Back and There Again

I've been back from vacation for a week now, but I wonder if I'm really back or not. I haven't been able to really focus on anything important - no writing, no blogging, nothing really important has been able to penetrate the thick fog of my brain. I must be pining for the mountains. Something about the beauty of a mountain lake really gets to me. The air was nice - and i can breath it because there are no lawns being mowed out in the pines and quakies - the beach was pleasent, the hikes were breathtaking (not just in that I breathed harder), and the company was relaxing.

Now that the break is over it's hard to get back to responsibility. Thus, last Monday I was browsing YouTube instead of working on my writing. I think I was feeling guilty about it because I jumped a little higher than usual when I heard Beezle's voice booming behind my shoulder.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP THERE?"

"Nothing really," I said, "just messing around."

"I THOUGHT I HEARD A SMALL CHILD COMPLAINING THAT HE'D BEEN BITTEN BY A CREATURE CALLED CHARLIE."

I chuckled, "Yeah, I'm watching YouTube"

"YOU-TUBE?"

"It's a place on the internet where people can post videos."

"WHAT? THE INTERNETS HAVE BEEN INVENTED? WHY WAS I NOT INFORMED OF THIS? I HAVE BEEN WAITING PATIENTLY FOR THE LAST SEVERAL THOUSAND YEARS."

"You knew that the internet was coming?"

"OF COURSE. THE INTERNETS HAVE A PROMINENT PLACE IN DEMONIC PROPHECY. THEY WERE TO COME FORTH AS A TOOL OF MASS DESTRUCTION AND SOUL HARVESTING, USHERED IN BY THE GREAT BLOODY ONE: ALL GORE"

"Do you mean Al Gore? I hate to break it to you, but he didn't invent the internet. And though I'm not a fan, I doubt he's ever done anything particularly bloody in his life."

"FOOLISH MORTAL. OF COURSE ALL GORE INVENTED THE INTERNETS. AND IF HE HAS NOT YET FILLED MANY GRAVES, HE SOON WILL. WHY ELSE WOULD WE CALL HIM ALL GORE? HAS HE UNLEASHED THE LOL-CATS YET?"

My interchange with Beezle on the topic of the "internets" went for quite a while, so I'll sum up for you. Beezle is convinced, that All Gore, the most grotesque soon-to-be-mass-murderer of our time, is in league with all the forces of darkness. Though that's a little far fetched I think he's not too far off about the soul harvesting. If what he told me is accurate, the lol cats are just the beginning. You'd best hunker down and limit your YouTube hours or your body, mind, and soul is destined for a demon's pantry.

Beezle's enthusiasm for the internet was so great that I've been able to capitalize on it. In exchange for a wall plug in the basement I he signed a billing contract with me: questions for service. Getting everything set up  was fairly exciting. Beezle somehow came up with a bag of money for me, and with it I purchased him a top of the line computer and upgraded to a cat5 connection. When the serviceman, Bill, came to install the wall plug and upgrade our wiring the deal was that I would go with him to the basement and that Beezle would stay out of sight. Beezle was a little upset. He wanted to greet the bearer of the internets with a gift or two. The way things went, I wish I would have let him - the poor fellow would have thought he'd gone nuts, but I'd have been spared a lot of embarrassment.

When we went downstairs to set things up, we found a small shrine in the middle of the room. At the center of the room, amid archaic symbols and pools of blood stood a polished onix dias. The new computer sat on a spacious alter-like desk in the center of the dais. An enormous throne made completely of bones sat behind it.

I tried to tell Bill that I was a Halloween enthusiast, but when I opened my mouth I learned that Beezle is an accomplished ventriloquist.

"YOU ARE TOO PUNY TO BEAR THE GREAT DARKNESS OF THE INTERNETS ALONE. WHAT DARK MASTER DO YOU SERVE?"

I snapped my mouth shut. Bill laughed nervously and said, "Comcast?"

I wanted to tell him that the voice was a party trick I was working on, but I didn't dare. Instead I just clenched my mouth and smiled. I think Bill was unnerved. He did his best to keep his back away from me until the moment he left and any time I moved at all he jumped. When he left I should have just waved. Without thinking I shook his hand and opened my mouth to say, "Thanks."

