The Graveyard Shift Page 9

  “Someone must have left this on,” he muttered to himself with a laugh, before drinking freely.

  Jack was taking care of me, and I was taking care of him. And when he was done with all of his agonizing work, I thought I might have looked better than I did when Mr. Everton’s father first constructed me, some one hundred years ago. My wood had never looked sharper, my walls never smoother. I even felt better.

  And though he hadn’t stayed the night yet during this week of restoration, opting instead to drive to his old home, on the sixth day he brought in a bed and fell into it quite wearily after eight hours of grueling work. I thought he was still sleeping as he hung one foot over the edge of the bed and laid with his torso completely uncovered, but that seemed to not be the case as I gently lifted his blankets up to chin and tucked him in.

  “Ahhh, you aren’t so bad, now are you?” he asked aloud. His eyes remained closed, and there was a smile on his face.

  We spent the next few days together, Jack and I. A truck arrived, assumedly filled with his possessions, but he had yet to move a single thing inside. First, he rearranged some of the existing furniture, which actually freed up some space in the living room, and vigorously cleaned my entire interior. I tried to give him his privacy since I had begun to trust the man, but I was still naturally curious. So I watched him from time to time, seeing only care and patience in his movements. That made me happy.

  On that particular day of cleaning, Jack had reached the end of the road. His cleaning frenzy was completed. He acknowledged this, in the den, when he finally laid down the last of his dust cloths and fell into the plush crimson upholstery of one of my oldest Victorian sofas. He sat there for a good five or ten minutes in silence, just staring at the empty hearth. I could imagine his satisfaction. In fact, I shared it. As noted before, I had not felt so good in ages. Had we been able to speak to one another, I would have commended Jack, even thanked him.

  And then he did something which struck me as odd. He stood up, walked to the mantle at which he’d been staring, and lifted the five-foot-tall oil painting of the Everton family off the wall.

  What was he doing? Surely he couldn’t be thinking of getting rid of such a beautiful canvas. I had been so sure the man was not a selfish wretch like the others. I felt a surge of fury well up within me, and unconsciously, the windows in the den all closed with a slam.

  Jack was not startled in the least, but gingerly rested the painting next to his feet and cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was calm and even.

  “As an artist, I assure you this piece will be treated with the utmost respect.”

  He laid the picture against the wall and left the room. He went out the front door, opened the back of the moving truck, and removed a package wrapped in brown paper almost identical in size to the painting of the Evertons. He brought it into the house, the first of his personal possessions beside his toolbox and bag of clothes.

  I must admit, I felt anxious. I wanted to trust the man, but I was so confused by what he was doing.

  When Jack peeled back the paper, I was surprised to see a splay of pretty, bright colors. The canvas he revealed was a breathtaking rendition of a field of sunflowers, basking in the radiant heat of a summer sun. The detail was amazingly sharp, almost looking like a color photo rather than a handcrafted scene. The blues, yellows, and greens were vivid in their contrast and at the same time, soft in their overall cooperation.

  And then I understood. The painting was one of his. He had said he was an artist, but in my panicked confusion I had failed to process the words.

  In no time at all, Jack had hung the painting on the wall. It was a perfect fit for the space above the mahogany mantle. It came as a surprise to me that I was able to admit that, given my fondness for the previous occupant of the wall. He smiled at that field of flowers, pride shining in his eyes and an easy heart. I saw fully then that this act of replacement was done without a trace of malicious intent. Jack had nothing against me, nor the Evertons. He was merely bringing new life into my old, rattling bones. He was making this his home. And really, could I blame him for that?

  Jack spoke aloud and it was then I knew he was acutely aware of my presence.

  “That is my finest piece,” he said. “And I hope it brings you—and us—as much joy as it has brought me the last few years it has hung in my studio in the city.”

  Yes, I thought. I believed that it would.

  Jack put a hand on the framed painting of the Evertons. He touched it gently, which I greatly appreciated.

