, of me, for me, against me. She has to be the one who brought me here. Why can't she just let things alone? Always stirring up trouble. If I could find her, I’d swat her a good one. I scan the room. The walls are brittle, sand beige in color and flakes peel off like dried skin. The floor is rough like sandpaper. It’s irritating on my skin and I can feel it through my thin white cotton gown. The emptiness of the room begins to grow loud with voices and hollow reverberations that are haunting to my ears. I stand to my feet wobbly and unsure. I walk a few steps. I hear a scruff noise, almost a drag as if someone is shuffling behind me. I turn around and a gust of wind like the rush of a train blows against my skin. I struggle to stand straight. I see her flushing through the walls like a torrential ghost. She is the same as I remember her. She is everything I used to be…used to be. But no more. Our eyes blend together, blue to blue, transferring our energy, one to another. She is making me see, hear and feel even though I don’t want to. She is a deeper part of me, the little girl I was, unknown and complex. A conflicting twin who knew things—disturbing awful things. In fact, she knows too much. I must keep her hidden. I must hide her from anyone that could hurt her, defile her, ruin her, including myself. Yes. This is how it must be. My mind spins with thoughts I can’t seem to put into action. It’s her. She is the reason I can’t do anything. She is d
efiant, unruly and stares me down, controlling me somehow. She doesn’t like my thoughts, never has. She calls it stinking thinking.
"Accept me." She screams through swirling energy and light. An aspect of her consciousness and mine seem to manifest themselves, denser than an aura but penetrating into a blue stream of mist.
“No. No. No.” I say shaking my head. I refuse. I want to forget. Bury it in the ocean. FORGET. When I don’t respond the way she wants, she throws a temper tantrum and the house inside me, the house we are standing in, follows suit, repeating her anger, shaking and rumbling under our feet. My second skin erupts in tiny flinches of fear. This is my warning. It’s how my vessel reacts to stress overload when I cannot cope with what I know to be true. And when I can’t cope—the Amodgians come. They always come. Sure enough, the shadow figures sift in like fog phantoms to rescue me from remembering, disappointment and hurt. They are not scary to look at, not at all. Just phantoms of smoke in swirls of black, gray and white with black eyes like peas appearing in and out of the mist, with snatching fingers, always wanting, grabbing and trying to take what isn’t theirs. It’s not their appearance although it is creepy, it is more so their bad energy, as if they were made from the fear of every living thing, combined into one misty cloud and when that cloud touches human skin—it reacts in the only way it knows how. Fear. Terrible fears are brought to life. But since I have interacted with them for so long, they know I will not fight them anymore. I gave up a long time ago. They know me now. I close my eyes and let them take me to the only place that allows me to exist as I am. We end up in front of the wooden black door inside the long dreadful hallway. I read the bold black lettering on the gold nameplate in the center. NUMBING. The coping room. The leave-it-be room. It never happened room. The don’t-go-back-there room. The denial room. The silent room.
Just when I thought I was safely there to erase all I know, the girl, the woman, the past—I wasn’t there at all. When I opened my eyes, I was still in my bedroom, leaning out the window and clutching the man pillow. What was that all about? Was it a vision? Did I fall asleep? I glance around the room. The shadow Amodgians are here but they are distant as if something is keeping them at bay, guarded and away from me. This has never happened before and then I understand why. Riding in on the edge of their darkness was a lesser light and attached to it was a voice. It was Maw Sue. What is happening? She's dead or I thought she was dead. Hell, I might be dead as well. How else can I explain the voices, the visions, all of this strange madness? Yes, I must be dead.
“Use the gift honey.” She said as she landed at the foot of my bed like some fairy godmother. Her voice was tangled up in this world and the one she came from. I smelled the waft of camel cigarettes, moth balls and old lady powder from her powder puff box she always kept above the toilet. Yep. It's Maw Sue alright.
“And you aren’t dead neither, Willodean. Still stinking thinking, I see. You haven’t changed a bit, have you? Stop it.” Her finger scolded me. “You are greatly loved. Greatly gifted. You need to get it together hon.” Her voice was the same as I remember, crushed leaves, snapping and popping. “And don’t forget to look for the crumbs.” She nods and gives me the eye as if I’d forgotten. “Simply be. Reach—reach—reach.” A great gulf of wind trailed her words and funneled inside the window. My arms lifted upwards automatically as if the words commanded them without my consent. What is happening? I forcefully jerked them down underneath my hips with pressure.
“Why are you here?” I yelled. Is that the first question you ask a dead woman? I don’t know, it’s never happened to me before. I am not prepared to speak with the dead. I am freaking out. I couldn’t contain my restless arms any longer so I grabbed my man pillow, snuggling it up against my chest as a shield. The whole time I’m wrestling with an energy shield that generates my arms upwards, a kinetic vibration of the otherworldly intersecting with the earthly causing a shift. I feel like my arms want to lift and fly or worship some deity. I could not stop wrestling on the mattress. I fought to keep my hands down, secured under the man pillow, when I realized my parents may hear me talking—and that cannot be good. I’ve caused them enough pain.
“The curse does not exist.” My eyes penetrate hers with defiance. “It doesn’t exist. You don’t exist. This is not real.” At this point I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince, myself or my dead grandmother. “I hate this. What is happening? I never wanted this gift-curse to begin with.” I grabbed my head, looked to the ceiling, closed my eyes and opened my eyes. “Uhhhhhggg.” I groaned. “Why me? Huh? Why me?” My eyes glared at her hopeful for an answer and possibly to be released from this horrible terrible afflictions as if she had the power to do so.