Instead I said, "IF THESE INTERNETS DO NOT MEET WITH MY APPROVAL I SHALL CONSTRUCT A FOOTSTOOL FROM YOUR BONES AND ADORN IT WITH YOUR EVER-BURNING ORGANS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

I was still grasping Bill's hand at the time. He yanked it back, stuttered an affirmation, and backed up the stairs. I dove for my wallet to pull out a twenty, but he turned and dashed up to the main floor, leaving me with the bill hanging limply from my fingers.

"HE DID NOT LINGER. THIS IS FORTNATE, AS YOU ARE THEREFORE MORE READILY AVAILABLE TO ATTEND TO ME."

I whirled to find Beezle already sitting on his throne, caressing the computer tower.

"NOW, COME," he continued, "AND TEACH ME THE SECRETS OF COMMUNING WITH THE INTERNETS."

I could feel the heat rising to my head. I threw my hands in the air and said, "I can't believe it. I just can't believe it."

"IS IT THAT MY IMPRESSIVE VOICE GRACED YOUR LIPS, OR THE FACT THAT I WAS ABLE TO SO EASILY SAVE YOU A TWENTY DOLLAR TIP?"

I didn't say anything in response, I just stormed up the stairs. Beezle called after me to tell me that it was just as well that I was leaving, as he'd rather not have an assistant lacking in gratitude. His smugness wore off after a while, and the house was awash with either calls for help, or bitter statements that he didn't need help. These were generally followed by strange incantations and/or multicolored lights and flames spouting from the vents. Finally, after a explosive blast that rocked the mansion, he apologized and bribed me with just enough money for a Kindle. I took great satisfaction from the look on his face when I pressed the power button. I take even greater satisfaction in the wonderful silence that has filled the mansion for the last few days. Maybe I'll get some work done now.

-Jason

An Interview

I've finally got my backbone in working order, and I am posting from my study again.  Then I'm off on a camping trip with my family, and won't be posting for a week.  This is therefor a longer post to tide you over.

My basement, and Beezle's home, is separated from the rest of the mansion by a set of stairs and two doors, one on either end of the staircase. Tt's little wonder that knowing what inhabits my basement, I had never been down to it before Wadsworth and I went down to interview Beezle. I was expecting  a dark dank pit with dripping stalactites above, or at least an unfinished basement full of spider webs and large rodents. I was totally unprepared for what what I found on the other side of the lower door.

Beezles living space is stunning and shockingly tasteful (all things considered).  The floor and walls are lined with black rough cut stone. The ceiling is sixty feet high at it's pinnacle. (I know that you, dear reader, are smugly saying that this cannot possibly be true because beezle lives in my basement. That shows just how much you know about multiplainer physics.) The room is long and rectangular; the door we entered from is on one end wall and at the other there is a twenty foot fireplace, shaped like one of those rounded triangular alcoves found in ancient cathedrals. Along it's sides are larger than life statues of wreathing human forms, and grate within it resembles the burning skeleton of an enormous man.  The bonfire held inside rages like a furnace, though the air in the room is unnaturally chill.

Beezle sat, smiling politely, in a plush overstuffed chair in front of the fire. Beezle too, was far different from what I imagined.  In my mind I had conjured up a multi-headed dragon with at least two heads reserved solely for poking into the vents to annoy me. Instead, Beezle is almost human in form. His appearance is elegant, powerful, and morbidly fascinating. He has oily jet black skin and thick short black spines that run from the base of his scull to the tip of his tail. At the tip of his tail, three jagged pearly white spines jut straight out. The claws on his hands and feet, as well as his jagged teeth, share the same pure color. The color contrast makes him look bizarre and frightening.  Beezle has no gender defining features, though his a deep resonating voice suggests that he is male.

As intriguing as I find Beezle's form, he has one physical feature that keeps my attention: his eyes. They are as dark and deep as the night sky and perfectly round. Golden flecks float through the eternal darkness within. They are hypnotic and captivating.

