The House that Jack Built

by Malcolm James

  I struggled for composure and picked up the key. At least, it resembled a key, but it was like no key I’d ever seen. It was crafted from a reddish-brown metal and about an inch and a half long. Its head was a small jagged sphere, about the size of a quarter.

  The cylinder was thin and semi-circular. It had jagged teeth at one end, but they were strange little shapes that didn’t appear to be designed for any conventional lock. And it was unadorned except for a single symbol imprinted in the center of the head. I peered at it, frowned, and turned it over. Same thing on the other side. I looked closely and a million images flipped through my brain before I remembered.

  I’ve seen that symbol before.

  Or at least something like it. In Jack’s house…it resembled the symbols on the trim and ceilings of Jack’s house. But this symbol was distinctive and I wondered what it meant. I frowned and placed it on the table next to the amulet.

  As I did so, I noticed that the envelope had a piece of paper sticking out of it. It had become dislodged when I shook the amulet and the key out. I pulled the folded paper from the envelope and opened it.

  March 14

  Mal,

  If you’re reading this, then it’s already happened. I wanted to say goodbye in person, but I wasn’t sure when my time would come. I wanted you to have these things. I always knew that, even though you never fully understood me, you knew me better than anyone. I think you can appreciate some of the things I’m giving you. There’s more – so much more – but that may take time. So for now, you can begin with this.

  The amulet is for you. I’ve graduated way beyond it, and I know how it makes you feel. What it makes you think of. And I know the reason. There are meanings there that escape you. Stop running from them.

  I stopped reading.

  And I know the reason. Yeah, he knew me alright. Analogizing Jack to Icarus was far too obvious, though. Jack’s sense of irony was far more sophisticated than that. He wanted me to think about the meaning behind his words.

  True, Jack had flown too close to the sun. He’d seen and done things that no-one should have. And he burned because of it.

  But the other meanings…Elizabeth? The day I first made love to her? The day that I became a man? I scratched a stubbled cheek and sighed.

  Stop fucking with me, Jack.

  I finally gave up trying to decipher the meaning behind his innocuous rhetoric and continued to read.

  I know you’ll enjoy it, and if you believe, it will give you the power and strength that I found while I wore it. As for the other item, I’ll satisfy your curiosity: yes, it is a key. Look for the symbol. It may be difficult to find, but open your mind and you will see. I have faith in you. Hey, it wouldn’t be any fun if I just told you, would it now? Besides, even if I wanted to tell you, I couldn’t.

  I’m going to miss you. We had some great adventures together, and I like to think that I played a part in your struggle for independence. It’s something I won’t soon forget, and I hope you won’t either. Take care of yourself, old friend. I go to a far better place.

  Fare Well,

  Jack.

  I put the letter down. The soothing sound of opera helped me focus. I lit a cigarette and poured a tall Scotch. I puffed and sipped while I looked out the window, almost entirely glazed over by snow and ice. Mounds of snow formed in the bottom angles of panes, and I thought how cold and nasty it must be outside. I was reminded of the night I nearly froze to death on his doorstep. I sighed and looked back at the box. Papers upon papers, damn. I chose a page and began to read.

  It appeared to be a personal journal. Jack’s personal journal. But it wasn’t like any journal I’d ever seen. It wasn’t a recounting of events. Rather it was a manic mishmash of visions and imaginings that he had. Intertwined amongst his day-to-day activities, most of it was unintelligible scribbling, and I found myself skipping through pages at a time to find something worth discerning.

  It was scribed on different types of paper. None were stapled or paper-clipped, and his choice of medium changed frequently. Sometimes the documents were written in fine ballpoint pen – in different colors – and other times they were written in magic marker – which made them difficult to decipher, because sometimes he used a thick magic marker. Other times he would use sparkling gel pens. Gold, silver, green and other colors. It appeared that he used whatever he could find, when he found the mood to write.

  At least the pages were sorted in chronological order – the earliest pages were stacked on top – and from the looks of it, he started writing this approximately two years ago. Around the time that he and I ran into each other at Novita, in New York.

  April 4 – The construction is coming nicely, but I don’t know about the fucking foreman. Today he told me that I was crazy to build this place, and that he wasn’t even sure it was structurally sound. I told him to deal with it and stop bothering me with useless details. The fucking prick. But I fear now, not simply for my life, but for my very soul...It already walks with me inside the halls of this little shithole (I assumed he was talking about his temporary home near the construction site). Even now, it knows that I’m coming and it haunts me here, sometimes more than others...I can feel it now – it’s all around me. It’s sublime and troubling at the same time. I can’t wait for my trip to New York next week. Mal will be there and I need a break.

  What? He knew I’d be there? All this time I assumed our meeting was by chance; I suppose I should have known better. I flipped ahead a couple of pages, for most of the words I looked at were written in thick black magic marker.

  April 13 – I just got back from New York. I saw Mal. God, he looked like he needed to get fucked, so I set it up for him. I bought a couple of high-end hookers and passed them off as if he were responsible for scoring them. At first I laughed when I saw the look on his face the next day. But we got into a huge fight. The pathetic loser couldn’t even close the deal. Guess Elizabeth’s still got his heart by the short and curlies.

