The House That Frack Built
by Butch Widing
I stared at the house that was built in the ’50s by the Eugene Frack Construction Company, using the latest cutting-edge technology. Namely…concrete. Concrete, man, and lots of it. Concrete driveway, walkways, steps, foundation, floors and, in this particular house, walls. Yep, you heard right, prefabricated walls bolted in place. It's a good thing houses like this weren't sold by the pound. Westley's Aunt Matty left her the whole kit and caboodle.
I watched as Westley slid her newly acquired key into the porch door lock. The key was acquired this morning at settlement, which was quick; brisk; just the facts, ma'am; and over before my coffee cooled.
We stepped onto the porch. It smelled damp, musty, and earthy. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I did. It came away damp. I sniffed. Hmm, concrete. Big surprise. Westley chirped delight and clapped her hands like a little girl on her first birthday. I wondered if her sniffer was working today. We entered the main door. I challenged the living room not to smell. It resisted.
"We've got some airing out to do," I said. I looked around for a window. None. That didn't make sense. I went back outside and took a look. Sure enough, two windows looked back at me. I approached the first and peered in, cupping my hands around my eyes. Holy crap, the window was fake. I was looking at concrete.
"Westley, you're not going to believe this. I found out…"
"Harold, isn't it Dreamsville?" Westley interrupted, with her fists tucked under her chin.
Dreamsville? What the what?
"Who are you, and what've you done with Westley?" I chided, but had a slight inkling a pattern was beginning to emerge.
Westley drifted into the kitchen.
"Honey, the windows. They're…"
"I know, Aunt Matty couldn't take the sun, but wanted the house to fit into the neighborhood, so…"
"She had windows installed outside the concrete?"
Westley nodded as she opened the oven door and looked inside.
“What other quirks did she have?"
"Who, Matty?”
"No… Mrs. Butterworth, Numbo. Whom were we just talking about?" I rested my fists on my hips.
"Well, she was very patient, unlike you, although that's not a quirk. Let's see." Westley cupped her chin, gazing into the past. "She collected thoughts."
"Collected thoughts? As in, let me collect my thoughts?"
"No, she was clairvoyant, to use an archaic term. She could read minds. But not in the literal sense, like reading a book. It was more like she was a receiver. Like a radio picking up a station's signal. Right frequencies, and all that."
"Certain people were transmitters?" I asked.
Things like this intrigued me. Westley wouldn't hang out with a close-minded thinker.
"Yes, she collected the thoughts and stored them in a Mason jar."
"A what?" Open-minded thinker or not, come on, "A jar?"
"Yes, it should still be in its secret hiding place."
"Mrs. Butterworth shared it with you?"
"Oh, yes, we were inseparable when I summered here as a child."
"You never told me."
She exited the kitchen and started climbing the stairs.
I followed, listening to the boards creak messages to each other, probably the language of the trees. Knot me. Fir sure. Oak A. We crested the steps and entered a long, narrow hall. It smelled like, well, you know.
Westley went into the first room on the right. I went straight to the end of the hall to use the bathroom. I closed the door and surveyed the interior. The tile was in pretty good shape for over 50 years of us. It probably had a concrete base.
While standing over the toilet, I heard murmuring coming from inside the vanity. Not just one person, but a multitude of people. I thought about how humans were supposed to hear symphonies in the desert, due to lack of sensory input. Apparently, the brain provided its own entertainment.
I washed my hands and checked the vanity. It was empty.
A knock sounded at the door. "Are you decent, Harold?"
"Come on in."
"You're in the right spot."
"Right spot?" I asked.
“Near the secret spot."
"The jar?"
Westley knelt in front of the vanity and pulled out the bottom drawer. Setting it on the floor, she reached inside, opening a silver-plated hatch that uncovered a pocket between the floor joists. The voices got a little louder.
"Check it out."
I viewed a quart-sized Mason jar, swirling with intermittent lights that changed color. Westley placed it against my ear. I could almost make out the words.
"This is astounding. How the…what the…"
"Ssh, it's a family secret."
"Yeah, if your last name's Addams."
I followed Westley downstairs. We sat at the chrome-and-yellow kitchen table that would do justice to a ’57 Chevy. Westley placed the jar on the table. I picked it up and listened, intently.
"What do you intend to do with this?" I asked.
"I'm not sure."
I could make out certain voices that sounded like chanting.
"Harold, Harold, Harold," the voices repeated. This couldn't be. I shook the jar and placed it against my other ear. I heard my name repeated.
"They're inviting you in, Harold."
"Who is, and where are they inviting me?” I asked, perplexed.
"The captured souls,” Westley's eyes gleamed. "Thoughts are feelings, comprised of emotions, reactions and sentiments, pulsing together to create the inner essence of the being. Once removed from the distracting physical realm, I believe this action continues, perhaps to a higher level. Some might interpret these as ghosts, but these collected thoughts are in essence … collected souls."
I carefully set the jar on the table. "If your hypothesis is true, you and your aunt are playing God, as you are in a sense condemning these souls forever to reside in this, this… Mason jar, of all things." I didn't think Westley was giving me the full story.
"I'm sure my aunt's methods were purely on the up-and-up. She was an avid fan of Jesus."
I couldn't believe Westley played the religion card. I snatched the jar. "I'm going to release them."
"I will say this only once," Westley said with steely eyes and index finger stabbing the air. "Do not open the jar. You will be extremely regretful." Her tone softened a tad. "I thought you had more commonsense."
"There is nothing common about detaining people's souls for one's amusement, like a … like a carnival sideshow."
I placed my palm over the lid, my eyes daring Westley to act. The swirling lights gathered just under the lid. The droning ceased. Silence blanketed the room. I tightened my grip, and twisted. It wouldn't budge. Westley lunged for the jar. I fell over backward. I rolled to the side, jumped to my feet, and ran for the front door. Westley followed.
Adrenaline surging, I hurdled the red concrete steps. I galloped a few feet, stopped abruptly, and turned, bracing my legs for an onslaught. Westley stood on the top step, with her arms folded, watching me.
I grasped the lid and twisted. It gave. I spun it off and let it fall to the ground. "Better to let the souls out in the open air than to release them in that concrete bunker!"
I pushed my fingernails under the sealed lid, and pulled. The lid gave with a popping sound.
Instantly, a swirl of multicolored air buffeted me. I dropped the jar. It shattered on the walk, scattering pale green pieces into the weed-choked lawn. Westley screamed and collapsed. I ran to her, managing to grab her arm, before she toppled to the ground. I eased her onto her back. "I'm, sorry, hun, but it needed to be done. Those poor lost souls." Westley moaned and shivered.
"My God, you're so cold." I jerked my hands off Westley and stood. A swirling vapor slowly appeared, cocooning her body, becoming denser by the second. I pulled my cell phone off of my belt. Flipping it open, I poised my index finger to punch 911. Westley let out another scream. I dropped my phone. The splintered, plastic pieces joined the glass shards. The mist dissolved.
"What the hell?" I stared in astonishment at Westley. She had aged 60 years or more and was shorter. Shorter? How could that be?
Aunt Matty sat up, tidying her hair and brushing off bits of grass. She stood. "I told you not to open the jar, dumbass."
"What'd you do with Westley?" I danced a nervous jig, while tepid urine slid down my leg.
"You don't get it, do you? Westley is no more. I pick and choose the souls I need for rejuvenation. We could've been very happy together," Aunt Matty said, with a wink.
I melted onto the walkway, like a puppet with cut strings.
"I’ll be right back, Harold, dear."
My essence swam in never ending circles inside a Mason jar, viewing a distorted image of myself, holding my soul aloft.
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