  “As I said, I have the highest respect for art. I am sure this portrait means a great deal to you as I do understand its historical significance. I give my word to keep it safe.” His words were firm, but spoken with honest empathy. This was a man of honor, of dignity and class. I knew he told the truth.

  I watched as he took the painting outside and set it on the covered porch. There he proceeded to wrap it as carefully as the package he’d just opened, using soft paper wrapping and tape. When finished, Jack placed the picture in the wine cellar, among the empty racks.

  Jack returned to the moving truck, which was backed up to the bottom of the steps. He lifted the rolling rear door, revealing not the furniture or boxes that I had expected, but rather a tangle of metal rods and wooden tables. I could also discern multiple rows of paper-wrapped parcels, clearly more of his artwork.

  I must admit, I was intrigued. In my life, I had never before been exposed to the habits of the artistically inclined. Was I about to bear witness to the creation of a new painting? I had already witnessed the fruits of Jack’s abilities and was eager to see the process of invention.

  Over the course of the next hour, I watched as Jack hefted one table after another inside the front door. Some were larger than others, and I quickly found that at least half of them were easels. He placed them in almost every room of the bottom floor. Despite their size variations, it was clear that all of them served one unifying purpose: that of display.

  Covered in sweat and panting, Jack did not say a word. I got the impression he was trying to gauge my reaction to the presence of his new additions. He looked around the den, gaze lingering on the now open windows for nearly a full minute. The stillness must have satisfied him, because he smiled and wiped sweat from his brow. He glanced at his wristwatch and turned to the staircase.

  “Time for a shower,” Jack said, chuckling to himself. “I hope you’re in the mood to mingle.”

  Jack talked to me, and often. Even in his best days, Jonathan Everton never noticed my presence. With him I was more of a silent guardian. Only the children acknowledged my being, when we played hide-and-seek games in their youth. Eventually, they too turned a blind eye. Now, with a new master, an adult who knew of my life force, it was as if I had made a real friend. It was nice. And so it was pleasant when Jack invited a dozen or so friends over that night. They were quiet artist-types that wore scarves and tiny, circular glasses and said things like “postmodern” and “Avant-garde” as they sipped hefty goblets of wine carried up from the cellar.

  They admired Jack’s work, and I could see in their eyes that they were fond of him. As fond of him as I was. They didn’t just like his art. They respected it. And they respected me. Hands delicately reached out to caress me, and soft whispers confirmed how ‘cool’ I was. How ‘elegant.’

  “I’d like to make an announcement,” Jack called out, half way into the night. “Ladies and gentlemen, please, if you could gather round.”

  Men and women assembled in the den as Jack stood before the hearth. I hadn’t noticed it before, because I was so entranced by the people admiring my walls, but Jonathan’s lamp was sitting on one of Jonathan’s old night stands, both on center display, like artwork. I might have thought it was artwork, too, but never knew that Jack felt this way.

  “I know you’re wondering why I relocated my gallery, and to here of all places,” Jack said. With that, total silence finally fell over the room. “And that’s beca
use art is alive.” He clenched his fist, swept across the room with mischievous eyes, and repeated, “Art is alive.”

  “Hear, hear,” toasted a man, as he raised his wine glass. This was met with a few bursts of muffled applause.

  “And I’m going to demonstrate that for you all tonight,” Jack said. “Because this house—this house is alive. This entire house is art, and it is alive.”

  This was met with some hushed whispers. What was Jack doing? Why was he calling attention to me?

  “Turn on your master’s old lamp,” Jack said. “Please, I beg of you. Don’t make a fool of me in front of my new friends.” This was met with a bit of laughter.

  I don’t know why I did it—perhaps it was out of blind trust—but I complied with his request. The lamp flicked on, and the crowd oohed and aahed not only as the bulb burst to life, but as the lamp’s chain remained swinging to and fro.

  “Is this some elaborate trick?” another man asked, giving a slow, sarcastic clap. “Bravo, Jack. Bravo.”

