Booper McCarthy and the Unquiet Shade of Salubrity Prescott

Booper and I didn’t even begin to feel safe until we were an hour south of Christchurch, speeding away from the livid mob through the darkness in Sam’s truck, the last angry theater-goer spotted three quarters of an hour ago. Booper was in the back with the sheep, but up against the cab—its rear window was open—so he could bless Sam and me with the inane blather that passed for his conversation.

I mean, Booper said. I was under no illusion that I’d written a second Hamilton, but I’d not considered the possibility that the audience would react so, so violently. I thought the Kiwis were kind, tolerant flightless bir—

People, you idjit, I interjected, half under my breath.

The truck struck a bump in the road. One of the sheep bleated in annoyance.

People, sorry, Booper said.

We are, Sam said. Now, Booper. Negative reviews are part of every artist’s experience. It’s almost a right of passage.

Particularly, I said, when the auteur in question once had a six-month case of hysterical blindness cured by a barber.

They bled him?

No—Jesus, Mary and Joseph!—they gave him a haircut.

Sam stifled a laugh.

That’s as may be, he said. A disastrous production happens to everybody.

Even you, Sam? Booper asked, nay, pleaded.

Even—he considered a moment—well, I suppose, almost everybody.

 

Perhaps, dear reader, I owe you an explanation as to how Booper and I got here in the first place.

To say that our stage production Event Horizon: The Musical! was an unmitigated disaster would be an understatement of the same degree as calling Fat Man a firecracker. I should have seen that the whole project was cursed from the very beginning, being the brainchild of one Booper McCarthy, himself being blessed with neither children nor brain. The only positive decision he made was to premier the thing in Christchurch, New Zealand, though it was made in the desire that might fulfill his lifelong desire to see a toilet flush the other way. Had the show been seen by an audience in London or New York, Booper and I would be dead men.

After escaping the theater by way of a third-floor window, descending by means of a great length of prop viscera, we climbed into the bed of a livestock transportation truck packed with sheep, gathering that we had a remarkably diverse audience.

Eventually the truck pulled out of the lot and, with Booper and myself hiding face down underneath the mass of sheep, began to navigate its way out of the city.

At a quiet, stop-lit intersection the rear window of the cabin opened.

No worries, a pleasant voice said from within. I know you’re there, I know who you are and I’ll take you to safety.

We had no choice, I suppose, but to accept this.

I’m called Sam, by the by.

Or pleasure, entirely, I called from beneath a particularly amorous ewe sotto voce as the truck began to move again. I don’t mean to impose, Sam, but would it be possible for me to join you in the cabin at the next intersection? I’m gaining an uncomfortable familiarity with your livestock, under the current conditions.

Certainly! he said.

It was when I’d climbed into the cab that I realized our rescuer was none other than star of screens both big and small, Sam Neill.

Bopper, I said. Can I tell you something? Our savior is none other than star of film Sam Neill!

Ah, do you tell me so, Bryan? He’s the star of me favorite film—what’s it called?—the one with the dinosaurs.

Oh, ho, Sam chuckled. There were several.

I have it! Booper cried. Fern Gully!

All I could do at this brazen display of stupidity was bash the fore-part of my cranium upon the dashboard.

It’s okay, Bryan, Sam said. I’m a lover of all film.

The truck grove on through the night.

I hope, I ventured, you were not offended by our little homage?

Not at all! Sam cried. Delightful! The kick line to “Liberate Tutamet Ex Infernis” was eye opening, to say the least. I’m shocked that you could find such a prodigious volume of artificial blood!

Hold it! Hold it, now, Booper said. Am I to understand—I a producer, writer, director and star of the musical in question—am I to understand that, upon the open market, one can find such a thing as artificial blood?

Ye gods, Sam gasped.

Now, Sam, I said loud enough to drown out any further protestations on either his or Bopper’s part. What did you think of the heart-rending ballad “We Won’t Need Eyes To See”?

Musically? he said. Powerful. Though if you are to take the show on tour your actor-marionettes will certainly require on-tour chiropractic care.

You are most kind, I said. I will be sure to make a note of that. Many thanks to you.