As we got closer to Beezle, my thinking became foggy. By the time we stood before him I couldn't remember why I was there or what I was doing. I was alright with that though.  All I thought I needed or wanted was to continue to look into the deepness of his eyes.

"WELCOME TO MY LAIR," said Beezle, standing up and gesturing.

"Thank you," I said, "what can I do to make your life more comfortable?" The worst part is that I ment it.

"I CANNOT THINK OF ANYTHING AT THE MOMENT, THOUGH I WILL BE SURE TO LET YOU KNOW.  FOR THE MEANWHILE YOU MAY CONTINUE TO ADMIRE ME."

There was silence for a space of time until Wasdworth coughed loudly.

I turned startled to face him.

"If you will excuse me, Sir. I suggest that it would be wise to look anywhere other than directly into Beezle's eyes."

"YES, THEY DO SEEM TO HAVE THAT STUPEFYING EFFECT ON PEOPLE DON'T THEY? I CAN ONLY ASSUME THAT IT HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH MY DEVILISHLY GOOD LOOKS."

I frowned and said, "Wadsworth," I said, "if I start doing anything rash, you have my full permission to strike me."

"Noted, Sir."

"And by the way Beezle," I added, turning back to look at his chin, "Isn't the vacant space above us right about where my study should be?"

Beezle looked anoyed, "THAT GOES TO SHOW JUST HOW MUCH YOU KNOW ABOUT MULTIPLAINER PHYSICS.  I WON'T TAKE THE TIME TO EXPLAIN IT TO YOU. I HAVE SOME DREAM PLAYING I'D LIKE TO GET TOO SHORTLY. NOW, YOU SAID SOMETHING ABOUT A SACRIFICE?" Beezle looked at me greedily.

"Yes, right."  I gestured to Wadsworth, who lifted the lid on his tray, displaying the contents.

"This sir," he said, "is Cognac dated to the year fifteen thirty-seven, sir. And this," he continued, "is goat blood."

"HOW OLD WAS THE GOAT?"

"Three hours old, sir."

Beezle grinned widely and rubbed his hands, "I THINK WE CAN DO BUSINESS THEN. FOR EVERYTHING ON THAT TRAY I WILL VOW TO ANSWER ONE QUESTION TRUTHFULLY."

"One question?" I asked incredulously, "That's not even worth our time!"

Beezle scowled, "I WAS BEING GENEROUS. I REQUIRED THE WIFE OF THE LAST PERSON WHO ASKED ME FOR THE TRUTHFUL ANSWER TO A QUESTION."

"Then I'm sure you won't have any problem finding blood somewhere else."

Beezle squinted at me, "TWO QUESTIONS, BUT THAT'S ALL"

"Wadsworth," I said flatly, "we're done here. Let's go."

I could feel Beezles eyes drilling holes into my back, and it was unnerving.  it was the best I could do not to flinch. When we were half way to the door, Beezle called out after us.  I was suprised to here a hint of desperation in his voice.

"I CAN GIVE YOU THREE. THAT'S MY FINAL OFFER."

I looked to Wadsworth for approval.  I'm not up to date on the street value of goat blood.  He nodded, so I turned and said, "Then i think we can do business."

Wadsworth and I returned to the fireplace and Wadsworth rested the tray on an end table next to Beezle's chair. It was dark granite with a polished black marble inlay. Beelze immediately poured himself a glass of Cognac and splashed some goat blood into it. He drank deeply before sighing with satisfaction. Then he eyed me and said, "YOU'RE TAKING ADVANTAGE, YOU KNOW."

"And you're congesting my basement."

Beezle sat down and crossed his legs "POINT TAKEN."

"By the way," I asked, "How do you keep from poking holes in your chair."

Beezle shrugged, "KEVLAR UPHOLSTERY. SHALL WE BEGIN?" Beezle cleared his throat and said,"I SWEAR BY THIS ALCOHOLIC GOAT'S BLOOD THAT I WILL ANSWER THREE QUESTIONS TRUTHFULLY." He raised the glass like he was making a toast, then took a sip.

I was suprised, I'd expected something a little more archaic, so I asked "That's it?"

Wadsworth winced.