  “No trick,” Jack replied. “What do you want it to do? Ask it anything. Maybe, just maybe it’ll answer.”

  More laughter.

  The man raised his hand to his chin and thought. “I don’t know, close the door?”

  Jack gestured for me. I made the door slam firmly in its threshold. The young woman beside it jumped, threw her hand up to the breast of her flannel jacket, and let out a nervous laugh.

  “Some good trickery,” the man continued, even as his very embarrassed date tugged at his coat’s sleeve and quietly asked him to stop. “How do you do it, Jack? Switches? Hidden strings? I love the gimmick, but come on, you want us to buy that this house is actually alive?”

  Jack didn’t have to say anything, because that angered me. I didn’t like this man, not for doubting Jack, but for doubting me. And so I unscrewed a light bulb on the ceiling—eyes were drawn to it as it flickered out and swiveled madly in the socket—and dropped it toward his head. The man stepped nimbly aside as it exploded on the floor into a thousand tiny shards, gasping in bewilderment.

  “That almost hit me!”

  Yes, that almost hit him, but the fire poker near the hearth—that I delivered, blunt side first, straight into his liver.

  “What the fuck?” the man demanded, as he recoiled and grabbed his stomach in agony.

  “Easy, easy,” Jack said, with his hands spread out in a gesture of peace. “This man meant no harm.” He glanced at the man with hands spread. “Now do you believe that it’s alive? Aren’t emotions a sign of life? You taunted it, and you got a response. Anger.”

  It was true. I was angry, angry at being exploited like a novelty. I was not a parlor trick to be shown off. I was a house, a sentient guardian for those that dwelled within me.

  But it was too late. I had showed them what they all wanted to see, and for the next thirty minutes the gallery was abuzz with men and women that wandered my hallways and ran their hands along me like children learning the contours of a new toy. And they egged me on while they did it.

  “Can you make time go forward?” a young man asked idiotically, as he stared up at one of Mr. Everton’s old clocks.

  I turned the clock upside down on its nail, and when the fellow leaned sideways to stare, I swept the rug out from beneath his feet.

  “Can you do something for me to show me you’re really alive, house?” a woman asked, as she and two friends walked into the den.

  I unplugged the lamp in the corner of the room and whipped her straight in the hindquarters with the cord. I didn’t need to justify my existence to the likes of her. And yet, rather than scream and run as the other tenants had, this girl laughed. And asked me to do it again.

  They were actually enjoying themselves. I was perplexed. Something was deeply amiss here. I had made a miscalculation about Jack. Jonathan Everton had a maxim that he firmly repeated to his own growing son over the years, and it came to me at that moment.

  “A man is equal to the friends he keeps,” Jonathan had said to young Theodore. It was an idea that I had always agreed with, but never truly understood. That is, I never understood the depth of the sentiment until that moment.

  I watched Jack grin, hoisting his wine glass aloft to salute the giggling woman whose backside I had just whipped. The sight of him—of his approval of this juvenile madness and the exploitation of my presence—it broke my heart. I did not appreciate the reckless foolishness of his comrades, nor of his encouragement. It disappointed me. I had opened myself up to trusting Jack and now I witnessed a side of him that I did not like. And what was that he had said about opening a gallery within my walls? Was that the purpose of the fully loaded box truck sitting out front? And of the art easels currently strewn all about the main floor?

  My floorboards groaned as I felt rage well up within me. There was fire in my belly. And for a moment it overwhelmed me. I acted without thinking, without control of myself. Many things happened in the following seconds, only a handful of which I was able to later recall.

  The reverie of the partygoers was silenced when every one of my windows slid upward and came crashing down in their frames, slide locks firmly set in place. In the next second I slammed all of my open doors closed, upstairs and down, effectively sealing the majority of the party into the confines of the den. After I killed the electrical service at the control panel in the basement, one woman dropped her wine glass, sending a blood-colored spray of cabernet across one of the Evertons’ largest rugs. In the firelight, the glass shards sparkled like electrified snowflakes under her shoes.

