Nate yawned and stretched his legs. He was having trouble staying awake. His foot extended into Gilligan and the tabby groaned at him. Taking the cue, Nate clicked off the light and left the history lesson for a later day.
17
Thursday was bright and sunny, blue skies and birds chirping and a break in the abnormally high humidity. At the direction of Matt, Nate was doing exterior work today, scraping off the old, peeling paint from the balusters and trim around the porch. “That porch is going to be one of the first things a prospective buyer sees,” Matt had said. “It can’t look like you cat decided to use it as a scratching post.” It was simple enough work—the paint came off like orange peelings—but it was tedious. Two hours in Nate still didn’t feel like he had made much progress. So it was a relief when he saw Shelby walking up the path with Missus Biscuits in his arm.
“Morning!” Nate called out. “Nice day, huh?”
“Eh … um …” he mumbled back.
It wasn’t until Shelby got closer that Nate saw the worry. He put down his scraper and heat gun. “Shelby, are you okay? What is it?”
“Oh, I uh, it’s really just …” Shelby said, his voice a confused babble.
“Shelby.”
“Oh, can we TALK, Nate?” the words gushed out in an abrupt explosion. “I’m just so worried about him, he’s not like this hardly ever at all, and especially on such a nice day like today he’s always wanting to go outside and he just doesn’t today, he says he’s tired, and he looks tired, but I think it’s something else, and it’s so frightening to me—”
Nate waved his hand for calm. After multiple futile attempts, he just grabbed Shelby by the elbow and led him inside. Adolf was sitting upright on the couch. The Doberman was wriggling on the cushion as if scratching his behind, or perhaps squirming with anticipation at the arrival of Missus Biscuits. Shelby put the smaller dog down. Before they could do anything else, Biscuits had run outside with Adolf in pursuit.
Shelby was jabbering in a despondent monologue. Nate put the dogs out of his mind, hoping that physics and geometry would come through to prevent canine pregnancy.
“And then,” Shelby was saying, “he’s been spending all this time in the bathroom with the door shut, making these sounds like he’s going to die in there!”
Too much information. “Uh-huh,” Nate said.
“Did you know Toby’s hardly said a word to me all week?”
I’d be surprised if he could get a word in over the past ten years. “Oh, really? That’s not good.”
He sat Shelby down and moved next to him. Nate noticed what looked like a small dark O-ring on the cushion, right where Adolf had been sitting. He tried to pick it up. It squished. He realized the circle was just about the same size as the Doberman’s sphincter.
“Oh, for God’s sake—dammit, Adolf! No more bully sticks!”
Nate ran to the kitchen to wash his hands and returned to the parlor with several wet paper towels. Shelby was still jabbering and completely oblivious. Nate delicately picked at the circle-shaped excrement to remove it from the fabric. A brownish stain remained behind, and Nate tried to blot that as well.
It took him a moment to realize that Shelby had become completely quiet.
He looked up. The older man’s thin frame was still as a board, his muscles clenched tight as if being electrocuted. Nate jumped back, startled. “Shelby?”
His neighbor began to convulse as if having a seizure.
“Shelby!” Nate shouted in alarm. He dropped the paper towels and grabbed Shelby by the shoulders.
All the air in the room suddenly turned cold.
“Take your fool hands off of me,” said an otherworldly voice out of Shelby’s mouth.
Stunned, Nate let go. Shelby’s shaking abruptly stopped. The old man was now completely still with the exception of his mustache, which twitched bizarrely like a dancing caterpillar.
Slowly, inexorably, Shelby turned his head. A sharp and unholy light shone in his eyes.
“You Must Leave This Place,” the voice said.
Nate gawked.
Shelby stared.
Nate stared back.
The clock ticked.
Shelby jerked into another epileptic-type seizure. “Are you deaf? Or just an idiot? I said, You Must Leave This Place!”
The booming voice suddenly seemed comical coming out of Shelby’s skinny, sweet face with white facial hair bristling up and down.
