House of Darkness House of Light: The True Story Volume Two

House of Darkness House of Light: The True Story Volume Two

by Andrea Perron

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Roger and Carolyn Perron purchased the home of their dreams and eventual nightmares in December of 1970. The Arnold Estate, located just beyond the village of Harrisville, Rhode Island seemed the idyllic setting in which to raise a family. The couple unwittingly moved their five young daughters into the ancient and mysterious farmhouse. Secrets were kept and then revealed within a space shared by mortal and immortal alike. Time suddenly became irrelevant; fractured by spirits making their presence known then dispersing into the ether. The house is a portal to the past and a passage to the future. This is a sacred story of spiritual enlightenment, told some thirty years hence. The family is now somewhat less reticent to divulge a closely-guarded experience. Their odyssey is chronicled by the eldest sibling and is an unabridged account of a supernatural excursion. Ed and Lorraine Warren investigated this haunting in a futile attempt to intervene on their behalf. They consider the Perron family saga to be one of the most compelling and significant of a famously ghost-storied career as paranormal researchers. During a sance gone horribly wrong, they unleashed an unholy hostess; the spirit called Bathshebaa God-forsaken soul. Perceiving herself to be the mistress of the house, she did not appreciate the competition. Carolyn had long been under siege; overt threats issued in the form of firea mothers greatest fear. It transformed the woman in unimaginable ways. After nearly a decade the family left a once beloved home behind though it will never leave them, as each remains haunted by a memory. This tale is an inspiring testament to the resilience of the human spirit on a pathway of discovery: an eternal journey for the living and the dead.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781481712361
Publisher: AuthorHouse
Publication date: 03/07/2013
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 502
Sales rank: 165,023
File size: 4 MB

About the Author

Andrea Perron was born in Rhode Island in 1958. She is a graduate of Chatham College in Pittsburgh, Pa., having earned an interdisciplinary degree in philosophy and English literature. This memoir waited thirty years to be told, allowing the time and distance necessary for her family to reveal these long held secrets. The author is currently preparing for release of the third volume in this remarkable trilogy. John Shaw created the cover portrait of their farmhouse as a parting gift. Two months after the Perron family abandoned this place in the country, John, all of nineteen years old, drove from Rhode Island to Georgia. He presented his friends with the watercolor; painted from memory, in memory of a special house which touched his life as well. It remains a treasured keepsake. They loved him then as they love him now.

Read an Excerpt

House of Darkness House of Light

The True Story Volume Two

By Andrea Perron


Copyright © 2013Andrea Perron
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4817-1238-5




"Be sober, be vigilant, because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about seeking whom he may devour."

Peter v. 8

Sensory perception is a wondrous gift of Nature. Those who listen to the whispers of spirit will be tenderly guided along, while those who deliberately provoke the dead know not what they may receive in response. It requires an inordinate amount of courage, coupled with morbid curiosity. There is such a thing as begging for trouble. It seems to obey any request, as if by command. The children had been forewarned. They'd been unwilling to listen to reason, to voices of authority; far more susceptible to absurd notions and suggestions made by friends. There would be consequences ... for every action, a reaction: science as equation. Disobedient heathens get what they deserve. You asked for it, girls! There is an indistinguishable line between bravery and stupidity.

Be watchful. Be prudent. Be wise. Be gone!

* * *

Their odyssey began as a pronouncement; the sad, diminutive clarion call. In hushed and somber tones, this communication, disguised as wind and rain, cloaked by the creaking of old clapboard, infiltrated the senses of those who had entered unfamiliar territory. In the quiet darkness of night they'd listen to the farmhouse, its whistling coos or high-pitched whining, whenever an ill wind passed through the eaves, or so they had all presumed. The busy and rambunctious household was a distraction during their days but at night the house spoke of its story to newly arrived inhabitants. During their first few months in residence, there was so much buzz and extraneous activity, the dismissal of uncommon noises was the norm. An adjustment period was necessary and no one in the family trusted their own perceptions of this house. A new place—new noises mindset explained away virtually every strange and foreign sound. The house was so big in comparison to where they had come from that the tightly compact Cape Cod in Cumberland now seemed, (as a distant memory), something no bigger than a beach bungalow. Sound was magnified and distorted within the massive structure. It was an echo chamber. It had a heartbeat. The house had an energy and a voice all its own; several, in fact. The interplay of shadow and light intermingling with its natural/supernatural sound became mesmerizing; a source of wonderment. They had willingly crossed the threshold, entering into the shared space, one filled with secrets and souls. Into a mysterious portal they ventured, finding it hypnotic by nature, casting its enchanting spells on those dwelling within its clapboard walls. There was no escaping the effect it had on a family who could not help but listen up in smoke: Attention class! Mere mortals could not ignore the gauzy haze gathering in rooms, masquerading as moonlight. Cloud cover hovering in shadow dance, an elegant disguise, Nature provided a cloak for an esoteric element of itself ... very clever camouflage.