  The woman screamed, which was followed by another. I scarcely even heard it over the sound of what came next. The flames in the fireplace surged outward and into the room, flailing like a whip toward Jack’s guests, and even at Jack himself. All those attendant to my wrath were backed against the walls, scrambling to claw at the immobile doors and windows. I was unable to reach them with the flames, but I knew that I didn’t need to burn them. I slid the flue shut with a rattling creak and immediately smoke began to fill the room.

  I tried to hurl Jack’s paintings and their stands toward the hungry fire, but found them immobile against my will. Instead, I split the wood floors where the feet of the easels stood, causing the stands to collapse. His precious paintings, those of such vibrant color and love, tumbled to the ground.

  The scene began to blacken as faces and limbs became blurred to me. And then I realized that the looming darkness was not just an effect of the smoke. It felt as if I were losing control of my being. My seething vengeance began to drift away, like so much dissipating ash in the wind. The roaring flames, the billowing smoke, and the frightened beasts screaming in my den: all of them were swallowed by the storming shadows of my rapidly approaching unconsciousness.

  And then the world went black.

  I do not know exactly how much time passed.

  When I awoke, sunlight shone through my windows, kissing the hardwood floors with morning warmth. Outside, the sparrows sang their song, and never before had their voices been more welcome. Glimpses of the party scene replayed in my thoughts, scenes from a passing dream. Though I was not one for dreaming. I do not think I was capable of it. I recalled the distress and the anger, the unleashed rage, and felt ashamed.

  Panic stole over my waking mind as I rested there, my being focused in the upstairs study, soaking up the morning sun. What were the results of my fury? What had I done? Had I frightened Jack away? He was the closest thing to a friend I had possessed in decades. Even worse, had I hurt him? Or possibly killed someone with my attack at the party? The scene came crashing back to me with horrifying clarity.

  I did not feel well. Perhaps it was a residual effect of my convalescence, but I had trouble focusing my thoughts. My senses felt dulled and incomplete. And there was pain. A quickly growing throb began to spread through my wooden bones. Something was wrong with my insides. And yet I found it incredibly difficult finding the willpower to investigate. It took all of my strengt
h to divert my physical attention from the warm, calming serenity of Mr. Everton’s study and move about the house.

  My mind drew me downstairs, where my senses told me I would find Jack.

  When I first sighted Jack, I was relieved to find him alive. I had pictured a heap of smoke-choked corpses awaiting my return to the den. What I found instead, was Jack on hands and knees, whistling and doing some repairs to the damage that I had no doubt caused during my outburst. My relief was so great that I unlatched my windows and inhaled a deep gust of rich, outdoor air. Briefly, the aching pain subsided.

  “Well hello,” Jack said, without looking up from his work. I turned my attention back to him, aware now of the grating sensation of his sandpaper against my floor. “Nice to see you. I was wondering when you’d get around to stirring again. The party must have really done a number on you, eh?”

  Indeed it had. And as I watched Jack’s careful, loving hands sanding the spots on the floor which I had collapsed to topple his easels, I felt bad. I felt guilty even. I looked to the mantle above the empty fireplace and saw that the sunflowers had not been disturbed. For that I was almost doubly thankful. And then I scanned the room to inspect the other paintings. They were all fine, as well. But then I paused, considering the entirety of the room as a whole. Something was different. No, not just that. Something was wrong.

  It took a moment, but I finally registered what had happened. With dawning horror, I realized what this man had done. He had stripped me of every piece of antique furniture that the Everton family had left behind. The sofas, the ottomans, the office furniture: all of it was gone. Even the beds, the twin frames where young Theodore and June dreamed the dreams of youthful innocence, had been taken away. My bones shivered within the walls as I finally learned what that dull, persistent pain was. It was the absence of the furniture, torn unwillingly from my body like perfectly healthy teeth.