"I'M ALL OUT OF CEREMONY. WHAT'S QUESTION NUMBER TWO?'

"You mean question one."

"I MEAN QUESTION TWO."  Beezle perfectly imiated my voice and said, "That's it?"

"That wasn't a question!  It was a statement of disbelief!"

"YOUR INTONATION CLEARLY IMPLIED A QUESTION."

"Perhaps sir, it would be wise to instruct him not to answer questions that you haven't specifically made official.", said Wadsworth.

I glared at Beezle,"Right. Those are the new rules. Now, officially tell me about that evil entity that you're so afraid of."

"THAT'S A NON SPECIFIC STATEMENT. I NEED A QUESTION."

I sighed. What did I really need to know for the book?

"First of all, what is it's name?" I paused and thought carefully then added, "offically - and I want the answer to include the reason for it's name"

"IT HAS NO NAME. THIS IS SIMPLY BECAUSE IT PREFERS THINGS THAT WAY. THEREFORE IT HAS BEEN CALLED MANY THINGS, INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO: THE VOID, THE DARKNESS, THE DARK ONE, AND SHORN - THAT LAST ENTRY WAS WHAT THE LAST SOLAR HIGH PRIEST USED TO CALL HIM. HIS FOLLOWERS THOUGHT IT WAS BECAUSE HE WAS SHORN, AS IN CUT OFF, FROM THE LIGHT, THOUGH I HAVE IT ON GOOD AUTHORITY THAT SHORN WAS EXTRAPOLATED FROM SHARON - THE NAME OF THE HIGH PRIEST'S EX-WIFE."

Somehow I didn't feel as dissapointed as I should have.  I can work with something nameless.  Something without a name can't protest when I give it one of my own.

"Alright, official question number two: Why are you so afraid of him?"

Beezle took another casual sip from his glass and said, "IT IS BECAUSE HE IS FAR MORE POWERFUL THAN I, AND I BETRAYED HIM."

"Why?"

Beezle smiled smugly, "I'M AFRAID YOU'RE OUT OF QUESTIONS. IF YOU WILL EXCUSE ME, IT IS TIME FOR MY DREAM PLAYING."  He snapped his fingers and the door to the mansion flew open.

I sighed, frustrated, though I tried to be optimistic.  I had something new to work with for a little while.  Maybe after writing more I'd come up with better questions and a better way to ask them.

And there you have it, my interview with Beezle in full.  I'll see you again in a week.

-J. L. Secrest

Things that speak through vents in the night:

I'd like to apologize. I know that there are many of you who are upset that I didn't post yesterday about my interview with Beezle. It's because I've been a little shaken. I signed off after my last post so disturbed about the interview that I couldn't quiet fall asleep. When I did, my dreams were dark. As I slept, they became increasingly frightening. Among other things, I dreamed that I was on fire, drowning, about to be hung, and being chased by rabid wolves.  Finally I woke screaming, when I dreamed that all of the editors and publishing houses world wide had blackballed me.

When I stopped screaming and calmed myself down Beezle's voice boomed down at me,"I WISH THAT YOU HADN'T WOKEN UP YET. I WAS GOING TO MAKE YOU DREAM THAT BRANDON SANDERSON EMBARRASSED YOU ON HIS PODCAST WHILE DANGLING YOU OVER A PIT OF VIPERS. I WAS ALSO TRYING TO WORK IN AN IRON MAIDEN."

I wasn't mentally ready to comprehend that Beezle was admitting to something. Therefor I made an accusation, "Beezle! You were messing with my dreams, weren't you!"

"WHY YES. HOW DID YOU GUESS?  UNFORTUNATELY, BECAUSE I WAS WORKING THROUGH HYPNOTIC SUGGESTIONS, I WAS UNABLE TO EXPERIENCE THE FULL MAGNITUDE OF YOUR DREAMS. PLEASE TELL ME, WERE THEY HORRIFYING?"

"What's wrong with you," I bellowed,  "Why would you do that?"

"I WAS BORED."

"What do you mean you were bored? You said you were bored when you hustled us out of the basment this morning! You said that you wanted to dream play!  How can you be bored already?"