Yet, there is no mistaking the cry of a child. Cindy would soon identify the face of the littlest ghost wailing for her mother. The moans seeping from deep within the eaves were, after some research, presumed to be the sick and pitiful sound made by Johnny Arnold, a man in the self-inflicted throes of a poisonous death. He suffered, departing life in excruciating pain; a haunting, desperate sound, as if he attempted to muffle his agony so to avoid detection. Was he unwilling to risk discovery before the deed was done?

Soon enough chanted incantations would begin. Whispered words, barely perceptible, over time became audibly intelligible. The distinctly articulated statements made no sense at all to the child suddenly struggling just to be a child, striving to grasp and interpret the cryptic pleas, to determine a source. Cynthia heard the call of seven dead soldiers buried in the wall. Come to me, little girl. Telepathic messages, conveyed within the sealed mind field of sound surrounding each recipient, altering their state-of-being. During these encounters, what Cynthia often describes as being in the bubble, all external activity was deflected as a spirit shielded itself, protected from any intrusion. It soon became apparent to five children listening with new ears, observing with new eyes ... they were not alone. They were never alone and would not ever be again. Such disturbing interludes were enlightening in this respect.

Carolyn saw the little girl, dressed up in her green velvet finery, what she would later describe as the child's burial outfit. A tiny cherub chanting with cohorts was seemingly oblivious to the terrified woman being targeted: Will drive ye out with fiery broom ... will drive ye mad with death and gloom: their unholy chapter and verse ... perhaps not so benign, after all. Footsteps in stairwells or whispers from walls, mournful cries of a child, the incantation of a crowd of souls resembling a coven of witches or the soft, soulful whine of a distant bugle—these were but a few of the distinctly disquieting sounds which they heard incessantly. Sensory perception is a gift, though as much a curse as a blessing ... as a balancing act of God.

Supernatural/psychic sound was not relegated to the farmhouse. Giggling spirits at play in the pine forest became an equally common occurrence, as if they assumed it was safe to reveal themselves in the presence of others their own age. Had they always been there? Was it something about these children which allowed their mortal eyes the ability to see all there was to behold? A heightened sensitivity developed, undoubtedly due to over-exposure. They lived among dead people. It was something none of them could ever afford to forget, not for an instant, to be on the safe side but there was no safe side. Anyone could see anything at anytime. Family pets often responded to things their humans could not see or hear, frequently alerting them to any pending manifestation. Accused of being alarmist by nature in the beginning, the dogs proved consistently reliable; keen senses quite telling. The self-doubt of mere mortals would dissipate with time. After awhile they did believe their eyes. The animals knew it all along, from the moment they arrived, precisely why they refused to cross the threshold. The sounds of silence came always with a message. "Hello darkness, my old friend. I've come to talk with you again, because a vision softly creeping left its seed while I was sleeping, and the vision that was planted in my brain still remains ... the sounds of silence". Everyone was beginning to understand. It was not the wind. It was not the rain. It was something else entirely, perhaps something wicked. Either they would have to find their way or forge a new path on this intrepid journey through another dimension while dwelling with the dead in a portal cleverly disguised as a farmhouse.

Opposing forces were about to engage in a ferocious battle as adversaries waging war within the dark confines of the borning room, against the evil in an old house. Disobedient heathens would be severely tested, admonished for the deliberate splicing of dimensions. Foolishly doing so would mean taking a terrible risk as antagonists exploring treacherous boundaries of an inherently inconceivable realm. Overtly provocative behavior functioned as the clarion call, the command to be obeyed, essentially calling on all enemy combatants: for every action ... a reaction. The children had no concept of the consequences, no idea of the power they were about to unleash as warnings went unheeded. It was destined to become a test of wills. Inviting disasters into their home, stupid girls

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