The House That Jack Built: A Humorous Haunted House Fiasco

by Jonathan Paul Isaacs

  I watched, and waited, and soon realized that this time he was truly off into a drunken slumber. I sighed with a deep breath and prayed that my message had gotten through to him—that he would awake in the morn and rush to Sophie’s side, and clear all the fighting and griping through which they lived on a daily basis so that she could enter the kingdom of heaven knowing without a doubt that she was loved, and so that he could live clear of this strange guilt he seemed to carry with him. But my curiosity took hold of those last cryptic words and I smoothed out the note to which Rufus had gestured.

  It was a military telegraph. A bloody battle at Manassas, Virginia. The Confederate forces had won, but with many gruesome casualties and more likely to come. The North had clearly signaled they would fight dearly to preserve the Union.

  A war was certainly coming.

  So much for the theory of King Cotton.

  26

  Nate was readying a power floor stripper when he heard a tentative knock on the front door.

  “Who is it?”

  Brad’s face appeared around the half-opened edge. “Nate?”

  “Brad!” Nate took off his safety glasses. “You made it!”

  The door opened all the way as Brad entered and gawked around the room. Sarah was right behind him.

  “This is your house?” Brad said.

  “Yeah. What do you think?”

  “It’s nice. I mean—it’s big. It’s nice and big.”

  “Yes, it is. And still lots to do.” Nate gave Sarah a big hug as he spoke. “I’m so glad you guys are here. Thanks for agreeing to help.”

  Sarah kissed him on the cheek. “This place is awesome! How long until your Open House?”

  “One week. Like I said on the phone, there’s nothing like a firm date to push through the last ten percent.”

  “Uh, buddy?” Brad said, surveying the room. “If the rest of the place looks like this room, I think you’ve got more like fifty percent.”

  Nate considered that for a moment. “Well, the different rooms are at different stages. But all the big stuff is done—structural, plumbing, electrical. It’s just the fine tuning now.”

  A wicked-sounding cackle came from the back bedroom, followed by a rapid succession of crack-crack-crack.

  “What the fuck was that?” Brad said.

  “Well, I needed all the help I could get, so you’re not the only ones I called. That’s my dad.”

  Brad’s face slackened. “Your dad’s here.”

  “Yep.”

  On cue, Nate’s father sauntered out of the hallway on painter’s stilts, holding a length of trim in one hand and a nail gun in the other. He smiled a big, toothy grin.

  “Hey, kids! Are you ready to PARTY?”

  “Hello, Mr. Merritt,” Sarah said sweetly. Brad offered a sour smile.

  His father turned to Nate. “Hey, we’re outta nails, unless you have another stash somewhere.”

  “We’re out of nails?”

  “Yeh.”

  “You went through that whole box?”

  “Yeh.”

  Nate wrinkled his nose. “Okay. Why don’t you work on painting the crown molding then.”

  “Are you going to get more nails?”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll have to. We still have to do the upstairs.”

  Nate’s dad held out his arms like a champion wrestler after a body slam. An otherworldly yell filled the room. “Yeah, baby! More nailing, right here!” And he sauntered back down the hallway from which he came.

  “Your dad’s here,” Brad said again, his voice flat.

  “Hey, man, like I said. The last ten percent.”

  “He has a nail gun.”

  “That’s what you need to put up crown molding.”

  Brad turned to Sarah, his eyes full of alarm.

  “Oh, come on, baby,” Sarah reassured him, slipping her arms around his waist. “Mr. Merritt’s harmless. He’s just a loveable kind of loony.”

  “I’d feel safer with Gary Busey shaking a chainsaw.”

  Sarah ignored him. “What do you need us to do, Nate?”

  “We’ve got to paint the railings outside. How about that?”

  “That sounds perfect. Brad, honey, why don’t you get our work clothes out of the car and we’ll change?”

  Brad tromped back out the front door, clearly regretting his commitment to helping Nate get the house ready for “a short weekend of work and a long weekend of beer.” Sarah waved off the attitude.

  “Is he going to be okay?” Nate asked.

