It Spoke to Me

By Dan E. Blackstone

In It Spoke To Me, a man is travelling for a year trying to leave an environment of sadness, discovers an intriguing old house that draws him to it only to find it is enshrouded with spirits that cause him to have near nightmares and continuously calls him to seek answers to the dreams. During the process he finds another who eventually has similar dreams and together they try to solve the reason for the spirits periodic appearances, and what they are trying to tell them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483681085

Dan E. Blackstone

An adventurous explorer, Dan has travelled to many countries with his wife. He was sworn into the USN serving from 1944 to 1952. The main lesson learned was the need for education, He taught science in high school as a career. Although retired, he continues being involved in community activities, especially the EMS, as a volunteer. Writing is usually a spur-of-the-moment activity, especially poetry. His first book, “Love in Three Sections”, was published in 2012. He has many hobbies and interests, and lives in Pawcatuck, CT near the ocean.

Book preview

PART ONE

Chapter I

I t was exciting. A year to drive across country to explore. And my final destination offered the possibility of a new position. It had been a long time coming after initially deciding to liquidate all holdings after the tragedy. My life had been good, full of worthwhile experiences both at home and at college; it was at the insistence of my parents, especially my mother, to become the CEO of the company so as to relieve father. Now I had liquidated it all. At age thirty-five it was a hard decision; but there was no one left and employment had kept me at the job 24/7 for years, interrupted early by three and a half years of military service, then four years of college, then business. I could still hear mom’s voice insisting that I get out and see the world. She was right. During the past few weeks I had seen more beauty and intriguing sights, than in all my travels. I had been fortunate to have traveled for a week or so each year with the family, but never to really delve into how people lived and where they lived in my own country. Mom was so intuitive and correct. Then they were gone. In one split second, gone. Suddenly I espied an intriguing sight.

It sat on a small knoll back from the road a hundred plus yards, with appealing architecture: a front porch, eye-like dormers and a cupola projecting from the hip roof. The yard had not seen scythe or mower in many years. There were small oak and poplar trees reaching a height of four to eight feet, with three foot tall yellow grass intermittently entwined with briars. The porch sagged a little, pitching towards the front. There was evidence of a driveway or wagon road on the east side leading to tilted barns and sheds in the rear. Tall trees were adjacent to these old buildings. The whole scene spoke to me as I drove past; the house called to me; I slowed and stopped, looked back and thought of what a wonderful photograph that would make. I backed to the remnants of a driveway and pulled off the road to view the old homestead.

Leaving my car, I took my camera and knapsack, making my way up the drive, trying to decide on the best angles for the photos. Should I do a series or just a few; include the barns and yard, as well? What angles revealed the best lighting? Should I wait for the sun to move to enhance the shadows and highlight the ancient machinery? The shed had caved in on the tractor and the mowing machine; the harrow and plows were stuffed behind a hay-rake. There was no evidence of a bailer in the shed, but two old wooden wagons plus numerous pitch-forks were lined up on the inside wall of the shed and wooden hand-rakes indicated a time prior to the existence of bailers. In the rear of the house, some windows were out of place, some were askew. In the front, one was cracked and another missing. The front door had frosted flowered panes and a piece of glass was missing in the lower right corner; the second floor windows had several panes out, some with holes in them where vandals had practiced pitching skills. Shades were at an angle in the upper rooms and the drapes were askew behind the tattered curtains.

I thought in the height of its life, perhaps a hundred fifty years ago, it would have been considered a grand house, one only the wealthiest could afford. Cautiously I made my way to the front steps and gingerly tested the first with its accumulation of dried grass. The brown grass adjacent to the porch reached the bottom rail but the first step seemed firm, so I scraped the grass with my foot and discovered stone. Three stone steps to the porch floor, then a creak as I carefully stepped on the boards, all of which were laid tightly, perpendicular from the steps to the house wall. This was another sign of the extra money spent, as in most houses of this vintage porch boards ran the length of the house, while these porch boards abutted the house. There was a double front door, then a second pair of doors that opened to a foyer I observed through a small hole. One of the inner doors was open. These had frosted glass tinted pink. What a marvelous house this must have been.

A wide stairway on the right side of the foyer turned to the left at a landing three-quarters of the way up with handrails and banisters; they must have been glorious when polished; now they were dull, weather-beaten. There was a little debris on the stairs and in the hall that led straight back to a closed door which, I assumed, housed the ell and kitchen. A window to the right of the closed door, though only partly visible, was in shambles. A curtain on a rod fastened on one end to the top window frame, hung diagonally, caught on the broken window sash.