You’re very welcome, Sam said. As a career-long recipient of profoundly meaningful mentorship, I consider it a professional obligation. An obligation which I embrace whenever I can.

Thus did our discussion turn to the thoroughly negative reviews our show was certain to receive.

Thirst was a work, I said. For its time and place. To those at its heart it was drawn comedic tension. For outsiders I can imagine it being taken as subtly funny or even miss the mark entirely. But never did I imagine an audience so hating a work that I was to become, in their eyes, the human equivalent of an old timey public men’s room piss-trench.

Sam’s engine hummed along.

A sheep bleated.

Worse, if you think about it, Booper said. At least the piss-trench had a function.

Now, now, Sam interrupted. Out of the dumps, you two! I’m taking you to the most remote house in New Zealand. We’ve quite a drive, so let’s talk about what you did well.

I liked the song “(Do We Need A) Gravity Drive”, Booper said.

I’m a very quick study, Sam said, when it comes to music and lyrics. Do you mind if I have a go?

I created this ship to reach the stars

But she’s gone much, much too far

She’s torn a rift through time and space

A path to Hell I can’t erase

Booper and I joined in:

Do we need a gravity drive?

Or is the alternative stayin’ alive?

At least I wouldn’t be here despisin’

This ship they call Event Horizon

Sam took the plaintive, falsetto coda for himself:

If I’d not made this gravity drive

I’d not be on this ship

That’s

Alive!

What a chorus we made! And for the first time since well before the show we laughed and laughed.

What do you think. Booper asked, about the number “The Lewis and Clark (This Ol’ Tub)”?

Well, Sam said judiciously, I thought the song was great, but the imagery of Weir’s wife in the tub was somewhat arresting. I will say that to rhyme the title of “The Forward Section” with vivisection was a stroke of genius.

Did you enjoy, Booper continued as if he’d not been heard, the overture I composed? It was performed entirely on vezoolyhorns.

Vezoo—?

Vuvuzelas, I helped.

Ah, yes , Sam said. I thought I recognized the caressing tones of the vuvuzela. So very sweet.

Our conversation died down and Sam drove through the night. Booper lay snoring in the truck bed having wrestled a ewe or two into performing the duty of a blanket.

This is no mere remote house I’m taking you to, Sam said. But the famed Prescott House.

I’m sorry to say, I said. I’ve never heard of it.

You won’t be bothered by neighbors or any angry theater-goers, he said.

Good, I said. We’ll be safe.

From them, Sam said. But I daresay you’ll have to keep your wits about you.

We both peered at Booper, snuggled like a little lamb.

I suppose I’ll have to be wits enough for the both of us.

Indeed. Booper. Is he brave?

Booper? Brave? Why, I’m convinced he’s the only spatchcocked human alive.

Then you’ll need to be backbone enough for the two of you, as well. The Prescott House is haunted. Some say doubly so.

Do you tell me so, Sam?

It all began in the mid-to-late 19th century with Doctor Prescott’s Patented Nerve Tonic. Claimed he’d been led by an aborigine elder into an ancient, abandoned vegemite mine where he’d discovered a miraculous curative made with a secret blend of brown booby guano and mother-of-vegemite. Needless to say Prescott—Bernard Prescott, if memory serves—was no doctor and the ingredients in his nerve tonic were not nearly as wholesome as he claimed. He made millions before it was conclusively tied to thousands of deaths.

Saints preserve us!

Turns out the active ingredients were arsenic and lead. He was hanged by an angry mob and his body torn to pieces.

Horrible, horrible. But what does this have to do with his house?

Oddly enough, the house was never really his. His wife, a lady called Salubrity Prescott, had just begun to build the house when the supposed doctor met his end. She was completely innocent in the despicable business, they said, but was tortured by what she claimed were the ghosts of those her husband’s nerve tonic had killed. She said they would never let her finish the house. So it’s an eclectic maze of myriad architectural styles. Stairways to nowhere. Doors to open to precipitous multi-story drops.

This sounds just like the—what d’you call it?—Remington House! California, I think. Say, do these ghosts haunt the house still? Mrs. Prescott must be long dead by now.

