It becomes quite warm as the sun rises into the noon sky.
I ask Uncle Rufus, “Won’t the heat affect these creatures toiling in the fields?”
“No, dear girl. The slaves come from Africa. This climate suits them.”
I realize of course that these slaves are not the same as us. I watch them work, and they do seem well acclimated to their labor. And it is easy to catch the respect in Rufus’s voice; for while these men may be his property, one can see that he is not reckless with their care like his tirades with Sophie. But I cannot help but notice their white overseers riding on their horses, and the continuous crack of the whip that rings through the air.
You can see neat little lines of green emerging from the earth. I ask Uncle Rufus if it will be a good crop this year. He says he hopes so, and I tell him that the green contrasts nicely with the brown of the earth and that it looks lovely. Uncle Rufus smiles and tells me, wait until August when the flowers bloom their bolls of white fiber. The fields will look as if covered in snow.
Nate tried to read more but his eyelids would not stay open. He folded the journal closed and placed it on the nightstand next to the bed.
Rufus McAuliffe, slave owner. The diary of a young girl named Susannah. The eve of the Civil War. Strange neighbors and colleagues. A supposedly haunted house. As his mind finally drifted off to sleep, Nate wondered how all of these things might be related.
Act 4
Voodoo
19
Nate heard the voices on the porch, followed a moment later by an imperious knock through the new front door. Adolf let out an annoyed growl from the couch before closing his eyes and drifting back to sleep. Gilligan actually hissed.
A peek through the peephole revealed Anna and an older, heavyset woman.
He swung the big oaken door open. “Hello,” Nate said. Then he immediately clamped his mouth shut. He recognized her.
“Move aside for Elvira!” she announced. The woman strode into the middle of the parlor and extended her hands out like a holy roller at church. “I can already sense this house is in pain! The air is thick with loss and suffering. We must not delay in our efforts to cleanse this place!”
Nate furrowed his forehead at Anna. “Really?”
“She’s a good lady,” Anna answered, her voice a whisper. “Remember? We’re business partners. Plus, we do potluck together!”
“Oh, well in that case.”
Elvira the Voodoo Lady was oblivious to their side conversation. She was wandering the edges of the parlor, muttering to herself, a mystic home inspector searching for code violations. “Yes, uh-huh … I see it there … oh, my, we’ll have to get to that one later.”
Nate worked up his nerve. “Excuse me, Ms. Elvira. I’m Nate. This is my house—”
Elvira smacked her palm onto Nate’s forehead and held it there.
“You, too, are tainted. You’ve been exposed, living too long under the same roof as ghosts and spirits. There is anger directed at you. Great anger. At you. You are in danger!”
Gilligan had retreated to the corner and was moaning.
“Look,” Nate said, pushing the lady’s arm away from his face. “Let’s start over. “All I asked for was some help for Shelby. He had an episode, some kind of epileptic seizure or something—”
“That was not epilepsy,” Elvira declared. “It was a possession.”
“—er, okay, possession of a seizure. And he won’t let me take him to the hospital.” He turned to Anna. “I was expecting you to bring over an EMT or something.”
“Nate, we went to Shelby’s house first,” Anna said. She put her hand on Nate’s arm as if trying to soothe a small child who just lost a toy. “We made him talk to Dr. Thibodeaux on the phone. Shelby doesn’t have any history of epilepsy or any other neurological problems. He’s fine. This? This is something else.”
On cue, Elvira spread out her hands again. “Yes, yes. Your friend is fine. But this house is clearly not.” She snapped her arms down and stepped into Nate’s personal space, her eyebrow arched dramatically. “Tell me something. What else have you noticed since you’ve been sleeping under this roof? Anything odd? Think carefully.”
Nate looked once more at Anna. She was clearly hooked on this nonsense.
“Fine, let me think. There’s been a lot of noise at night. Creaking and stomping. But that’s probably just the wind.”
“And?”
“My tools went missing. I used to use the dining room as my workbench and had everything laid out. Vandals stole them. But it was my fault, I didn’t have a front door at the time.”
“And?”
“Well,” Nate began, then halted.
Could it have been?
No.
He had gone back and checked to find nothing, but …
“What is it, Nate?”
“I had this sort of dream. At least, I think it was a dream. I felt compelled to go upstairs to check out this clanging noise in the upstairs bathroom. When I got there, the room was trashed and there was a message scrawled in blood that said ‘Leave’. I ran back downstairs as soon as I saw it. But the reason I say it was a dream is that, well, when I went back up, everything was normal. So I must have fallen asleep on the couch and imagined it all.”
Elvira appeared vindicated.
“Ectoplasmic hallucination. Classic mechanism for ghost messages.”
Gilligan made a hacking sound and produced a hairball onto the hardwood.
“Ecto-what?”
The old woman had already wandered off to the other side of the room and was studying the ceiling. “Yes, we must not waste any time. This house is teetering on the brink.”
Nate shared a furtive glance with Anna. “I’m sorry. Waste any time to do what?”
Elvira wheeled around. “A séance.”
