Reincarnation Art

My name is Jack McDougal, the great, great, great, (maybe one more great) nephew of Phineas McDougal, one of the country’s first robber barons. Unlike the Rockefellers, Carnegies, and Melons, Uncle Phineas outlived most of his money. At the time of his death, all that was left of his fortune was a Victorian-style mansion on twenty acres of land in Greenfield, Massachusetts. It was the house Phineas was murdered in. He was hit over the head with an iron fireplace poker on October 31, 1879, Halloween. He was not a popular man!

It was a cool, late October morning when I received a phone call from a Boston legal firm that handled the family’s affairs. A distant cousin had died several weeks ago, and I was the last remaining relative of Uncle Phineas. What it meant was I got the estate, along with taxes and any unpaid bills related to the house. It wasn’t a welcome gift, but maybe the land would be worth something. My only memories of the dilapidated house came from a rare family trip to visit my spinster Aunt Phoebe, who lived there with her eight cats.

My first reaction to the house as we drove up the winding driveway was, “This place gives me the creeps. I want to go home.” My opinion didn’t change when we went inside. As the adults talked, I was left to explore the twenty-room mansion, cats trailing along. Most of the place was in ill repair, but one room, a study/library, was in perfect condition. Two things caught my attention: A dark irregular stain on the otherwise perfect wood floor; and a rectangular outline over the fireplace where a painting had once hung. When I asked Aunt Phoebe about the room, she told me it was where Uncle Phineas had died. The painting had been removed years before by another relative and stored in the attic. She didn’t know why it had been removed. We left shortly after and I never thought about the house again, except maybe in a nightmare.

Later in the week, the attorney and I met and made the property transfer official. It was now time for me to visit my new holdings. On Friday, October 31st, Halloween, I put some gas in the car and headed up Route 2 (the old Mohawk Trail) for Greenfield. A little over two hours later, I turned onto the driveway leading to the mansion. Two stone pillars were standing sentry duty on either side of the drive, but the iron gate on the right side of the driveway was lying on the ground, hinges rusted through. The gate on the left sagged toward the earth. Observing the house and grounds from the outside, everything was in even worse disrepair than I remembered. The old mansion seemed to stand from habit rather than sound construction.

I turned off the engine, fished the key from my pocket, and headed for the front door. The steps leading to the wrap-around porch groaned with dissatisfaction as I strode toward the entrance. The unoiled hinges squeaked when the heavy wooden door was pushed open. Inside the front room, spider webs had replaced drapes, and the occasional mouse skittered across the floor. No one, not even the cats, had lived here for a very long time. I continued from room to room wondering how much it would cost to demolish the building so I could sell the land and at least make some money, then one room caught my attention: the study. This room was still in pristine condition. Even the furniture looked recently dusted. As odd as this seemed, my focus was, like so many years ago, once again drawn to the stain on the floor and the outline of the missing painting.

The blank space over the fireplace bothered me. I remembered my aunt telling me all those years ago that the painting had been banished to the attic, so I went looking for it. It was time for Uncle Phineas to return from exile. Once I reached the attic, no small feat, as several of the stair treads were missing. The painting was easy to find. Someone had wrapped it in canvas and tied it with rope. The painting was easier to carry tied, so I left it wrapped until I could maneuver it back to the study. Darkness was replacing the daylight, not just because night was approaching, but because a storm was forming. I thought it was strange since we normally don’t have thunderstorms this late in the year.

As the blackness continued to deepen, I took out my cell phone, switched on the flashlight app, and searched the house for candles, finding several. Next, I checked to make sure the fireplace flue was open and, using some pieces of broken furniture, started a fire. Outside, the storm was intensifying. Lightning shot across the sky and thunder shook the house. It was time to return Uncle Phineas to his place of honor. I took out my pocket knife, cut the ropes, and removed the wrapping. When the last layer of wrapping fell away, I froze in place. It was like staring into a mirror. This man that lived over two hundred years ago and I looked identical. The eyes of the man in the painting shimmered with an eerie glow. Then, as if on cue, a bolt of lightning ricocheted around the room. It struck the painting, setting the portrait on fire, then arced to my forehead, rendering me unconscious.

The fire department arrived surprisingly fast, considering the remote location of the house. People said they could see flames leaping toward the sky from miles away. The house was a total loss, but the firemen rescued one man with an unusual mark on his forehead. It was two days in the hospital’s Intensive Care Unit before the man regained consciousness. The nurse came over to him and said, “Welcome back, sir.”

He looked around and replied, “It’s good to be back.”

“You took a nasty hit on your forehead. Can you tell me your name?”

“Yes,” replied the man, “It’s Phineas McDougal.”