  “Oh, yeah, he’ll be fine.”

  “I probably shouldn’t mention that my dad’s using a circular saw to cut the molding, should I?”

  “Yeah … no … let’s leave that out.” Sarah smiled sweetly again.

  He agreed. When Brad reentered the house he got them a room to change in and set them to work outside.

  Nate was done. He had spent almost five months of his life living and working in a dump of a house. He was broke, he was tired, and he was utterly creeped out. It was time to tie off the loose ends and get the place on the market. Nate had taken it upon himself to call in the cavalry—his parents, his friends, Shelby, and even Anna to make a final push.

  Shelby had been coming over every morning and seemed to relish being too busy to dwell on Tobey’s death. He was in charge of the staging. “Staging sells the house, now-now. Don’t tell me otherwise!” Shelby had drawn sketches of each room and was making daily trips to the neighboring towns to hit the antique bazaars, furniture stores, even estate sales to see what he could source on a budget. Nate’s mom went right into coordinating the interior paint colors to go with the furniture Shelby found. His dad, meanwhile, was helping Nate get through the interior touches needed to make everything look finished—trim, polished floors, plus any installed fixtures. Anna was busy driving around setting out Open House signs and placing advertisements to drum up traffic. And now that Brad and Sarah were here, Nate had extra hands to clean up the house’s exterior.

  Matt showed up that afternoon. Nate was talking to Brad on the front porch when the redneck’s pickup rolled to a stop off the front porch.

  “Who’s that?” Brad asked. He lowered the heat gun he was using to peel off old paint from the balusters.

  “Huh,” Nate said, squinting. “That’s the contractor I was—Matt? What the hell?”

  The transformation was stark. Matt staggered up the front porch stairs like he was a member of the Living Dead. His hair had two huge streaks of stark white at the temples. He seemed to have aged ten years.

  Nate met him halfway. “Jesus, what happened to you?”

  Matt’s eyes flicked left and right as if he were a POW about to dart across the razor wire. “What do you mean? I’m … fine.”

  “You look like hell. You’re hair’s white, for God’s sake!”

  The big redneck froze momentarily before plowing forward. “Look, Nate. I’m here to turn in my resignation. Officially. I’ve seen some things that, uh.…” His voice trailed off for a moment. “I just need to not be here.” He threw a furtive glance at Brad. “Anyway, it, uh, looks like you’ve brought in some other help anyway.”

  “I did, but geez, Matt. I’m with you. I want this sucker done. I brought in the cavalry to get ready for this open house at the end of the week. We’re rocking and rolling—”

  “I—I can’t. I just came for my tools.”

  This time, it was Nate’s turn to freeze. “Your tools?”

  “Yeah.”

  Nate looked over at the heat gun Brad was holding. Brad raised his eyebrows and turned nonchalantly away.

  “But we’re using them.”

  “I need them back. I have another job I’m supposed to start.”

  Nate wrung his hands. “Can’t you wait just a couple days?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Oh, come on, man. You know my tools got ripped off. I don’t have any others, and we have three days to get this all done.”

  Matt started
fishing through his pockets. “Look, dude, I’m really sorry. I feel really bad, but I have to put food on the table, and I need my tools. Here.” He pulled out a handful of little white cards. “Here are some of my competitors. This guy—Mario Rodriguez—he does real good work. Why don’t you give him a call—”

  “No.”

  Matt blinked. “No, what?”

  “No, you can’t have your tools back.”

  The redneck gave him an impassive stare.

  Nate backed off. “Yet. You can’t have them yet. Come on, dude. We are so close to getting this thing on the market. It’s almost there. It looks good. A lot of that’s because of your work, Matt. Don’t you want to have a showcase for all your hard effort? Something people can come and see? Something that will drive more business your way?’

  “More business I can’t do anything about because you’re keeping all my tools hostage?”

  “No! More business you’ll be able to tackle three days from now.”

  Matt thought about that for a moment but ultimately wasn’t convinced. “I’m sorry, Nate. I work for a living. I need my tools.” He started to push toward Brad, eyeing the heat gun.