Beezle does something that he calls "dream playing." It lets his consciousness enter "the revelry" and and take an active part in peoples' dreams. Apparently he can't control who's dreams he arrives in, but when he does, he enjoys himself thoroughly.

"YOUR SNORING INTERRUPTED MY CONNECTION TO THE REVELRY. IT COULDN'T HAVE COME AT A WORSE TIME. I WAS ABOUT TO SCORE THE WINNING GOAL AGAINST BRAZIL IN A BOOKIE'S NIGHTMARE. BECAUSE OF THE TERRIBLE NOISES YOU KEPT MAKING, I COULDN'T GET BACK IN. THEREFOR I MADE DUE WITH WHAT I HAD AVAILABLE TO ME."

I couldn't think of anything intelligent to say, so I stormed from my room, made some hot chocolate, and sipped on it by the fireplace. My hope was to calm down so I could sleep again. To my great anoyance, beezle followed me from room to room, and I did my best to keep my cool. The last thing I wanted was to give him the satisfaction of getting a rise out of me.

From the ensuing conversation, I've come to the conclusion that Beezle sufferes from Attention Deficit Disorder. He kept changing the subject rapidly. He told rude jokes, told bone-chilling stories about his favorite evil dictators, made the worst puns I've ever heard, asked inappropriate questions, told me about people he'd driven to suicide and gave all gory details about how they did it. Finally, I was so sick of him that I resolved not to respond any more. That didn't phase him in the least. I remember the end of that one-sided conversation. After a long bout of silence he started asking me questions. I never caved. Finally he said,"ARE YOU SILENT BECAUSE YOU ARE CONTEMPLATING, OR BECAUSE YOU FEEL INFERIOR AND DON'T WANT TO EMBARRASS YOURSELF?

JUST A FEW HOURS AGO YOU WERE FULL OF QUESTIONS. UNLIKE NOW, YOU SEEMED TO WANT TO TALK TO ME THEN.

 I THOUGHT YOU LIKED ME, MAYBE EVEN LOVED ME. WHAT WOULD IT BE LIKE, TO BE LOVED, I WONDER.

MAYBE TO BE LOVED, ONE MUST FIRST LOVE. MAYBE I SHOULD GIVE LOVE A CHANCE. LET ME SEE NOW... A LOVING ENTITY OF EVIL WOULD BE KIND AND THOUGHTFUL. A LOVING ENTITY OF EVIL WOUD CONSIDER YOUR FEELINGS.

ALRIGHT, I SUSPECT THAT YOU, PANSY THAT YOU ARE, ARE TERRIBLY SHAKEN BY THE HORRIBLE DREAMS THAT YOU JUST HAD. I SHOULD MENTION THAT IT'S NOT MY FAULT THAT YOU SCARE SO EASILY. BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, I WILL CALM YOUR NERVES WITH A HEARTWARMING ANECDOTE FROM MY PERSONAL LIFE. I WILL CHOOSE ONE THAT IS INSPIRING, YET REVEALING, THAT I MIGHT ENDEAR YOU TO ME BY MAKING MYSELF VULNERABLE. LET ME SEE NOW, AH! YES, I'VE GOT JUST THE THING:

WHEN WAS COMPLETING MY FOURTH YEAR AS AN UNDER-DEMON THERE WAS A DAY THAT, FOR ME AT LEAST, WAS BOTH AWKWARD AND EMBARRASSING. WHEN I LOOK BACK ON IT NOW, I JUST CAN'T HELP BUT LAUGH AT MYSELF. I WAS PRESENTED WITH A HUMAN PAWN THAT HAD SOMEHOW DISPLEASED THE DEMON I WAS APPRENTICED TO. I WAS TOLD TO SKIN THE CREATURE ALIVE, BUT NOT TO DAMAGE THE HIDE. I WASN'T QUITE SURE HOW TO START, SO I EXAMINED HIM CAREFULLY, WHICH WAS DIFFICULT BECAUSE HE WAS KICKING AND SCREAMING THE WHOLE TIME. FINALLY, I DECIDED THAT THE BEST ENTRY POINT WOULD BE -"

That was when I finally made it to the back door and shut it behind me. A few hours later Wadsworth came out and found me in the garden. I was hungry, due-covered, and shivering; but I try to be an optimist and I was pretending to enjoy the sunrise.