“Some things are chosen for us.” Maw Sue said. Her voice was a porch tone that I remember well as if we were sitting there again, gazing out across the garden and past the chicken coop discussing the ways of life and ancestral traditions, the curses, gifts and old stories.
“Stop it.” I said unhinged. Her absence drew up a bitter taste in my mouth. “It doesn’t exist and neither do you.” My muscles tensed, my face flashed hot and my ears started throbbing. “You left me. You just left. And now…now you want me to listen to your so called wisdom?” I was angry, fuming. “YOU were the only one who knew.” I shook violently remembering my loneliness and then broke. Tears flowed without my consent. I tried to fight them but they were not mine to stop. Great heaving sobs. Ancient tears. Child tears. The house inside me fell apart, pipes busted and spewed, little rivers flooded the hallways and seeped underneath the doors. I lost all frame of thought, place, and time. My eyes blurred and distorted my vision. I beat on the man pillow, planted my face into its skin, and screamed. Pain leaked out, a brutal overwhelming pain...so wrenching I realized I wasn’t dead. The dead feel no pain. I was very much alive. I was jealous of Maw Sue and the dead who don't feel anything, the dead who obviously get to come back and haunt the living. I was curious because I had a few on my list to haunt, as well. I could barely lift my heavy head off the pillow, but when I did, the room was blank, still and she was gone. Just dead air. No ghosts, no shadows. I was alone. Alone. I hate that word.
Exhausted and empty, I dried my eyes, took a deep breath and snuggled the man pillow to my chest, resting my chin on my knees. I glanced out the window but it seemed odd and peculiar than before. My vision seemed clearer as if I was viewing it for the first time. The web, the leaf and the crackle were meticulous and detailed, vibrant and omnipotent.
“Because you see it with my eyes.” The voice said in a whisper.
What? Who said that? Maw Sue? I gasped and scanned the room but deep inside I knew who it was. I know that voice. Crisp, so clear inside me, of me, around me. It was her. I went into a slight panic because if she’s here, then that means she’s been turned loose, and that means she’ll talk and roam about. No. This can't happen. I start rocking forward in body ticks, back and forth. Panic trickles on my skin and I do what I know to do. What I always do. I shut her down. I don’t know who she thinks she is anyway, usurping her power over me, but if she thinks she’s going to gain control, she’s got another thing coming. She talks way too much for me lately, believing in the unbelievable, unseen and seeing life through undimmed eyes. I have lived in this world to know better. She doesn’t understand the consequences. I DO. I have to stop her before we get into a pickle again. I feel her swimming around in me, in the house, close to my heart tracing it with her memory fingers. STOP IT! Stop it right now. But she doesn't stop. Instead, she resurrected a deep need in me I didn’t know I had. A need I wanted to fill up like a bucket. Yet, in the same thought, I know the great cost of such a thing. She is blind to the cost of fulfillment and doesn't know the pain. I do. Even as I know this—I see a tenderness in her that makes me want to hug her instead, exchange the man pillow for the child, embrace all that she is now and then, before and after, all that she was, and wasn't, everything in her. For just a second I want to believe in her, in me, in us, i
n what we represented but the truth won’t let me, it rips me apart. The adult knows the truth, the woman knows the truth. What a foolish little girl. If I could go back in time to that little innocent, naive girl on the porch, I’d stomp the crackle with my bare feet, rip the vow into a million pieces and smack her a good one. “Wise up little girl.” I’d say. “Quit living in a dream world.” And then I’d just grow up and become mindless and incoherent and wander the world in little drifts, like the rest of the adults. Oh…wait. I am that adult. Touché, little girl, touché.
Shadows
Darn near everything Maw Sue owns is oodles and oodles of horrors, especially her house. It looks normal on the outside, white frame, red trim, shutters, and a small front porch with an awning. The back porch is large, rectangular with two stair cases and two entrances. We use the screen door all the time but the other screen door entrance has never been used to my knowledge. It’s blocked by a large freezer as if it’s keeping something from getting out, or maybe something from getting inside, who knows, I think too much. But I know this much, I’d eat dirt before I took one bite of anything inside that block of ice. Everything in it is a crystalized freezer burn, so much you can smell the icy singe from the outside container. It’s like a hundred years old. As far as the rest of the house, it comes alive when you step on the porch planks. It has its own language; squeals, chips, chirps, whispers, barks, bleeps or rattles. Inside every room, the corners slide off into a faded darkness, as if there was a slide. It happens even when the lights are on. In those corners, I have seen shadows in the shadows, figures that absorb light and others swallow the dark. If I look too long, I feel myself being taken, as if I’m pulled down that dark slide and I have to flee, get away, and run outside. Her house is a Labyrinth of holes and hidden things. For a long time, I thought it was just my demented mind, my warped namesake, my gifts and curses, but later on when I questioned Maw Sue about it, she confirmed my worst fears. It was exactly as I saw it. Which made it worse, now that it was confirmed. I couldn't pretend anymore. It wasn't my imagination after all. This only gave her more room to talk about her candle ritual and how I should use it to banish the dark encounters. “The dark is a lesser light, remember?”
WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1) Page 3