  Dammit! I rubbed my forehead in frustration as I continued to read.

  May 22 – I just returned from the shore. There’s a gale brewing, and the wind seemed to blow through my very soul. The Bay looks troubled, as if it can sense my anguish. I heard loons in the distance. Their wail was mournful and they filled me with grief. Now that I’ve begun to experience the transition, I seem to be able to detect strange voices in everyday sounds. I can even sense demonic presences. Astrid told me they aren’t supposed to come yet. I’ll have to talk to her about that. This needs to go according to plan.

  I looked at the stack that lay before me and began to flip through pages, twenty or thirty at a time. Later, I’d go back and take a closer look, but then I hoped that I could find some reason for Jack’s disappearance. While a fair amount of it was legible and somewhat meaningful, most was repetitive and meaningless. I was about to stop for the night when I came to a passage written when Jack finally moved into the house.

  October 31 – On the holiest of all nights, I finished moving into the house. Mal didn’t come down for the big event, even though I asked him to. I’m pissed off, but I can’t expect him to share this moment with me and appreciate what I’m doing. The movers were awful. I chased them around all day telling them not to bump anything. Jesus, you can’t buy good help these days. Anyway, it’s finally done. Things are here now and I have to start unpacking and putting them in their appointed places. My new manservant, Alberto, is arriving tomorrow. He will be of some assistance, and at least I won’t have to listen to him babble on like my previous servants. I need solitude, and I asked specifically for a mute manservant. The agency thought it was a little odd, but they’re good and they found someone to fit that and my other requests. I’m looking forward to an interesting All Souls Night in my new abode.

  November 1 – Alberto arrived today. The poor brute is truly pathetic, but it’s fitting that the only human contact I have has been robbed of the power of communication. He’s like the art with which I surround
myself - silent, brooding, waiting – perhaps for all eternity, to be done with it, and pass on into the bliss of eternal existence.

  December 21 – He won’t have a drink with me. He won’t take any alcohol, save for a glass of Champagne on New Year’s Eve. I’ve repeatedly tried to get him to open up, and it’s a slow process. Communication is even more difficult since he’s deaf and dumb, so we have to communicate through written language. And my written Spanish is even worse than my spoken. I’ve managed to eke from him the dark secret of his horrid past, but it comes in tattered fragments, here and there. Oftentimes, he gets emotional and moody and scribbles furiously. Then he breaks down and has to stop. But he’s told me enigmatic pieces of his life and I am beginning to understand. I made the right choice. My suspicions were more than correct. He’s perfect.

  January 2 - Mal! I know you are with me now, I can sense it. I awoke in the middle of the night, and thought I saw something that resembled pure evil. But I know now it was only a dream. I think it was, anyway. The spirits surround me and taunt me. They tell me that I cannot have what I truly desire until I cross over, when my soul is torn from its host. Only then will I be able to cheat the sentence which has been handed down to me.

  She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill

  May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill.

  Yet fear her O thou minion of her pleasure,

  She may detain, but not still keep her treasure!

  I stopped. The clock read 3:03 AM. I jumped as a branch screeched against the living room window. I had become entranced by the mad and deranged spell that robbed Jack of his sanity. The fire which I’d built to keep me company was a mere pile of glowing embers. I shivered in spite of myself.

  Easy, mate. This can only be touched by me.

  Now that I was able to immerse myself in his thoughts – written in manic, often frantically-written passages – I finally experienced a little piece of the conglomerate madness which had consumed his sensibilities. And that’s when I realized it, something which still haunts me today. All those years, I stood by and watched, knowing full-well that he was dangerous. But I didn’t realize that something as seemingly harmless as a penchant for fine art would become an unbridled passion which would completely and utterly destroy him.

  I smoked another cigarette. Finished my Scotch. Stoked the fire to ensure that it was out.

  And sought the comfort of my bed, for the first time in months.

  Chapter 63

  This is the priest all shaven and shorn,

  That married the man all tattered and torn

  In death, I found a connection that we never had in life.

  The ensuing weeks were spent delving through the contents of his lockbox. I started wearing the Icarus Amulet. It reminded me of him, while I pored over the stacks of papers which represented Jack’s insanity.

  As I made my way through the contents, straight white sheets of paper degraded to anything he could find to inscribe. His feverish accounts were scribbled on pieces of toilet paper and candy wrappers. He even scrawled one passage on a piece of sheet metal, using a nail or some other sharp device to record his disjointed thoughts. In all, they represented a lifetime of madness.

  But they said little that elaborated on his confused preamble.

  Often, his thoughts were repetitive and derivative. He quoted Shakespeare, Tennyson, Shaw, Scott, Shelley, Byron, Dickens, and countless other scribes at great lengths. As the passages progressed, I neared the end of his tome. I found a definitive pattern and growing paranoia in everything he wrote.

  He feared something 'evil and constantly lurking.' It grew to the point where the evil manifested itself in the house. New pieces of art arrived daily – so much so that he couldn’t find anywhere to put them. Tapestries and canvases were overlaid. Every free piece of wall and floor space was utilized.