"Good morning, Sir," he said, "I have brought breakfast, if you are hungry."

I was. When he lifted domed the lid from the silver plater, and I saw the steam rising and smelled the subtle spices, I almost passed out from desire. I tried not to look like a ravening wolf when I took the tray."Thank you Wadsworth," I said,"How did you know I was up? I'm usually not awake for another two hours."

"I have been subjugated to the laments of a bereft and broken hearted demon since rising this morning, Sir. Apparently you spurned his tender advances, and threw his metaphorical arm of comfort and support from your shoulders. He is quite bitter, and has sworn off love forever."

"He knows that things would never have worked out between us," I smiled, "On a completely unrelated note, I would like you to stuff the ventilation shaft in my bedroom."

Wadsworth smiled slightly, "I have already taken the liberty, Sir. I have also turned down your bed and drawn a hot bath for you."

"Thank you Wadsworth," I replied,"I don't know what I'd do without you."

Wadsworth nodded in acknowledgement and returned to his duties in the house. I finished my breakfast and truly did enjoy the sunrise for a few minutes. When I entered the house again things were blissfully quiet. I relaxed in the bath and slept for the rest of the day and through last night. Now I'm posting from the kitchen. Between the interview, the dreams, and the way I keep thinking about how Beezle's "heartwarming anecdote" might have ended, I'm still fairly jumpy. I'd rather not be alone right now if I can help it. Therefore I am posting from the safety of the kitchen table. I told Wadsworth that it's because I want to see how he runs his kitchen. He has had the decency not to expose the obvious. Thankfully, Beezle isn't so chatty today - either I've offended him and he's not talking to me anymore, or hes taken advantage my newly muffled snoring to get some good dream playing in.

I know I still need to post about the interview, but I can't quite handle that just yet. Give me another day, and I swear that I'll satiate your desire to know what happened.

-Jason

There's a Beezle in my Basement

Today was fairly uneventful until about 11:30 pm. That was when Wadsworth entered my study carrying a silver tray. On the tray were a corked bottle and a small glass stoppered vile.

"What's on the tray?" I asked.

"Five hundred year old Cognac, Sir."

"Wadsworth," I chastised, "You know I don't drink."

"Yes, sir.  The alcohol is not for you, sir.  It is for Beezle."

"I LIKE YOUR BUTLER. HE CAN STAY. YOU ON THE OTHERHAND..."

"What's wrong with me?"

"YOU DON'T DRINK."

"That means more for you."

"A VALID POINT. YOU MAY STAY IF YOU STOP SNORING. AT THE VERY LEAST, STUFF THE VENT IN YOUR BEDROOM."

Deciding to ignore the last comment, I turned to Wadsworth and said, "Wadsworth, I've been meaning to ask you something about the pool. Will you please follow me?"

"Of course, sir."

"DON'T FORGET, YOU'RE DUE TO OFFER SACRIFICES TO ME IN TWENTY MINUTES. DON'T BE LATE. I HAVE A VERY TIGHT SCHEDULE."

I guffawed. "Filled with what?"

"BEETLE FIGHTING. THE FINAL ROUND IS TONIGHT AND I ANTICIPATE WINNING LARGE QUANTITIES OF BEETLE BLOOD."

Outside, I spoke very quietly, "Wadsworth, is there any way that Beezle can hear us out here?"

"There is a possibility, Sir, though it is unlikely. If you wish to speak unheard, I suspect that the garden would be a more private location."

I nodded, and we quietly changed venues.  When I was satisfied that there was no possibility of being overheard I said, "Wadsworth. I'm not so comfortable offering a scarifies to an unholy being. It goes completely against my grain."

"If it will ease your conscious sir, you may think of the offering as dinner by another name."

"A thorn by any other name is just as sharp, Wadsworth."