  “Matt, wait, stop. When does your next job start?”

  The redneck hesitated.

  “You have a couple days before you start, don’t you?”

  “Well … maybe.”

  “How long?”

  “Nate—”

  “How long, Matt? We’re almost done! Three days. That’s all I need. I’ll even pack them all up and deliver them to you, so you don’t have to come back. Come on.”

  Matt took a deep breath. Then another. “I could probably … wait a day.…”

  Nate chucked him on the shoulder. “That’s it! Just a few days. Thanks. You won’t regret it, I promise. This place will look great and I’ll give you all the credit.”

  Matt still looked unsure but finally gave a nod. Nate felt a huge wave of momentary relief. That said, he knew one thing for sure. The clock was ticking.

  27

  Rufus paced around the parlor and begrudgingly acknowledged how the old house was starting to look better. Rotten wood had been replaced. The paint brightened the walls. The porch didn’t sag. New shrubs were laid out and were waiting to be planted. Despite all the nonsense, the mansion was undoubtedly more impressive than it had been in over a hundred years.

  “Cat?”

  Gilligan looked up as he rubbed his back against the bark of the tree.

  “Maybe I have been too hasty in my judgment of recent events.”

  Meow?

  “Don’t misunderstand me. I despise that idiotic boob of yours. Anyone who just barges in, desecrates one’s home, auctions off one’s belongings, and does nothing but cause a ruckus should be drawn and quartered. But I have to admit, I am starting to appreciate the revitalized look. It freshens everything up, don’t you think?”

  Meow.

  “Yes, indeed. Now, I’m not saying all the noise was worth it. My lost solitude can never be replaced. I am still deeply offended. I am simply offering that the house looks better.”

  Meow, meow.

  “What do you mean?”

  Meow me-oorrrrrwwwf.

  “Sell the house?” Rufus jerked, sending himself backward through the wall into an adjoining room. “He’s going to sell my house? You mean, someone’s going to buy it and move in here? Like … a family? With loud little children who cry and vandalize? No, no. That slimy little—”

  Rufus thrashed his way back to his feet. Gilligan crept through the door. The two stared at each other, one with concern, the other full of ghostly fury.

  Meow?

  Silence.

  Meow?

  More silence.

  Gilligan lowered himself and put his ears back.

  At length, Rufus spoke. “This is unacceptable. I’ve tried to deter this imbecile and his henchmen, to no avail. I have no other choice now than elimination. Time for the nuclear option.”

  Gilligan yowled.

  “How do I know what nuclear means?” Rufus thought for a moment. “James Groves. He was the gentleman who lived here before Edna. Talked about a cousin who worked on some nuclear project—Manhattan something, I think. Nice, quiet fellow.” His face darkened. “Quiet. Which is all I want. Peace and quiet. And not what I’m going to get at this rate. I’m sorry, cat. I’m bringing in my troops. It’s time to end this once and for all.”

  Gilligan let out a rueful moan.

  Rufus sighed. He had a lot of preparations to make.

  The good and bad of being a ghost was that most items in the physical world did not readily interact with ectoplasmic vapor. For example, walking through walls or other barriers proved exceptionally easy. Moving tools, on the other hand, took an immense amount of concentration to sufficiently solidify a contact point. But some things had a natural affinity for ectoplasm. Glass, which caught the natural radiation of the spirit world and was why ghosts often appeared in photographs. The gray matter of the human brain, which allowed for possession. Water. Aluminum. Copper. And, inexplicably, tobacco, which had one of the strongest dispositions for connectivity anywhere on Earth.

  Straightening his jacket, Rufus marched through the adjacent wall back toward the parlor—and right through a Gatorade bottle full of dip spit that had been sealed between the two panes of sheetrock. The gooey liquid smeared all over the front of his jacket and instantly ran down the inside of his ghostly shirt, past his belt line, and into his underwear.

  Rufus let loose a furious howl that made the foundation of the house tremble.