The front door was not latched, in fact, it was slightly ajar, so I gently pushed it. It gave a little—another push and it started to move, but there was resistance. A hard shove, and it swung open. Should I enter? I turned and looked out from the house toward the hills and wondered what the old pits and the holes in some of the hills represented. Then it dawned on me: probably the pits were sites of early prospecting. The house and farm came later.

Turning back to the house, it spoke to me, inviting me in to explore its secrets. I entered and wondered if I should cruise the lower floor or explore the upper levels first. The house had details boasting special workmanship and designs. The moldings were splendidly carved as was the paneling. I hesitated, then moved to the left of the stairs and stopped to gaze up from the newel post to the upper levels, trying to glimpse the cupola, and wondered why this house had been abandoned. The cupola was not visible. Although this house had fine looking lines, it also looked as though it might be ready to collapse. Should I venture further? There was a clear call for me to go upstairs. The first step squeaked; how long had it been since anyone had been on this step?

Looking up I noticed a window above the landing; I could see that the staircase sloped away from the wall at five or so degrees and was slightly separated from it. The water stains marring the steps were traceable to an open window whose curtain and drapes were in shreds. Reaching for the hand-rail, I noticed it was rickety, but usable. This gave me courage to proceed while looking up with each step toward the landing and the ceiling. Both were higher than I expected. Then I realized the walls were all wood-paneled as were the ceilings. At the landing were four steps to the left to the open hall with hand rail; there was a door opposite the steps and one toward the front of the house. Windows were in the front, one visible and one partially hidden by a slanting ceiling that could presumably be the stairway to the attic. To the right of the landing was a recessed door not noticeable until I was practically on the landing. Opening the door, I saw four steps up and another door. Re-latching the door, I went up the steps and walked down the open hall toward the front of the house to the window and looked out. A better view than from the porch. To my left was the entrance to the narrow stairs that led to the attic and cupola. Light from the cupola illuminated the rafters, with hanging laths and the water-stained stairway; the door had long ago been trashed.

A door to another large room was open and the room was filled with debris. Vandals had done their task here as well. I looked toward the other door, pushed it open; a similar sight greeted me. I looked back to the doorway that led to the attic and the cupola, tempting me to climb up for a better view, but the poor condition of the stairs convinced me I should go out and photograph the buildings,

I retreated to the landing, reopened the other door, went up four steps and unlatched the second door. It opened into a smaller room than I expected, with a window opposite the door. To the left of the window was a small table. It was a strange room. On the floor under the desk lay part of an old scale—the walls were paneled, fitted by hand. I turned and noticed that water had leaked in and caused one of the panels to pop open. I pulled the panel and it opened a little more; it appeared to be on a hinge. There were shelves in the opening upon which there were many bags made of canvas, or cloth, or leather or something. I reached in and removed one. It was heavier than I thought so I dropped it. Squatting quickly to pick it up, I heard a loud twang. I didn’t move, but glanced toward the place from which I thought the twang originated. There on my left another panel had opened.

Remaining in the squatting position I looked up to where I had opened the panel door, and there in the wall of the opening, still quivering, were three steel darts. Had I been standing they would have gone through me! A clever anti-theft device. Remaining in my current position, I examined the storage area; wooden rods and levers were ingeniously positioned. At the bottom, a wooden rod disappeared under the floor toward the opposite wall; a release mechanism, arranged so that if the weight was released, a lever was engaged to put pressure on the wooden rod to set the darts into action. Carefully I opened the sack in my hand… the contents looked like metal filings and nuggets… gold? It looked like gold. Could it be? What to do? How many other traps were there? Removing my camera equipment, I placed several of the bags into my knapsack. The knapsack must have weighed close to a hundred pounds and I had removed only one fourth of the sacks.

Crawling, I dragged the bag to the door, carefully pulled the bag down the stairs and emptied it in the driveway. I made three more trips for the rest of the bags with mounting anxiety and then a final trip to retrieve my cameras, lenses and equipment. What else was hidden in that room? How many other secret hiding places existed?

