The House That Jack Built: A Humorous Haunted House Fiasco

by Jonathan Paul Isaacs

  Afterward, everyone drove to Shelby’s house for a reception and remembrance.

  Nate had never actually been to Shelby and Tobey’s house before. Size-wise it was probably about the same square footage as his Aunt Edna’s place, but the similarities ended there. It looked like a gay mansion. Which was to say, it looked really great. The trim was clean and bright white. The shrubs were manicured and landscaped, with annuals that popped their colors against the green leaves and black mulch. Inside, the décor was arranged meticulously from the upholstery to the knickknacks. It wasn’t hard for Nate to imagine what Shelby’s main hobby was. Arranging.

  “Come over here, now-now, there’s tea on the table here. I’ll put the coffee on,” Shelby said. He had clearly immersed himself in the role of busy host, losing any emotional reflection through the distraction of activity. Anna went into the kitchen t0 help. She brought out a number of plates with hors d’oeuvres and a vegetable tray that had a lone piece of plastic wrap stubbornly clinging from the bottom.

  The sound of a motorcycle pulling up rumbled off the front of the house. Nate watched as Reverend Mac took off her helmet and retrieved two bottles of wine from one of her bike’s saddlebags.

  “Where can I put these?” Mac asked Nate after clomping up the stairs in her biker boots.

  Anna was standing near the table with the food and saw the wine. “Oh, here, let me take those bottles. Thank you so much. Shelby is just getting some last things out of the fridge. He’ll be out in a moment.” She disappeared into the kitchen once more.

  Reverend Mac stood solemnly next to Nate by the door and surveyed the house.

  “Do you live nearby?” Nate asked, trying to make small talk.

  “No, I live back in Lyons,” Mac said.

  An uncomfortable silence ensued. With only one other couple present so far, Nate pressed on.

  “That was a very nice service.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You did a really good job keeping Shelby together. I’ve seen him when he loses it. Pretty messy. It was good for him to have a steady hand during the remembrance.”

  “We all need that sometimes.”

  “Very true. You did it well.” Nate held out his knuckles for a fist bump, only realizing how awkward it was after Mac gave him a sideways glance and frowned.

  More guests arrived and things got better. Nate swirled a glass of wine and had a good conversation with a retired lawyer named Richard, who had known Shelby and Tobey through years of estate planning. Anna joined him and proved to be an excellent socialite in supporting the flow of banter. The parlor got loud and the atmosphere lighter. Shelby in particular excelled in this sort of environment. He flitted from person to person, thanking them for coming and for their love and support, and would share a quick anecdote about something that person would appreciate around Tobey. As the first guests started to leave, Nate looked at his watch and was surprised nearly two hours had gone by since he first arrived.

  More guests filtered out. A few couples lingered on the porch. Anna and Helen, a widow from Shelby’s bridge club and the sole other woman at the party, slipped into the kitchen to clean up. Nate found himself alone with Shelby for the first time in a week.

  Shelby came over and patted him on the arm. “Thank you for coming, Nate.”

  “Of course.” Nate tightened his lips. He wasn’t good at stuff like this. “Anything I can do, Shelby, just let me know.”

  “Oh, thank you Nate, but that’s quite all right, now-now. You’re so busy with your renovation.”

  “No, seriously. It’s a hard thing to move somewhere where you don’t know anyone. You and Tobey have been more than gracious with your friendship. It’s really helped me get through a lot of things. So—please—let me know if I can return the kindness. I know times like these are difficult.” He gave Shelby a gentle hug, feeling the frailness beneath.

  Shelby’s expression changed as the façade of an unflappable male Martha Stewart crumbled. He looked hard at Nate.

  “Would you come with me, please?”

  Nate followed him down a short hallway to a closed door. Shelby placed his hand on the knob and took a deep breath before pushing it open.