  Near the end, he would simply open the new crates, revel in the mastery or artistry, and then leave them. He often wrote that he feared for his soul. And that, ‘the end was approaching like a thief in the night.’

  I sighed and put down the piece of cereal box I was reading. He had scrawled on the back of it and I could only make out one or two words. But they were powerful words that I recognized. Words like terror, fear, Alberto and death.

  I pushed the remaining stack of documents away. I was tired. I couldn’t do it anymore. Whatever it was that possessed and finally consumed him wasn’t hidden in those pages.

  Or if it was, I couldn’t see it.

  ***

  I got up and closed the kitchen window. It was April, but unseasonably chilly for Montreal. The abbreviated twitter of birds was cut off as I shut the window. There was nothing to see out there, so I turned and looked at the papers that were splayed on my kitchen table. I rummaged through them until I found the pack of smokes that was buried underneath.

  I tugged one out of the pack, placed it between my lips and turned the burner on the stove to high. With a muffled puff, a shimmering blue flame shot out. I quickly leaned over and lit the cigarette. Pulling back before the burner had a chance to singe my eyebrows. It was something I had learned after several long nights without a lighter, but with plenty of Scotch to take its place.

  I took several draws from the smoke while I contemplated clearing the documents from the table. I wanted them out of my sight. I couldn’t stand the look of them anymore. He had made many references to me in the documents, and they were rarely complimentary. I wanted to forget about Jack. Forget about Elizabeth. And just move on with my life.

  As I prepared to organize the documents and put them in a storage area that would quickly forget them, the phone rang. Grateful for the respite, I ran into the living room and picked the handset from its cradle.

  ‘Unknown Caller.’ A chill ran down my spine. It still reminded me of both of them. I thought of Malcolm and Elizabeth as I cautiously pressed ‘talk’ and held the receiver to my ear.

  “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  “Hello?” I waited several seconds. Listened to the live line on the other end. Finally I pressed ‘end’ and replaced the handset in its cradle. I ground my teeth and glared at the phone.

  A sudden gust of wind blew through the living room window and tossed the papers that sat on the coffee table. They flew everywhere, and I cursed aloud while I rushed over to close the window.

  I picked up the papers. But as I organized them into their original sequence, I noticed a single page that had been revealed. Thanks to the gust of wind.

  Prior to that moment, I hadn’t been able to decipher that page, due in part to Jack’s maniacal handwriting, but mostly because he wrote with something that was either a grease pencil or crayon.

  As I stared at a document which I’d pored over without comprehension so many times before, the words on the page seemed to shimmer in my mind. They evolved from meaningless garble, to words which presented themselves with ease.

  February 29 – Mal, I know that you are reading this. I can see you. Listen very carefully. It’s all been a trick. Stop and think about what’s happened to us, and you’ll understand. You’re in danger. You can’t stay there. Mal. If our friendship ever meant anything to you, believe me now. Even if you never believed me before. Go. Get out of there. Find me. I know you can do it.

  February 29. The day he disappeared. A shiver ran down my spine. My sensible mind told me that this was just Jack’s madness making itself known. He had lost it. Especially in those last few months. Hell, it was probably the last, sublime joke. From the practical joker who played me like a rag doll. I chose to put it out of my mind.

  He’s just playing with you, from beyond the grave.

  I stared at the box full of documents. Almost entirely cleaned of its contents, there was little horror left to wonder about. I thought about shoving everything – all the papers that cluttered my tabletops – into the accursed box and forgetting it forever.

  But the phone rang again.

  I jumped
. My feet left the ground as the shrill ringing pounded my brain. I walked slowly toward it and lifted the handset. The caller ID was cruel and simple in its announcement.

  ‘Unknown Caller.’

  I took a deep breath and pressed ‘talk.’

  “Hello?”

  Nothing. My thumb hovered over ‘end.’

  “Malcolm?” I put the receiver back to my head.

  “Hello?”

  “Malcolm. It’s Fred. How are you?” I was breathless and my heart pounded. That’s how I was.

  “Good. Okay, Fred. Where are you?”

  “I’m in Detroit. Listen, I just got off the phone with the Nova Scotia detachment of the RCMP.” I clenched my jaw and wished that he would keep talking. But he shuffled some papers.

  “Okay. About what?” Stupid question, if he took it at face value. But he knew what I meant.

  “They’re closing the case. They’ve decided that Jack met with foul play and that he’s dead.” My heart jumped again.

  “Really? Can they do that? Without a body?”

  “Sure they can. When there’s enough supporting evidence. They’re keeping the investigation open as an unsolved homicide, but as far as they’re concerned, he dead and they have no suspects. He’s missing, presumed dead.”

  I considered the implications. No body, no burial. No suspects, no nothing. Except some evidence, that under normal circumstances I’d have found convincing. I thought about his manservant.

  “What about Alberto?” Fred shuffled uncomfortably on the other line. For a pronounced time, he said nothing. It was still a difficult subject for him. But I had to know.