“Good Lord,” Nate said. “You want to do some kind of exorcism on my house? Cast out evil spirits?”
The old bag glared directly at him and narrowed her eyes. “It’s a séance. Exorcisms are for people.”
“Whatever.”
“A séance is the only hope of reaching the spirit here and preventing catastrophe. You see, something desperate and traumatic has tied this ghost to your house. It is angry and spiteful. If there is to be any hope of reconciliation, we must speak with it before things get worse.” Elvira lowered her voice ominously. “And they will.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Elvira swept across the room to Anna. “We need to do this as soon as possible. It will take me some time to prepare and get the necessary supplies. Tomorrow. Yes, it must be tomorrow. Invite everyone who has set foot in this house in the past thirty days. Everyone! We must cast a wide net to understand the trigger that has caused so much animosity, so much pain!”
Nate had his arms folded across his chest. This was ridiculous. He had better things to do than waste an evening in some clown ritual for which he’d probably end up getting the bill. “Um, excuse—”
“Tomorrow night!” And Elvira was out the front door.
He turned to Anna. “What are you doing to me?”
“Nate, this is serious. Think about it. Shelby could have died. You think you saw a message scrawled in blood. Who’s to say things don’t get worse and somebody gets hurt for real?”
“Not convinced.”
“What have you got to lose?”
“Time. Money. Patience.”
Anna stamped her foot. “If you want to unload this freaking haunted house, you’ve got to make the ghost happy. Because otherwise I won’t put it on the market. No realtor will. Can you imagine what the seller’s disclosure would have to say? There’s not a checkbox for that!”
“Because there’s no such thing as ghosts, Anna! We should be talking about doctors, not voodoo-witch-lady here.”
“Nate.” She lowered her eyelids and suddenly looked very sultry. “Please try this.”
A deep breath.
“Fine. I think this is a waste of time, but if it me
ans that much to you? I’ll do it. For you. With protest.”
Anna shuffled up to him and put her arm in his. “Not for me, Nate. For you.”
20
Nate sat in bed and scowled.
He just couldn’t go to sleep. What the hell was all this nonsense? Ghosts were fairy tale occurrences, made up by people in the Middle Ages who couldn’t explain biology, ecology, toxicology, or half a dozen other ologies. Phantoms and spirits didn’t really exist. There were straightforward explanations for everything that had happened at his house.
Did some thief really drive out to the middle of nowhere to steal your tools, and leave your computer behind?
Sure. Tools were valuable to rednecks. Computers, less so.
Did you really just dream the message in the upstairs bathroom?
Lead poisoning. Matt said the house had lead pipes.
Had Shelby really had a seizure, with no previous medical history of similar episodes? And why would he have talked to you the way he did?
Because … because …
Nate rubbed his forehead. Was it possible?
“This is stupid,” he said to himself. He turned the light off, pulled the covers up, and closed his eyes.
And then he was back up with the light on. “Damn it!”
It was no use. He was going to be up for a while.
With nothing else to try, Nate grabbed Susannah’s leather diary again and cracked it open. The little portrait of Colonel McAuliffe he had been using as his bookmark fell into his lap. Nate picked it up and studied the photo. For a person who died such a long time ago, his memory sure seemed to be causing Nate a lot of trouble.
Maybe reading would take his mind off of things.
3 May, 1861
Miss Mae’s lessons were on the difficult side today. She had me go through my numbers and I must confess that as good as I am with the written word, arithmetic simply does not agree with me. After an hour Miss Mae was clearly done and made a threatening remark about how tomorrow would be extra intense. But I am only capable of what God has provided. I put the admonishment out of my mind and did my best to focus on more pleasant things.
Aunt Sophie is showing quite a bump. I spent most of the afternoon with her and she complained that none of her clothes fit and that she could no longer get her jewelry on her fingers. I offered to wear her rings on her behalf, of course, and we both had a grand laugh. I love watching her, so beautiful. It is said that women with child have a certain glow about them, and I can tell you it is absolutely true.
We were sitting on the front porch and enjoying a nice breeze when I happened to tell her how happy I was that she was finally with child. Truth be told, Aunt Sophie is older than most women when they have their babies. She took on the strangest look for a moment, one that is hard for me to describe—part relief and joy, but also very anxious. I asked, what was the matter?
“What makes you ask me that, child?”
“Your demeanor clearly suggests it, Aunt Sophie. I would be remiss if I did not offer my help.”
Sophie was quiet for some moments. “I—I don’t know, Susannah. Sometimes I get these feelings like all is not well with the baby.”
“What do you mean?”
“I cannot fully describe it. Of course, I feel her growing inside me—”
“Her? You think it is a girl?”
“Oh, yes I do. Don’t ask me how, but I just know. Anyway, I feel her growing, and her presence inside of me comforts me. I feel a kinship with her that is full and wonderful. Then there are other times where something just seems … off. And it worries me.”
I knew instantly what I must say to her. “Put those worries aside, Aunt Sophie. They are merely the jitters of a woman who is having her first child. I remember well how my mother’s emotions were like a tornado through the plain. One minute she would be feeling like a queen, the other she would be sobbing in the corner. Maybe there was a little puking in between.”