Nate involuntarily snorted.
“You TAUNT me?” Shelby said.
Nate tilted his head. This had to be a joke. “Who put you up to this, Shelby? I bet it was Matt, wasn’t it?”
Shelby’s body again shook uncontrollably, his arms flapping in sync with the penny loafers stomping on the floorboards. Then he froze again as the eyes bored into Nate.
“I am not Shelby. I am the spirit whose domain you have violated. This is MY home. I am giving you one last chance to Leave This Place or you will face eternal damnation at my own hands!”
The act was very well done. Shelby must have been practicing.
“You’re a ghost, huh? Of who?” he challenged.
Shelby’s eyes stared incredulously. “What?”
“Who are you?” Nate repeated. This was kind of funny. “I mean, I’m not going to believe just any ghost who puffs himself up. Right?”
More convulsing. Shelby looked like a flightless bird trying to get airborne. Then he froze, his eyes still shining with that strange light.
“I am the ghost of Lieutenant Colonel Rufus Theodore Oliver McAuliffe. This was my home. This still is my home. You are not welcome here. Now LEAVE before you face my eternal fury!”
Nate shuffled his feet uneasily. This was really well acted—so convincing, in fact, that he found himself almost doubting that it was a put-on. But the absurdity of an elderly, gentrified gay man making physical threats kept slipping Nate’s conviction back to zero.
Two could play at this game.
“Why are you a ghost?”
The ungodly eyes raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Wh—what!? You want to know … why …?”
“Yeah,” Nate said. “Most people die and go to heaven, right? So what did you do that made you stuck down here on Earth?”
The expression of incredulity gave way to a darker, angrier air. Then Shelby exploded in molten fury, flapping and spitting in his chair. Donald Duck would have been proud.
“I have had enough of your insolence, you little twerp! You come in here and violate the sanctity of my house,” (flap flap) “ripping up the walls, trashing my furniture, producing all that incessant noise …” (feet stomping) “How DARE you? You go up into the attic and desecrate the last of my mortal belongings? You sell my rifles to some goddamn Yankee from OHIO through that eBay thing on your little folding metal box?” (fists shaking) “Your filthy mongrel mutt leaves his excrement all over my grounds—we’re talking mountains here, not dainty little pearls of sugar—and just RUINS the beauty of my plantation?” (teeth gritting) “I am SICK of all you dipshits! I want my peace. I want my quiet! I want you out!” (spittle flying) “Fifty years ago, I would have opened a dimensional portal to the Abyss and had a chain gang of daemons suck your happy asses out of here for a hell of a lynching! My leniency has absolutely been a mistake!”
Shelby raised an accusatory finger and wagged it at Nate. “You want to know why I’m a ghost? Because I was a soldier, you fool! I killed people, and that’s a sin! But my penance wasn’t meant to be stuck in this never-ending shit-bowl Purgatory of an existence with YOU.”
The air turned even colder. The electric lights flickered with pulsed electricity, just enough to give an intermittent strobe-like effect that cast odd, irregular shadows. Shelby stood, slowly, trembling with a wraithlike fury that glowed from his body in an evil green aura.
Nate took an involuntary step back.
“This is your last warning. You have three days to get out of my house. Take your hillbilly, your folding metal box,
your noise, your dog, your dog’s feces—all of it. Get out. If you don’t, you will forever regret your decision to cross Colonel McAuliffe. NOW GO!”
A blast of frigid wind rushed through the parlor. Nate tumbled over and landed on the seat of his pants. The lights flared up in the brightness of a thousand suns. The sudden heat shattered the bulbs in a massive crack of thunder, sending a rain of glass showering inside the house. It was all Nate could do to cover his head for protection.
The following silence was deafening.
Nate peeked from behind his forearms. He realized he was shaking. The air in the parlor was still sharply cooler than usual but now returning back to normal. Shelby had collapsed back into the couch and looked like he was sleeping.
“Shelby!”
