Trips to the Edge

Another Walk in the Park

It was just another walk in the park. A gentle summer breeze blowing, rustling the dense leaves on the trees. The occasional chipmunk suddenly bounding across my path and disappearing on the other side. Butterflies flew alongside, guiding my journey. I followed the same path I had countless times before, knowing what was around the next bend, changes only made by the seasons.

The big old oak ahead was mostly dead; yet refused to go quietly. Its twisted trunk, bulging bark, and thick, broken branches gave it an angry, evil countenance and dual personality when viewed from the other side, where its skin was smoother and new branches sprouted from the top of the broken trunk. There was a large opening at the base that I could fit inside easily to experience the spooky tree from its core, yet never did. It seemed an invasion to enter through this spirit portal. Out of respect, I looked in, but maintained our separateness.

Teenaged black walnut trees danced in a circle to mark the boundary of a large grove, a sacred space that seemed to have an energy all its own. The grass grew thick, awaiting park employee intervention to trim it back. Just to the left, a four-foot high, rough-hewn headstone proclaimed that this was the site of the Winterton Mansion, circa 1785. There seemed to be an energetic residue left from the mansion, accompanied by a sense of foreboding. I had walked up to the stone many times, yet felt an invisible barrier that prevented me from moving past it and into the walnut grove.

A friend of mine was with me on one of my woodland walks and as we stood before the headstone, she commented that the house does not like attention drawn to it and prefers that visitors disregard its presence. The story goes that the house burned down and that the area is haunted. Some park visitors have smelled smoke and heard screams. My visits had, up to this point, been uneventful, having established good rapport with the trees and nature spirits in the area. Yet there was always an underlying sense of an alternate dimension, of layers waiting to be discovered, and of the distant past wanting to be remembered, waiting to be explored.

While usually approaching with great respect and reverence, this time felt different. It was as though the barrier was thinner, and the area was no longer off-limits. My feet were on the dirt path, but the grove beckoned me to visit, to experience, to cross into another time, another place. All six senses were on alert, prickling from past encounters with the area, teetering between honoring its solitude and an intense curiosity drawing me closer. Something tickled my ankle, and I realized I was standing in the overgrown grass halfway between the path and the headstone.

The headstone glared at me in silence, daring me to come forward, to break the seal and the unspoken agreement we had to remain apart. I telepathically assured this sacred space that I meant no harm and asked if I was being invited in. The answer flitted through my mind. I was to proceed at my own risk. Nothing would prevent me from being drawn into another world, if I chose to move forward. My choice, my responsibility. I became intensely aware of the sounds of creatures and leaves and wind. A butterfly came close to my face and fluttered off, as though reminding me that transformation was inevitable, warning me that once I took the next step, there was no turning back and nothing would be the same again.

Could I pass up the chance to explore an otherworldly realm? With all of my fantastical literary journeys, was I willing to engage in the unknown for real? Another step and the familiar background music of nature died, replaced by a sinister hush, as though the world, as I knew it, no longer existed. Now I was in the kingdom of yesteryear, a time forgotten and supposedly put to rest. Yet there was no rest for this grove, this tragic site that held within it the pain of those who perished in the fire. Wondering if I could turn back and reenter my own world, I surprised myself and committed to this journey by taking another step forward.

I found myself in a field surrounded by shrubs. The ancient oak and black walnut trees did not exist, for I was in a time before their planting. It was dusk, and fireflies were beginning to twinkle. Something shimmered a short distance away. The air felt dense as I cautiously approached the apparition. It began to solidify, first with an outline, and then filling itself in, as though an invisible child sat filling in the lines of a coloring book.

What emerged was a massive farmhouse, painted a muted taupe color with deeper brown-gray trim. Ornamental posts held up the wraparound front porch. Rocking chairs sat waiting to accommodate the home's inhabitants.