Sophie smiled. “Thank you, Susannah. Of course, you are right. I’m sure it’s just—” Her eyes grew wide.
“What is it?”
“Oh. There it is again.” She reached for my hand and drew it over to her belly. As I sat there, my palm pressed against her shirt, I felt an unmistakable thump from inside her.
“She’s kicking!”
“Yes, she is.”
And we both smiled.
15 May, 1861
The heat has arrived. From morning to dusk, the breezes are gone, replaced by a searing disk of light that hangs heavy in the sky. It is a brilliant sky—a deep blue, not a cloud to be seen, no relief from the oppressive oven that has become the day. I find myself soaked with sweat constantly and have no energy with which to invest in my efforts.
Junie has been a Godsend. She does not seem to be bothered by the arrival of summer. When I need a cool drink of water, a change of blouse, or even someone to assist me in fanning myself, Junie is there. She has an easy smile and is always full of joy. I feel like I know her, although of course I don’t; she comes from a different world and indeed still lives in one. I am smart enough to know the truth of it. She dwells in squalor with hundreds of other slaves in the barracks, whereas I enjoy an existence of privilege and wealth. Her companions work the sweltering fields from dawn to dusk, facing the savagery of a whipping should they slack off of the pace. By contrast, my associates are concerned with what I shall wear when I meet George Devereaux at the cotillion next month. Yet one has only to look at her and see that she is a person as much as I.
Last evening, when she was helping me from my bath as I prepared to retire for the night, curiosity struck me with full force and I found I simply had to know more. I asked her, Junie dear, what is your life like? You are bound to my family through the laws of our country into servitude, yet you face each day with such happiness. How is this possible?
Her smile did not waver. She told me this was the only way she knew how to live. She had been born into captivity, so how could she long for something she did not know? I pressed her, surely her parents must speak of the hardships of back-breaking labor in the fields every day, without fail, with such harsh penalties should one slack off of the pace. It was then that her smile faltered ever so slightly. She was quiet for a long moment. I begged her, what was it that I said that had given her such pause? Little Junie looked at me as if trying to decide if she dared share a thought, and I put my hand on her arm and told her she could tell me anything, that it would remain between her and myself always.
She almost told me what was really on her mind. Almost. But then I saw it with my own eyes how the cloak of deference went back on her shoulders. She smiled her smile and said that her life was but a simple existence and that God had given her all that she needed. I wanted to believe her. But her eyes told a different story than the words from her lips.
1 June, 1861
The Cotillion is tomorrow! I am so excited and can barely contain myself. Aunt Sophie had my dress delivered today and it is the most beautiful deep blue, like the sky just after sunset. There was a minor problem with the fit, and the hem needs to be sewn up, but it fit most perfectly otherwise. I cannot wait to wear it. Perhaps I will sleep in it.
Junie is helping me make sure the dress fits perfectly and that I will look my best. She once again has proven her worth. I asked her where she became so skilled with needle and thread and she explained that it was her job to keep the slaves’ clothes put together. Whenever someone tears a shirt or needs pants mended, she is the one to do it. I had never thought about that before. My clothing that I wear simply appears and is ready. If it is torn it may as well be magically fixed. What a humbling surprise to think of the folk who must make such an event come about.
Aunt Sophie has been busier than I’ve ever seen her, directing the preparations and double-checking the guest list. She seems especially obsessed with who will sit where and the timing of the activities. I participated where I could, and helped direct the placement of the tables around
the carriage house. At one point I overheard Sophie admonishing one of the slaves about the Devereauxs, emphatically stating that Bessie ‘must sit here’ and ‘the announcements are in this order’.
3 June, 1861
Well, I’m not quite sure what to write. Yes, that’s it. The Cotillion will certainly go down as ‘one for the ages’.
First of all, it must be said that I did indeed look radiant. I entered the grand foyer in my blue dress to the applause of all. After spending the better part of an hour mingling my way through introductions, Uncle Rufus took me over to meet the Devereauxs. That’s when I saw him—George. He was so beautiful. Tall, dark, curly hair, a gleaming white smile. He looked so dashing. I found I could barely speak when he took my hand and invited me to dance. Unfortunately, I quickly discovered that George could barely speak as well—about anything other than hunting, or riding, or farming. I found him incredibly dull. Which was not all bad, since he was so handsome to look at, but only when he was quiet so it would not dispel the magic.
Sophie was quite the gracious hostess. She flitted amongst all the families, all these wealthy landowners and their entourages. “How do you do, Mrs. Montgomery? Of course you may feel my belly, Miss Brockton.” She seemed to be in the middle of a wonderful little anecdote when I saw George’s mother Bessie approach her with a small crowd of ladies.
The conversation stopped instantly.
“Good evening, Bessie,” Sophie said. “I’m so pleased you could attend our little festival.”
George’s mother regarded her coolly. “Sophie.” She looked around at the other women with condescension. “I was quite surprised when we received an invitation.”
The House That Jack Built: A Humorous Haunted House Fiasco Page 13