  It took a moment to process the magazine cover-worthy grandeur of the library into which they stepped. Shelves upon shelves of leather-bound books lined two of the walls, while floor-to-ceiling windows on the other side of the room let the sunlight bathe the fine furniture. A large, deep green area rug covered the floorboards, anchored on the corners with a brass telescope and an antique globe bar that sat open and full of alcohol, just like in the movies. Mahogany and leather trimmed pretty much everything.

  Nate soaked it all in, feeling transported back in time. The smell of leather was heavy and had the hint of lingering tobacco. He imagined some southern gentleman from an age long gone retiring here for the evening, chewing on his pipe and reading some great literary classic.

  “This was Tobey’s refuge,” Shelby whispered. “This room was … him.”

  “It’s amazing.”

  “Yes. Tobey was always an indoor sort. If we were having a spat, or if we just needed space, he would come in here while I’d go out and garden.” Shelby waited a few moments as Nate walked along the shelves. “But what I really wanted you to see was this.”

  Nate turned around.

  Shelby stepped over to the windows. A canvas-covered frame sat upon a large easel, facing away from the center of the room. He picked it up with a delicate care and rotated it so that Nate could see what was on it.

  “Tobey was painting this before he passed.”

  Nate let his eyes settle on the painting. There, in front of him, was the Colonel.

  His pose was patterned from the old photograph Nate had found in the journal: standing with a three-quarters view, stern expression, the piercing eyes that all Civil War people seemed to have in photographs. But what really amazed Nate was the color. Tobey had dropped any manner of oils onto the canvas to force a surreal life and tone to the Colonel’s face. He looked vibrant. He stood with determination. No longer was this just a facsimile of a long-dead man.

  “Wow. That’s—it’s beautiful, Shelby.”

  “I want you to have it.”

  “Huh?”

  “Take it.” Shelby lifted the canvas frame off the easel, studied it for a moment, and held it out with obvious reluctance. “He meant it for you. For your house.”

  Nate shuffled uncomfortably. “Shelby, I can’t take something like that from you.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “The last painting your partner ever did? You don’t want to keep it?”

  “I do. But in my heart, I know that’s not what Tobey intended.” Shelby let out a deep sigh. “I’ll have plenty of his things around me to help me grieve. Do an old man a favor and respect this small request.”

  Nate held the portrait in his hands and blinked sadly.

  “Okay. Wow. I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Shelby.”

  “You’re welcome.” He smiled. “Good, that’s settled then. Let’s get back out front. Come along, now-now.”

  The reception tapered off with the last guests making their exit. Nate visited briefly with Grant and Morris, a younger couple who shared Shelby’s love of gardening. Anna apologized for having to run to a showing and high-tailed it out of there. Shelby saw each of the other guests to the door in turn. Ten minutes later and everyone had gone.

  “You’ve got your cake, now-now?” Shelby called after Nate as he walked down the porch stairs. “Did I give you enough?”

  “You’re kidding. You gave me the whole thing.” Nate hoisted the cake box.

  “Well, let me know if you run out, there’s plenty more. And the painting?”

  “Right here.” Other arm.

  They nodded to each other one last time and Nate left. The afternoon sun was blazingly warm as he trudged across the grassy fields. Somewhere in the back of Nate’s mind, he was aware that the ganache in the massi
ve cake box was liquefying into a chocolate oil slick. But his attention was focused very specifically on one thing, and one thing only.

  Fifteen minutes later, Nate pushed open his front door and he walked into the shade of his front parlor. Adolf’s nose pointed up like a Cold War radar system and immediately started tracking the cake box. Nate set it on the floor—his couch was already covered with O-rings, what difference did a few more make? Then he clomped up the staircase until he was about halfway up.

  The slashed painting in between the battle scene and full figure portrait was still mounted on the wall. Nate grabbed the edges of the frame and wiggled it until he got it free of the hook. He set it down and barely noticed as it slipped off the edge of the step and tobogganed its way to the bottom. Then he lifted the painting from Shelby, hung it up, and took a step back.

  Nate stared at the painting.

  A dead man stared back at him with nineteenth-century intensity.

  Colonel McAuliffe.