Despite its solid appearance, I questioned if my mind had conjured it using all the speculations and imaginings of the house that occupied the tranquil grove my many walks past. A sizzling wave of electricity washed over me, making my skin prickle. I took a step back to see if I could get out of the electromagnetic field and rubbed my arms to get the hair to lay flat.

I could not take my eyes off the house as the pulsing energy continued to bombard my head and chest. With each beat, the house seemed to pixilate, as when a television set goes on the fritz. The sound of electricity running through power lines accompanied the throbbing-the house and energy in perfect synchronicity as it hit me over and over. My hands began to numb, and I realized my legs were shaking. The constant hum of the energy tormented me, and I wished it would stop. My nerves jangled from the barrage of impulses. I took several steps backward and finally disengaged from the energy.

Eyes were on me, and my eyes rose to the center window on the second floor. A pale man watched as I disentangled myself from the force field. He wore a sinister, satisfied grin, and I understood that it was his intention to cause discomfort. My reaction had pleased and amused him. My desire to return to my own time overwhelmed me, and I ran the way I had come, hoping to go through the barrier once again.

When I found myself beyond the entry border and was almost run over by a horse-drawn carriage, a sinking feeling took over my body, and I fell to my knees. The driver did not even acknowledge me, as though I did not exist in his world. By all rights, I should not have. But the grass I lay upon felt real enough. The anomaly crushed all sense of logic and reason. The house had let me in, but would not allow my return. just yet. There was something that beckoned me back. The man in the window was not finished with me.

My chest heaved, and it was difficult to catch my breath as panic at being forever trapped in this time warp overcame me. I knew instinctively that the longer I delayed returning to the phantom dwelling, the more extended my stay would be. Heart pounding, I pushed myself up and brushed off my hands. Looking up, I saw the face was no longer in the window.

With a deep sigh of resignation, I built up the courage to take a step toward the spectral house. The air around me pulsed in waves as I moved slowly toward the well-cared-for farmhouse. If it had existed in my own time and dimension, I would have been excited to visit the historic property and explore its secrets. Yet, having stepped through the invisible portal and into another plane of existence brought a foreboding that begged caution.

I stood before the front porch, the house completely solid, and gazed at rocking chairs that invited me to sit while I contemplated the dilemma of entering the house. The first step creaked as I stepped onto it; the second step was firm underfoot and maintained its silence. Two more stairs, and I was on the porch, staring at the front door. My guts shook at the thought of entering, so I gave myself respite in one of the rockers. It was comfortable but not comforting as I tried to rock my way into a state of relaxation.

Back and forth, gently rocking, daring not to think, the old boards of the porch creaked under the movement. I wanted so desperately to be back in the park on the side of the energy field that held my life. Daring to close my eyes for a moment, my ears perked up at the sound of the front door whining as it slowly opened. I leapt up from the chair to face whatever was about to emerge, but nothing came forth. I took small steps to glance into the darkness beyond the threshold, preparing for the worst.

Light did not pierce the shadows within the gaping doorway. I crept closer and could see dust swirling in the faint light coming through the back door window. A straight, steep staircase to my right led to the second floor. Whatever had opened the door was hiding, and I feared it would jump out and attack with ferocity. Heart pounding as my thoughts continued to worsen, I forced myself forward. Would it grab me? Was the pale man in the window waiting, armed with a knife or a gun, poised to harm me at the first opportunity?

Silence greeted me at the door. No movement. A dank smell of wet, burned timber wafted toward me. The quiet held me hostage; reluctance stripped me of all courage, as I waited for something to happen. So unnerving was the hush that I called out a meek and questioning hello. Was I crazy to hasten the inevitable or just tired of being frightened by the unknown? At least if something emerged, I could deal with it.

No response. I called out again, a bit more boldly this time, and finally received an answer.

"It's about time you grew a pair instead of sounding like a wimp."

The voice came from the top of the stairs. I gazed up to see a dark silhouette, his arm holding the...