“Only a couple of times,” River said, swinging the door open. “It’s safe.”
The third-floor attic space was small, but cozy compared to the rest of the massive, high-ceiling rooms at Jacaranda Manor. The steepled roof made for a sharp, sloping ceiling, leaving just enough space for Joseph to clear with his six foot frame. The triangular pitch of the roof offered a gabled effect framing a duo of floor-to-ceiling rectangular windows that stared out into the world like a pair of all-seeing eyes. As the specter had suggested, the third floor was semi-cluttered with crates covered in tarps, a rocking chair, a lamp, easels, a stool, canvases and a table littered with brushes and paints. In another corner, a bed frame was pushed up against the wall next to a large trunk. And there, standing next to the trunk, still and quiet like all of the other long forgotten items in the attic, was Carolina.
“Your son is very artistic,” she nodded, smiling down at River, and then back up at Joseph. “Did you know that?”
“I didn’t,” Joseph said, taking in the dusty attic space in a daze. “Riv, I don’t like that you’ve been coming up here all by yourself.”
“I’m not by myself. I’m with Carolina. And look,” the little boy said, moving over to one of the easels. “I painted the house.”
River handed him a large, rectangular canvas that appeared to have come from another era. Joseph looked down at his son under heavy, worried brows to see the little boy beaming up at him with pride. Sure enough, in the center of the canvas in the naive hand of a five-year-old boy, was the distinct outline of Jacaranda Manor. The driveway was flanked with what appeared to be two jacaranda trees, and in the foreground, three crude images of a boy, a man and a woman were penciled in. Joseph pursed his lips, not wanting to ask who the woman in the image was supposed to be.
“This looks very good, River,” he said, handing the boy back the canvas. “But if you really want to paint, I can take you into town for new supplies, or even try to get you some lessons.”
“But Carolina has everything up here already,” River said, retrieving his painting. “And she’s a good teacher.”
Joseph and the spirit made eye contact as the hackles rose on the back of his neck again. The idea of letting his son keep company with something unnatural didn’t feel healthy or right, especially after what they had both been through. He sensed that he was ill equipped for life as a single parent, though he tried his best to be a good father to River. But no one ever prepares a person for something like this. There were no guide books or websites that instructed parents how to deal with their children befriendingghosts.
“I think it’s probably best if you don’t come up here anymore,” Joseph said. “Carolina, thank you very much for showing River how to paint. If you don’t mind, we’ll leave you alone now and try to finish fixing this house so you can be at peace.”
With his entire body still humming with adrenaline, Joseph firmly grasped River by the shoulders and began to march him out of the dusty third-floor room. He wasn’t interested in having either him or his son spend another moment in the dark and dusty space.
“Don’t you want to see what I have to show you?” Carolina called out after them.
Joseph stopped dead in his tracks. He couldn’t imagine what it was that this decidedly uppity, high-brow spirit could want to show him. Her skeleton buried beneath the floorboards, maybe? An old occult book bound in human flesh? The possibilities terrified him. However, making an enemy out of a—well, aghost—terrified him more.
“It depends on what it is,” he said. He held his breath as he turned to see the spirit pointing toward the chest.
“It’s in there. I can’t open it myself or else I would get it out and show you,” she said.
Joseph exhaled and looked down at River. His son was calm and unfrightened when it came to Carolina. While their current situation didn’t feel inherently dangerous, he felt the need to be protective of his son just the same. Perhaps he could entertain the entity, or spirit or ghost woman for one moment longer.
“Fine. As long as nothing disgusting or terrifying is going to pop out at me,” he said, walking over to the trunk.
“Don’t be so dramatic, Joseph,” Carolina said, propping her hands on her hips. “I’m aghost,not a demon for heaven’s sake.”
Joseph pursed his lips and looked over at the semi-transparent woman. Despite his disbelief and confusion, he was beginning to warm up to this indignant, if not spirited spirit.
“All right then,Carolina,” he said, turning the lock on the trunk. “What’s in this hunk of junk that’s so important?”
Joseph hesitantly flipped up the dusty lid of the trunk and winced. However, to his relief, there were no rotting corpses or vile surprises inside, only a stash of leather-bound books, a quilt, a pair of tarnished silver candlesticks, and other various household items.
“This was to be my hope chest, you see,” she said, lovingly looking over the items. “Anyway, what you’ll be interested in is that photo album right there.”
Carolina pointed to a large leather-bound book on the top of the heap of treasures. Joseph gently removed it from the trunk and opened it, causing the spine to crack in complaint against the ravages of time. As expected, the pages within were yellowed, but the black and white photos, held in place by small black stays and framed with white, torn edges, were still in perfect condition. Page after page, Joseph looked down upon what must have been the Braun family, beginning with a photo of Jacaranda Manor in its early stages of construction. A young man and woman proudly stood outside the manor in late nineteenth-century garb with their heads held high and expressionless faces.
“That’s my mother and father, just before Leonora was born,” she said, a sad smile on her face as she hovered over his shoulder.
Joseph continued to flip pages and watched with wonder as the entire history of the Braun family unfolded in front of his eyes. Mr. Braun standing in front of an original Model-T. A baby next to a basket of oranges and a fussily dressed toddler. A woman, likely Mrs. Braun, astride a stallion. Three girls playing out at the beach in turn-of-the-century swimsuits. A family portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Braun appearing much older and careworn now, posing with three teenage daughters, the youngest bearing a striking resemblance to Carolina.
“I hated that dress,” Carolina sniffed. “The collar was far too tight.”
“This was your family?” Joseph asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yes, but that’s not why I asked you to look at the photos,” she said, pulling a straight face. “If you go to the back of the album you should be able to see the original architect's plans for Jacaranda Manor.”
Joseph flipped to the back of the book where there was indeed, three yellowed, folded up pieces of drawing paper. The plans on the first page looked very different from modern-day blueprints, but were still easy enough to read and interpret. The other two pages were a series of lists in a sloping, elegant hand of items that were ordered to outfit the home.
“Mother was very particular about the materials that she wanted to use for the manor,” Carolina nodded. “This should help you to find what you need to restore the home to its rightful state as authentically as possible.”