There was a sudden jolt. The floor shook and the remaining windows rattled, and a piece of glass fell, smashing. I decided to go out, down the four steps to the landing, and noticed the space between the wall and stairs was much wider than it had been moments before! The inside door to the room would not close. Edging down the stairs and out the doors, I dashed to the stack of sacs and turned to photograph the house.

Positioning myself to look through the eyepiece of the camera, I felt the vibrations beneath my feet—an earthquake, I thought. Then an intense rumbling, a very loud splintering and a crash! Before my eyes, the whole house caved in on itself, leaving nothing but a pile of rubble that was almost level with the foundation. I was mesmerized.

This house had spoken to me, and I had responded. Why hadn’t I photographed it on first seeing it? Now there was nothing, only a memory. Suddenly the barns and sheds collapsed, so there was little identifiable except for the hay-rake, mower and harrows that were still holding up part of the roof. Now what? And what should be done with the trove? Without leaving even a cloud of dust, the house had simply collapsed on itself as if to say, Now I am finished.

I backed my car up the remnants of the driveway, loaded the sacks into it and drove to the road. I turned right, stopped, looked again at what was once an enchanting old house. The slight upward slope and trees and shrubs and tall grass almost completely hid the pile of debris that once was the farmhouse. That house was still speaking to me, but what was it saying? Find the original owners? Find the current owners? I didn’t know what it was saying or what I should do.

Chapter II

T hat night my sleep was troubled; memories of the day created visions that kept recurring in the almost soundless, dustless collapse of the house. Amidst the tumbling there seemed to be a garbled speech, a fleeting vision of life in the past, a world of hardship, a world of disturbing loneliness, of strange audible messages coming from the old house. The vision reminded me of the poem of the one horse shay that disintegrated because the shay was so perfectly made. Then a deafening crash drowned the sound of voices that permeated the scene. My sleep was interrupted several times with a start, with a vision of the house calling as through the open door. It was mouthing and shouting a message that was drowned out by the cracking and collapsing of the roof on the pile of rubble; what was it saying? Was it whispering ‘thank you’? Was it giving me a message? Or was my mind playing tricks on me? Each time after awakening there was a return to the un-nerving recurring dream!

Suddenly an apparition materialized to the left side of the crashing building. A translucent image of what looked to be an elderly man and woman. The scene changed back to the building standing there, whole, without damage and then it crashed down, this time with dust and sound drowning out the voices of a translucent couple. This drama played over and over again, each time to a slightly different scenario with the couple reaching out toward me desperately seeking a helping hand. I tried to move toward them only to find that everything was in slow motion and my legs were rooted to the ground. I woke again and found myself in a twisted state, entangled with sheets and blankets. I got up and had a drink of water, then lay down again to try to get some much needed rest. As oblivion began to engulf me there was the same controlling scenario. This time, the couple were louder and reaching more intently with an utterance that began to make sense; words were almost discernable but the sounds of the tumbling building obliterated their voices. I struggled again to advance. This time a step was made and they were closer, almost identifiable, but the dust mingled with their translucent bodies and they disappeared with the thunderous crash. I could see the anguish of their ghostly features for a fleeting moment and then awoke to find myself in a sitting position on the edge of the bed.

Frustrated, I rose to get another drink of water, returned to the bedroom and looked out the window, wondering if I should remain up or try to get some desperately needed sleep. I washed my face and hands, then decided to take another shower: a real hot one. It relaxed me and I thought I could then get to sleep. During the shower I had managed to put all thoughts of the day out of my mind so when I returned to the bed I was in a relaxed state and lay there snuggling into the pillow and began to drift into a satisfying sleep.

Apparently I was not to be rewarded with sleep or relief from the day’s events. The recurring dream came again with voices even louder than previously, but now with semi-articulate words emitting from the couple who were reaching with both arms and pointing with index fingers and beckoning for me to advance. Another step, then straining, another step to join them as they apparently could not move. It was up to me to cover the distance. The building kept re-assembling itself and collapsing and the din obliterated their voices and mingled with their forms, causing them to appear and disappear as I desperately struggled to advance. What was holding me back? I uttered the words, I’m sorry, and they seemed to understand but kept trying to speak and point as though to warn or direct me. Then, the building crash was deafening and frightening to the point that I jumped out of bed and found myself at the window not knowing why.