Nate commando-crawled across the floor, unsure if another ghost attack was coming. He reached the old man’s shins and pulled himself up like a soldier peeking up out of a foxhole. Shelby’s head was tilted back, his mouth open, snoring. Nate smacked him gently on each cheek.
“Wh—huh?”
“Shelby!” Nate hissed.
The old man opened heavy eyelids to find Nate half-sitting in his lap. A lecherous smile twisted across his face.
“Did you see any of that?” Nate said.
Confusion set in. “Huh?”
“The ghost. Talking through you. You were possessed—I think.”
“No, I don’t … remember …” Shelby rubbed his eyes. He smacked his lips while he looked around the carnage in the room. “A ghost? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” More lip-smacking. “Why do I taste radishes?”
18
Nate found it impossible to sleep that night. He would have high-tailed it to a motel back in town if not for his huge budget concerns. The home equity loan he had secured with the help of his parents was less than what he really needed, and he’d have to stretch and skimp to cover the estimates Matt had given him. If he didn’t, the renovation would stop when the money ran out, and Nate would have nothing left from which to draw. He would officially become a hobo. So here Nate was, sitting upright in bed, lights on, fueled by the bravery of being broke.
Adolf was small comfort at the foot of the bed. He lay on his back, legs upright, his equipment on full display.
To keep his mind off the creepy events of the day, Nate decided to read some more of the journal he had found in the attic. He had to find any clue he could as to what was really going on with this Colonel McAuliffe thing. Talking to Shelby after his episode hadn’t been much help. The poor old man was unable to focus on any sort of coherent discussion. Nate finally gave up and walked him back home to make sure he didn’t stumble into some ditch full of alligators.
The journal continued in the same loopy handwriting as before.
6 April, 1861
I met my tutor this morning, Miss Mae. She is the very picture of an elderly school teacher, thin as a rail but strong as a whip. When she arrived, Sophie greeted her and spirited her off to some private room for a long conversation. I knew she was here as I had seen the carriage, but I contented myself to remain in my room until I was called for. Junie was with me and after she helped me dress, we pulled out the checkerboard Father had given me and played a few games. I know I’m not supposed to do things like that with the slaves, but Junie really is very bright and attentive and in many ways is becoming a trusted friend. She also is quite clever and even won one game from me when I failed to spy her counterattack that resulted in the loss of six of my pieces!
I asked Junie about her parents, she said they lived together off in one of the barracks and that she had three brothers, all older. I asked her if she had any sisters and she got quiet for a moment, which was unusual as with me she is quite the chatterbox. Her normally cheery smile slid from her face like rain on the window. Finally, she spoke. She told me she had a sister, but that she was sold off to a different white owner and never heard from again. This time, it was my turn to be silent. Slave or no, I could not imagine being torn asunder from my family, never to see them again.
When I was finally summoned, I felt great trepidation as I walked down the grand stairs. Miss Mae seemed very stern and strict and informed me that our lessons would require my utmost attention and effort. It is quite apparent that Miss Mae is not a person to be trifled with. I was very polite and proper during introductions, of course, but I have my reservations as to how much I will enjoy this part of my time here.
Then we started my first lesson. Arithmetic.
Now, working with numbers is not something that comes naturally to me. I must focus my concentration on the logic of it. So about twenty minutes in, a great booming argument from out in the main parlor certainly took my mind off my work.
“I said, SWEET tea, not a glass full of sugar topped with a drop of piss!”
“Well, maybe you can obtain some proper measuring cups for our household to use. They’re slaves, not human abacuses!”
“Are you saying I don’t provide?”
“The LORD provides. You just sit in your chair and fart like those dogs of yours.”
“Well, that sure feels better than when we’re in bed!”
“How DARE you!”
Something crashed against the wall. A vase?
“I’d say how dare YOU toss something like that with such wild lack of accuracy. You embarrass every other troll who ever inhabited the South!”
Now came a steady stream of shattering noises. Dishes? Glassware? The cacophony was only interrupted by some very interesting curse words with which I’m not sure I’ve had the pleasure.