No, Bryan, Sam said. Those ghosts do not; but hers does. She’s an interesting ghost. Rather pleasant, in fact. But they say there’s another ghost, one that haunts the Red Drawing Room. Second floor, I’m told. In the Empowerment Wing. They say it gets lovely light in the afternoon. But as to the horrors to be found in there, I know nothing.

I must have dozed off after that. When I awoke the sun was rising and the green hills of New Zealand were in their glory. It looked like paradise itself.

The house was a ramshackle affair, at once grandiose and rustic. Porticos and flying buttresses next to Fallingwater-esque natural geometry next to what might have passed for farm outbuildings the house had overtaken and incorporated. Sam dropped us at the front door—unlocked!—and promised to check in on us tomorrow.

I hope all the lavatories aren’t like that, I said.

That’s how they are in the White House! Booper declared.

Now you’re pulling my leg, Booper.

Hand on me heart it’s true! Been that way since Taft got himself stuck in a bathtub. The way I see it, if it’s good enough for the world’s number one man to produce a number two in, it’s good enough for Booper McCarthy!

We decided to split up: I to find a kitchen or pantry for some food; he to clean up and see if he could find something to wear that didn’t smell like livestock.

It was strange to find fresh food in the house—I’d already resigned myself to a diet of spam, tuna fish and sardines—but I guess they must have a high standard for haunted houses in New Zealand. There was a fresh loaf of bread and cheeses and slicing sausages, including an excellent Ibérico de Bellota chorizo. I’d put together one of my famous charcuterie displays—I’ve been making them for years, long before doing so was either popular or profitable—when Booper came into the kitchen looking like an Edwardian gentleman, pipe and smoking jacket and all.

Booper, I said. Where did you find those togs? For the first time in your life entire you look respectable.

Thank you, Bryan! The magic voice said it would suit me.

The what you say?

He puffed at his pipe.

The magic voice. I went into the dressing room and the voice said, “Bernard?” “Yes,” I said. “Your clothes are waiting for you.” I had no idea what it was all about, but then she said, “You should wear the paisley smoking jacket.” So here I am. The pipe was my idea.

Since when do you smoke a pipe, Booper?

He pulled out a pocket watch.

Approximately three and a half minutes ago, he said.

Booper, said a woman’s voice, deep, which seemed to originate and resonate from every direction within and without at once. Is this the Bryan you were telling me about?

Of course! Bryan, Magic Voice. Magic Voice, Bryan.

I took off my hat.

Delighted, ma’am, I said uncertainly.

But you know my name, Bernard, the voice said. We discussed it.

Yes! Booper said. Of course, Sobriety.

There was a  quiet pause.

Legubrity?

Another pause, and this so pregnant I imagined we were expecting elephant triplets.

Booper, may I? I said. I believe her name is Salubrity.

That’s right! The voice said with saccharine enthusiasm. You are capable of achieving our dreams!

See now, Booper, I said.

He just stood there slicing cheese, pretending he couldn’t hear me.

Salubrity, I said.

Now, gentlemen, the voice said. There is something I need the two of you to take care of for me, if you can, in the Red Drawing Room.

I froze in panic.

Madam Prescott, I said. I’m not sure that’s something we can do. We are mere men, after all.

Of course you can! The voice said. Envision the reality you want to achieve! You are omni-capable!

I gather you are not familiar with our work in the legitimate theater, I said. And I say that with all due respect.

Now, Bryan, that’s all stuff, Booper said. We can certainly handle a room! It’s like Julius Caesar said upon marching into Gaul: “Be the change you want to see in the world!”¹

That’s the spirit, Bernard! the voice said.

Booper puffed smugly at his pipe.

Saw the play, I did, Booper said. Abbey Theater. Milo O’Shea himself played the great man.

As Booper reminisced, the disembodied voice of Salubrity Prescott guided us to the door of the Red Drawing Room.

The door stood open.

The demon came, she said, fifteen years ago. Since then my spirit has been unable to pass this threshold.

Booper cleared his throat.

Why don’t you lead the way, Bryan? I’ll make sure no hel-beasts try to surprise us from the rear.