It was early, but going back to sleep was out of the question. I made a conscious effort to review the dreams and figure out what if anything they meant. Should I return to the site and look with more determination to reevaluate and reconstruct what happened in lieu of the vision in my dreams? Or should I put it out of my mind and continue on with my life? And what of the pouches containing gold? Take a small sample to an assayer for identification and get an estimate of the value of a very small sample? Very, very small that is. Where would one find such a person? It is especially important not to arouse suspicion about the origin of the sample. Another problem now arose and that is one of early training, one of a lifetime of virtues, one of the essences of righteousness, one of a mother’s teaching, one of ethics!

Suddenly, an uneasiness, a tingling sensation descended upon me and through me, a lingering haunting feeling of guilt for having possibly caused the disintegration of the homestead and of taking that which didn’t belong to me. At the same time, no one knew of the existence of the pouches and their contents; if at some time in the past or future, the building had been demolished by a wrecking crew would anyone have been the wiser? A dilemma to say the least and one that must be rectified were any sleep to be gotten in the near future. Or relief from the feeling of ‘wrong doing’. Another shower! While showering I wondered where the washroom was? Where was the ‘out-house’ located? Or ‘outer-house’ as an elderly lady once called it. This reminded me of the pranks by early youths, or inebriated men, about moving the outhouse a few feet from the existing position, or of seeing how many could be fitted inside, a precursor to the telephone booth incidents of later years. Smiling at this thought, I completed the shower, conjuring up new wonderings and visions of farm boys planning such a complex feat of congregating and choosing whose privy to move or fill; perhaps a spur of the moment decision while attending a picnic, a gathering, or a church social.

While dressing I looked out of the window watching the darkness of the land blending into the morning light that silhouetted the distant landscape; a magenta color that blended upward to a yellowish color, then to a few dark clouds, a bluish tinge and faint stars that were fading overhead. This second floor window of the motel was obviously facing east, the direction to the Old House. It spoke to me now more loudly while I was hypnotized by the eastern sky; like one of the wise men being called to seek out the unknown, to follow the star, to expose the truth.

Another bit of prose came to mind, reiterating some of the thoughts and feelings. It was entitled ‘Human Ethics’ by an unknown author. I made a copy and have read it periodically; it says:

"It matters not whether you were born into a rich man or a beggar man’s family; as long as your code of human ethics contains those qualities which are needed to make a model citizen. And if you live by that code, your success in life is spiritually guaranteed. I am not qualified to pick out the most important human ethics; for I believe all are important. But one of the most important is self-control.

This I think influences all other members of the code. For to control one’s self is to be in control of all the code at once. So therefore I shall write on each ethic my own personal code. I am sure if all would follow it, the world would once more be bathed in warm rays of peace.

Reverence is the first on my list. A person should believe in God, and be faithful in his religious duties. A person who believes in God is never alone!

Loyalty to God and country is also important. A person should also be loyal to his friends and his parents. He should not falter in his loyalty because things do not go well.

Trust by one’s friends gives a person a feeling of security. To be trusted is one of the greatest things on this earth. If a person is trusted, his word is trusted; he is trusted in any task which might be presented to him.

Courtesy and good manners are keys to success. The ability to say ‘Sir’ has won many a job for a job seeker."

I do not recall other prophetic sayings by this unknown essayist, but it suffices to recall this as I pondered the direction my life should lean, in untangling this web of confusion brought on by the recurring dream challenging me to review my ethical and moral code in this adventure. How and where to start! This feeling of excitement yet depression is interfering with my thinking, controlling my life. To eliminate this growing concern and preoccupation I must have an agenda, to seek out the meaning of this experience, these illusions magnified by this dream. Confusion reigns in analyzing what I think I saw versus what actually happened! Do those garbled voices represent a spirit world or spiritual guidance? Possibly my imagination was generated by this sudden and almost violent incident; a response of my body and mind to the realization that I might have been inside the building when it disintegrated? A matter of seconds in timing would have made the difference. Had I remained a few seconds longer, or explored one other room, would I have survived the implosion? Who would have helped or ever found my remains if I hadn’t survived? A new thought! What else can the Old House tell me? Should I return and go through the wreckage? Also, should permission be obtained to trespass. A plan was beginning to form; a starting place was beginning to materialize. Who owned the property? Where does one begin? The county? The town? City? Was it for sale? And who had been working the fields surrounding the farm? A good place to start may be the town clerk’s office, the office of vital statistics, or the assessor’s office. Yes, now there’s a starting point! Hunger pangs brought me back to reality. Turning from the window I went and packed my few articles and checked out. As I approached my car, I could see the added weight had depressed the springs giving it a look of a definitely overloaded vehicle.