Miss Mae looked down at her books and tried to be prim and proper. I followed suit and stared at my arithmetic, and was consumed with the numbers and the math. I started to tally every crash and explosion of pottery. Let’s see. If a proper southern household had thirty-two place settings for family and guests … figure a plate, small plate, bowl, and glass for drink … four times thirty-two would be one hundred twenty-eight … yes, at this rate, in another five minutes the magazine will be out of ammunition. Oh, and all of us will need to eat off the floor.
Eventually, the crashing and arguing died down, and Miss Mae instructed me sternly to continue with our lesson. But soon there was more commotion in the hall, like a herd of bison trampling by, followed by the opening and slamming of a door. I had assumed Sophie had recused herself from my Uncle’s argument. But shortly thereafter, I could not help but hear some shuffling and perhaps even a giggle? Some low voices that seemed apologetic. Then there was some sort of smacking. And moaning. Grunting?
“I do say, Miss Mae. I rather think those noises sound like—”
“Lesson’s done for the day!” Miss Mae declared. She noisily packed up her school books and bid me a grand afternoon.
14 April, 1861
I woke in the middle of the night. There is arguing once again, downstairs, and loud. I hear Uncle Rufus’s voice shouting at Aunt Sophie, and then it gets real quiet. Then Sophie starts yelling back. But there are no insults, no duel of sharp barbs that ultimately lead to brutal confrontation, followed by the inevitable atonement of passionate, long-winded ravaging in the bedroom. Which, if I must say a word—eew.
I cannot quite tell what the object of the quarrel is. Uncle Rufus said something about a Fort Sumter. Is that a place? It sounded as if it were under attack. Uncle Rufus started talking, I think he was reading aloud as the word choice did not sound like his own, about the shelling, thousands of mortars firing two minutes apart, heated shots that blew up the Fort’s magazine. The garrison surrendered. That’s when Uncle Rufus went into a terrible state, yelling things like do they know what they’ve done and the hornet’s nest will drop. He sounded so frightfully angry. Aunt Sophie would yell at him and tell him to calm down, he was being overly dramatic. Uncle would shout, how is it that President Lincoln calling for volunteers to reclaim their Fort was dramatic?
I could not follow much of the quarrel. At one point I fear I heard both of
them crying together. I know that no one in the house would dare interrupt them, nor would I. I instead buried my head in my pillow and tried my best to dream of simpler, more pleasant things than war.
28 April, 1861
I spent some time with Uncle Rufus this afternoon. We dressed in plain clothes as he took me around the plantation grounds on horseback. It is getting hot, and with no rain over the past week, the dust and dirt gets on everything.
There are so many people here. Uncle Rufus has hundreds of slaves that work the fields. A number of them were tending some plots with these little stalks sticking up from the ground. I asked if that was cotton. Uncle Rufus said no, that was corn; that’s what the slaves eat along with their bacon for their meals. They plant it back in February.
We rode on for what seemed like a long time until we got to fields with a different kind of growth. This one had many more people in it working. Uncle Rufus explained to me how the process works. First, the mule teams plow the beds in long ridges, six feet wide between water furrows. Then another plow cuts down the middle of the bed and into this a slave girl drops the cotton seed from a bag she carries around her neck. Lastly, a third mule pulls a harrow which throws dirt upon the seed, therefore covering it and completing the process. This all took place back in March before I had arrived.
The slaves have tools they throughout the process to manage the growth. About a week after planting, they do what is called scraping the cotton—another plow cuts crossways against the beds so that each seed is left in a little mound all by itself. This helps separate and protect the cotton seed while the slaves hoe down everything in between, from wild grasses to even smaller cotton stalks that would not grow good bolls. The slave teams progress through the plantation, from one field to the next, until they do this for every field and then they go back to the beginning and start over. A full cycle takes about two weeks and will continue through July.
The House That Jack Built: A Humorous Haunted House Fiasco Page 12