  The ghost.

  The ghost who was keeping his renovation from being finished.

  “Tobey,” Nate said out loud, “I don’t know if you can hear me from the other side. But if you can, please kick this little punk bitch in the ass, and tell him to stay out of my way.”

  Act 5

  “It’s On Like Donkey Kong”

  25

  18 July, 1861

  A terrible day.

  My hands are shaking as I write. But I must relay the events as they occurred if I am to be true to my pledge of recording my stay.

  Aunt Sophie was not feeling well this morning. It is dreadfully hot during the July day, and as the sun rose she sat on the back porch away from the sun. But there was no breeze, and the temperature quickly exceeded any sense of normalcy. Sophie stayed in the shade and even had a slave girl fanning her. Right around noon, she stood up and said she wanted to take a walk, and immediately collapsed onto the porch.

  I was just inside and heard the commotion. As I rushed to Sophie’s side I noticed that she was sitting in a puddle of liquid and that her dress was wet. Her water had broken! The baby was getting ready to come! Surely the heat and the stillness of the day were not our friends. I felt a steely calm overtake me and I called out to the slaves to prepare a pallet and hot water. Slave Daisy, one of the older women, stepped in and started ordering the others to carry Sophie inside. I demanded that someone go fetch Uncle Rufus, who was out in the fields with the overseers somewhere and would need to be told what had happened.

  Normally, the coming of a child would be the start of something joyous, but Aunt Sophie was clearly not handling it well. She had confided in me that one of the reasons she was so overjoyed at this child was because three previous conceptions had ended in miscarriages. Now, here she was at full term, unconscious and ill. I stayed by her side and did my best to talk with her, hoping that Daisy would fetch the doctor from town quickly, praying that Rufus would get here. The heat was stifling. Sophie was covered in sweat, and I sopped her brow with cool water that simply seemed to evaporate as soon as it touched her.

  Rufus arrived, storming through the front door. His smile quickly faded as he saw the state of his wife. For a while he stayed at her side as well, until his patience fled and he left to see why the doctor had not yet come. Junie kept me company as I tended to my Aunt, praying to the Lord that everything would be just fine.

  When the doctor finally entered the house, he performed a thorough examination of Aunt Sophie that was borderline indecent. His face was grim and gave me no small amount of fear. I overheard him explain to Uncle Rufus that she appeared to have some sort of infection, and that for her own health and that of the baby, he needed to accelerate the delivery as much as he could. Rufus nodded and they brought in a number of dressings and cloth. The doctor shooed Rufus to the next room, and then I was made to follow despite my protests. Apparently, neither of us were medically trained and could only be a hindrance according to the doctor.

  An hour went by. And then I remember the moment. A brief second of absolute silence, and there was the unmistakable sound of a newborn cry. I clasped my hands together in joy and anticipation for this new life, and an incredible urge to rush back to Sophie and check on her condition. I took a step toward the doorway. Rufus caught my eye and we shared a moment of anxious excitement. Then we went through the doorway together.

  I knew something was wrong as soon as we entered. Everyone in the room was frozen. The doctor wore his solemn, unreadable face, but the slaves all had expressions of shock and fear. Only Sophie looked peaceful, still asleep, still unconscious.

  I turned to Uncle Rufus. He was as pale as a ghost.

  I looked back to Sophie. Then I understood.

  The baby was of modest size, but as I studied her face I saw that the features were off—her nose and jaw seemed almost simian, and her eyes had an almond shape that were not in alignment with either her father or mother. I recalled stories of children born with defects, that their minds proved to be retarded in a way that kept them from growing up properly or having normal intelligence. I looked at what should have been a beautiful baby girl and saw the characteristics that matched the descriptions of the stories.

  Here this poor baby was, brand new to the world, and she already faced a lifetime of hardship.

  25 July, 1861

  So much has happened this past week. I have been neglectful with my journal entries. I shall attempt to catch up on the events of the estate.