Chapter III

W hile heading east after breakfasting in a sparkling café, I mulled over my conversation with the combination cook, waitress, owner, about the ‘Old House’ ten or twelve miles to the east. The house had been abandoned when the new highway came through; the land had been utilized by adjacent land owners for years prior to abandonment. An elderly couple disappeared after the highway officials signed ROW (Right Of Way) papers with them. They had previously long term leased their lands to the other abutting property owners. The yearly fees were deposited into an account from which taxes were paid and interest had accrued. The waitress/owner mentioned the property has been in this state for years and years; no relatives have ever come to inquire about the elderly couple. They just disappeared. A niece did come once when they were there and took much of the furniture, keepsakes and family heirlooms. Strange, that the waitress-cook knew so much about the existing house and some of its history. She mentioned that everyone knew about the ‘Spirit House.’ Then it dawned on me. She called it the ‘Spirit House"! Is this why I kept hearing voices and seeing images of the couple beckoning to me? I pulled into a rest area to collect my thoughts, wondering if I was just too tired from my restless night. It was not too intelligent of me to just drive back toward the ‘Old House’ without some idea of what to do. Perhaps a perusal of the surrounding area to get the lay of the land would be helpful.

I was about half way to the farm, so I decided to continue, to look over the homestead and try to estimate its boundaries. That would be a start. Perhaps even chat with anyone I might see, then ask directions and innocently ask about the old farm. Such a plan would not generate suspicion and still allow me to obtain needed information. I thought about the waitress and how she might verify my findings. She looked innocent and willing to volunteer information to total strangers. I headed toward the ‘Old House’ looking for a turn off, a road that would take me into the ‘back country’. There! On the left, a narrow road about a mile before the homestead was visible. I slowed and signaled. The only reason for the signal was habit; there was no one behind me. It was evident that it was not a road that would be frequently traveled. Then it ran out of pavement. As poor as the pavement was, it was still better than the dirt potholed path, and I repeat, path, for it was narrow and although used, the brush was almost touching my vehicle, now I proceeded with caution, asking myself what happens when you meet another car or truck?

At the top of a rise I could see off to my right past the hills, fields and a view with the remains of old barns. Ahead there was another farm. Thank goodness for the higher hills from which you could get your bearings. It was intriguing to see what lay behind the ‘Old House’ and its hills, meadows, fields, and woodlands. Crossing over a stream, I stopped on the bridge and wondered if the stream flowed through the homestead property and if it had fish, and if the couple had gone fishing for their supper. I envisioned them walking together with poles and worms and chatting as they progressed to a favorite spot; perhaps a grassy bank with a large tree and a quiet pool deep enough for a daring swim…

I shook my head bringing myself back to reality. Enough of this romanticism. This couple preoccupies me, causes me much anguish and soul searching. Nothing I did was wrong! Why these feelings? My progress was slow; I did not know the road and was looking for clues of any type. Anything! Suddenly a deer crossed the road from left to right, toward the land I thought was part of the ‘Old House’ property. I stopped at the top of another knoll looking to where the deer had gone. Suddenly I thought I saw something. An apparition? I stared intently toward the area where the deer had disappeared on what appeared to be an old logging trail. The trail was highlighted by the sky peaking through the trees. No, couldn’t have been! Must have been the light giving a halo effect on a tree or shrub, for the sun was to the southeast and I was looking directly into it. I had a prickly feeling with slight perspiration as I continued on the old road wondering what was happening to me? What was causing this uneasy sensitivity to my surroundings? Were they calling to me again? Was this another sign of my over-sensitivity to yesterday’s events? My mind began to create its own scenario; imagination is a wonderful thing but when uncontrolled, it becomes fearsome!

In my past, I had studied basic psychology and I recalled how some people fantasized and were taken over by a second personality. One hidden deep within, sometimes evil, sometimes expressing a desire to become part of a non-existent or unattainable life. A life of fantasy. Uncontrolled. A method of escape from reality. Could this be happening to me? Was this imagined or had my dream become my demon self, a stepping stone instigating a desire to be something hidden deep within my psyche?

The old dirt roadside brush opened up to fields on both sides with fencing with animals grazing. In the distance was a barn with the usual wooden corrals and behind them was a small house partly hidden by the barn. A few trees stood