  ☠ ☠ ☠

  Leaning out the open driver’s-side window, Rick James studied the old mansion through his binoculars. A swarm of people kept moving in and out of the front door in a never-ending parade. A guy and a girl kept ferrying paint cans back and forth. Some prissy-man with a big, floppy hat was carrying shopping bags. And some wild-haired dude with big teeth kept caressing the air compressor attached to his nail gun. But the only two people The Ricker cared about were Anna, and that sumbitch he was sure was shacking up with her.

  There he is.

  Anna walked out the front door, followed by the target of Rick’s ire. She gave him a peck on the lips, got in her car, and drove off while the guy watched.

  Rick frowned. What was his name? Nate? Tate? Rhymed with hate? He chuckled to himself; yeah, hate seemed to be the right word. How he wanted to nail that bastard. Not as much as he wanted to nail Anna—in a different way, of course—but still, it was a lot. Rick was positive Anna would have been his by now, making him chicken pot pie each night and pole dancing in the bedroom. But nooooooo. This guy had to come along and mess it all up by gettin’ on with his lady.

  That was all right. Rick had a plan. He was going to get even in a big way.

  Sitting in the back of his pickup truck bed were four red plastic gas cans. He knew this fool had put a huge amount of time into renovating this old house. Well, Rick was going to burn it down. He’d wait till right around sunset. Later would have been better, but being out after dark violated the terms of his parole and he didn’t want to get in trouble. First, he’d sneak into the backyard and approach the house from behind, two trips, two gas cans each. Then he’d make a little pile of them in the crawlspace at one corner. Lastly, he would pour out the contents of one so that there was a little path of gas that led away from the house so he could light it from a safe distance, just like in the cartoons. If he was really lucky, there would even be a little explosion and some noise.

  The house would be gone, this foreigner would have to leave, and Anna would be his again. Yeah, this would be awesome.

  He was going to make Nate pay.

  ☠ ☠ ☠

  Elvira sat amongst the lit candles in the back room of her voodoo store, staring at the rune-inscribed pentagram etched onto the floor. Twice, she had steamed and spiced and enchanted the chicken bones before flinging them into the pentagram. Twice, they had landed in the same
unmistakable pattern. Elvira wiped her forehead with a handkerchief and said a silent prayer. This was very, very bad.

  The disturbances in spiritual harmony had intensified ever since that young man Nathaniel had moved into the McAuliffe estate. At the séance, Elvira had felt the flow of spite and the anger gaining strength. That’s when she knew they were facing a real problem, notwithstanding Nathaniel’s juvenile antics with the Ouija. Now the discord had reached a simmering boil, and the chicken bones confirmed her worst fears. Elvira gulped at the very thought of what it meant. It could only mean one thing.

  A rift was coming.

  She had seen a rift once. Back when she was just a little girl, the Great Zombie Scare of 1973 had caused a scandal when various members of the local populace turned purple and attacked passers-by in an attempt to eat their brains. The National Guard had eventually come in and restored order, but not before seventeen people had been eaten and at least four others severely chewed on. Officials blamed the epidemic on a bad batch of PCP. But Elvira knew the truth.

  This one, however, looked to be even worse. Signs pointed to ghostly horrors transgressing from the beyond into the corporeal world. What would it be? A demon? A poltergeist? A mantis-like Mantazyx or a baboon-shaped minor devil? She shuddered to think of the terrifying and ghastly images in her Official Encyclopaedia of Otherworldly Beings, Third Edition and what it could mean for one to actually materialize into the here and now.

  Elvira struggled to push herself upright from the floor. Waddling to the back shelves in her storeroom, she pulled out her field bag and began stocking it with the necessary emergency equipment: more chicken feet, dried mangrove roots, toads in cardboard boxes. Berry paste and a pouch of marijuana. She put on her best black shawl and top hat. Then, as she looked in the mirror and wondered what else she might need, the thought finally came to her that it was better to be safe than sorry.

  Did she bring it?

  She took a deep breath and decided, yes, she might need it. Elvira dug out a hatbox from the old steamer trunk and lovingly caressed it for a moment. She had been saving this for catastrophic emergencies. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use it.