  Aunt Sophie is very ill. The doctor is quite concerned. The trauma of childbirth was severe and she has been in and out of consciousness since. Even when she is awake I fear she is not all there, as I have tried to ask questions of her only to be met with a sad stare and silence, as if she can hear what I say but does not have the power to respond. But most of the time she sleeps, with nothing but a high fever and my own presence for company.

  It is even worse with Uncle Rufus.

  He will not speak to Sophie. He will not tend to her, check on her, or acknowledge her even in her weakened condition. For the most part he has recused himself from the house, spending a large amount of time out in the fields as if it were just another day of farming. Perhaps he is immersing himself in work to clear his mind? I can understand his agony—so long to have a child, and once she arrives that child is not the daughter for which he had hoped. But at the same time, does Sophie not still need his love and support? Does she not deserve comfort when she is so sick and unable to care for herself? Or does Rufus somehow blame her for the condition of their child? The Bible teaches us that we are all sinners and doomed to Hell but for God’s Grace. Our Lord Jesus Christ came to earth to forgive, not destroy.

  And then, there is the baby.

  In a rare moment of consciousness Sophie named her Jacqueline Marie, a beautiful name for a beautiful soul no matter her condition. It was a name Sophie and Rufus had decided upon long ago should they have a girl and, prior to my Aunt’s collapse into her current state, she reinforced with the Doctor that he proceed in his acknowledgment of the prearranged name. Beyond that, confusion and uncertainty reign. It is obvious this child will need special care her whole life. Sophie’s condition seems to worsen a little each day, and as a result, there has been quite the circus about who would care for Jacqueline. Sophie obviously cannot, she is so weak. Rufus will not (and as I mention before has immersed himself in work). So it has fallen upon Slave Daisy and myself to tend to her in Aunt Sophie’s room.

  With the house in such disarray, with such confusion from the scandal, Daisy has been acting as wet nurse to little Jacqueline. I have had to collect small clothes and some supplies on Sophie’s behalf for the baby. I do hope Sophie recovers soon. Both baby Jacqueline and poor Rufus desperately need her so.

  31 July, 1861

  Oh, how dark of a place the world can be.

  Uncle Rufus has added me to his list of those to avoid in addition to Sophie and Jacqueline. He comes in late at night from the fields and keeps to himse
lf. Sophie lies comatose yet he will still not see her, his wife of many years, the woman to whom he pledged himself before God. He has not once visited with the baby and the disposition of her future remains a mystery. I finally had had enough and decided to confront him.

  It was near midnight. Rufus was sitting in the solarium, lounging forlornly in his great chair. I approached him tentatively. He did not acknowledge me, instead simply staring at the floor. I sat in the chair beside him, Aunt Sophie’s chair, and instantly smelled the stench of bourbon.

  “Rufus,” I said. “You need to go see Sophie.”

  His head nodded vaguely in my direction.

  “Rufus—”

  “No.”

  “You must. She is so ill, the doctor says she does not have much time.”

  He mumbled something about Sophie punishing him and spouted some barely comprehensible insults about her being a vengeful … person.

  “What do you mean, Rufus? Yes, Sophie certainly has a spiteful side of her. Yet you know as well as I that she had no control over such a thing as her child. It is not her fault any more than it is mine. It is the Lord’s will.”

  At this, Rufus raised his sleepy eyes. He seemed lost in thought for quite a while when I noticed the moistness of his eyes. I thought, there is something else here and I must tread carefully.

  “Uncle?” I said, trying to be gentle.

  He mumbled some more.

  “Rufus,” I said. “You need to go see her. Whatever has transpired between you and her, however many fights there have been, you must clear the air. If you wait, you may not get the chance.”

  His head bobbed toward me once again. “Not … chance?”

  I struggled to say the words but knew that I must. “Sophie is dying, Uncle. The strain of childbirth was too great.”

  Again, he was quiet for the longest time. I thought for a moment that he had drifted off to sleep. But then he raised his arm and fumbled it over toward the empty glass and crumpled paper on his side table. “Hers … won’t be … only … one.”