The door slammed behind us once we had entered. The room was chill and silent. All red, it was, with a low ceiling and furnished with a neo-Edwardian meets shabby chic flair. There were uncomfortable looking chairs, a divan and, for reasons Booper and I could never make out, a four poster bed, fully curtained and looking like it had been made this morning.

I could sense that we were not alone.

Only my exhaustive reading of the Thomas Carnacki stories could save us now.

 

A week or so later, I held a dinner at my place in Number 4 Cheyne Walk. The usual company were there, Hodgeson, Jessop, McCarthy and, as a particular surprise, Ms. Carpenter. Tonight we were also joined by the esteemed Dr. John Silence, of whose exploits I’ve no doubt you are all aware. My usual custom obtained: There was to be no attempt to draw me into discussion of my latest investigation until after dinner and we’d retired to my smoking room with our brandy.

I began.

As you know, Booper and I were investigating the Red Drawing Room Affair. A rather rare case, the like of which I’ve only ever seen in the Case of the Licari Infestations and the Ladies’ Toilet Case, though it has some similarities to the various Goldstein Manifestations I’ve encountered. These, as you know, nearly cost me my life. The similarity will become more apparent when I publish my monograph On the Complete and Unabridged Tablets of Gil-Ga-Mesh.

Booper and I sat in the room until dark. He suggested we “smudge” the room—which, as you know, I think is all stuff—but I humored him and, using his livestock-stinking old socks—why he had them in the pockets of his smoking jacket I’ll never know—I “smudged” in the corners of the room, ceiling and floor and around the windows and door.

And there we sat until midnight, Booper stretched out, somewhat awkwardly, on the divan and I perched uncomfortably in a chair I’d drawn into a corner so that I could have an unobstructed view of the room.

When the clock struck midnight—Jove! did I get the queerest feeling—I began to hear the springs flex in the bed behind the curtains.

Bryan, McCarthy whispered, there’s something in the bed!

Before I could stop him he’d dived into the bed through the curtains.

I’ve got you now! he shouted in triumph, bouncing on the bed, curtains wrapped about him covering his eyes. Still he bounced until he’d braced himself with his hands upon the ceiling.

Bryan! Bryan! he cried. There are letters on the ceiling!

What are you about, man? I demanded, shining a flashlight where his hands were.

In the popcorn! he said. In the popcorn ceiling! Letters!

Can you make any of them out, bedam, Booper?

I can, Bryan, but they don’t make any sense, unless it’s some homophobic graffiti. It’s in braille!

I got out a pen and some paper.

Spell it out for me, Booper, I said.

C-A-V-E-H-O-M-O-H-I-C-I-N-F-E-R-N-U-S-E-S-T, he said. And then another, a little lower. S-A-T a space and S-P-A-C. What d’you make of it, Bryan?

I ran to the door and threw it open.

Mrs. Prescott! I called. Mrs. Prescott!

Yes, Bryan, she said.

You said this room has been haunted for the last fifteen years. What happened in this room fifteen years ago?

Why, she said, I had the popcorn ceiling done.

I smiled.

Mrs. Prescott, I said. We can get rid of your demon. All we need is Booper McCarthy’s favorite appliance. A power washer.

 

Sam came by for breakfast the next morning.

Fifteen years ago, I said, over freshly squeezed orange juice, Mrs. Prescott had the ceiling done by some fellas called Louie Sephir and Mephistophestephen from Satan’s Spacklers. 

That would be her first mistake, I’d imagine, Sam said.

Indeed, they wrote “Cave Homo Hic Infernus Est” into the popcorn of the ceiling.

In braille! Booper said with triumphant self-satisfaction.

“Beware, O man, this is hell” and that’s all it took to bring on a demonic possession of the room, I said. Enough to make an archangel hold its breath. Just a little Latin in the ceiling spackle.

In braille! Booper said again.

In braille? Sam asked. See, I would have thought it would have been written in—here he gave a wry smile and a wink.—cursive!

 

I said good night to my dinner guests and had Blackwood show them out into the darkening evening on Cheyne Walk.

 

Sometime I should tell you about the time Booper and I met a man from Nantucket.

1. For the record, Gandhi didn’t say it either.