"Please sir, allow me to explain the nature of the offering. Beezle thirsts for blood. It need not always be human blood, though he would prefer it. Like a wolf or a vulture, he is merely hungry.  I assure you sir, that by slacking his thirst with a small quantity of goat blood, we shall not in any way worship him, or enter any unholy contracts.  We merely offer him a highly desirable snack, for which he will make a temporarily unbreakable vow of honesty."

I still felt uneasy about it, but I said, "Well, alright, if you're willing, I guess I am too. At any rate, I've always heard that you have to sell your soul to make a living as an author."

"Quite so, Sir. Shall we proceed?"

"After you Wadsworth."

"Very good sir."

And so it was, that at midnight last night I found myself in my basement, face to face with one of the most frightening things I've ever seen. I'll fill you in on a the details of the interview tomorrow.

-J. L. Secrest

Me VS Wadsworth

This morning was good one. I got up at a decent hour feeling well rested. Wadsworth made a fantastic omelet for me and at my request drizzled Hollandaise sauce over it. It's so hard to find good Hollandaise sauce these days, but Wadsdworth's could kill you by sheer force of it's unadulterated goodness. After breakfast he also called in a master masseuse at his own expense. It's worth mentioning that Wadsworth is beyond a master in the art of massage, but he's also not a pretty girl, and for unexplained reasons he seemed to think I was deserving of one of those today. Between her pretty face and how relaxed I felt after she worked the knots out of my shoulders I fell into a really wonderful mood. After she left, I gave Wadsworth the rest of the day off. Now I'm starting to wonder if he planned it that way. I think he remembered that this was the day that I'd planned to go through my notes for Solar Flare.

Solar Flare is a fantasy novel I'm writing. Beezle is in it and so is Wadsworth. Infact, the novel is loosely based on true events involving both of them. Despite having a basis to work from, the plot became so convoluted and tangled that I got frustrated and put the manuscript down for about a year. I'm starting it up again and trying to remember where I left off, what to add, and where to slash. It has been a painful process. I think Wadsworth doesn't think it's redeemable. Yesterday he was strongly urging me to let the project die peacefully.

Well, one can't be a slave to their valet. I'm not that type. While he may make recommendations on the right business suit to wear to a meeting, or suggest the kind of beverage that would best compliment my dinner, it's not his place to go killing off my novels before they ever see the light of day. I told him as much and made it very clear that he would be helping me organize my notes today. I'd also hoped to get him to write a few autobiographical chapters that I could include at the end of the book. Unfortunately, a pair of soft feminine hands on the back of my neck made me forget about all of that.

The rest of the day has been a mess. I spent most of it just trying to find my notes and previous chapters. Now that I'm sorting through the mess I can't make heads or tails out of anything. Besides that, Beezle has been singing songs that are so graphically violent, they make "Saving Private Ryan" look like an episode of scrubs. Besides being disturbing, it makes it hard to concentrate.

It's a beautiful day outside, and the pool is calling to me. Maybe things will make more sense after a dip.

~

I'm ashamed to say that a dip led to sunbathing and sunbathing let to a nap. My pasty white skin is a touch burned, and I'm congested because the Gardner cut the grass while I was sleeping. (I've got mild hayfever). By the time I got back to writing again, I'd lost all my energy and the desire to do anything. On the upside, Wadsworth got back from wherever he goes on his days off, and we reached a compromise. He agrees to keep his opinions about whether or I'll ever get published to himself and help me keep myself organized. I promise to limit his involvement in the project to a bare minimum, though I may ask him a few questions about the events that took place.

With Wadsworth's help things sped along quickly. When he had me in working order he promptly left for the kitchen to start work on dinner. As I worked through the material, I found some places where I was lacking large pieces of information, some of them vital to the area of the book I was currently plotting. I tried to move on, but was so bothered that I couldn't think to write anything else.

In my study there is a long chord that I can yank on to call Wadsworth. I think it rings a bell or something. I gave it a few tugs and drummed my fingers on my desk while I waited. I also watched the second hand on the clock. Wadsworth walked in exactly thirty seconds later. That was ten seconds slower than usual. He must of had his hands in something.

Wadsworth bowed slightly and asked, "Yes, Sir?"

"Wadsworth," I said, "What do you know about that evil entity that Beezle's so terrified of?"

"I FEAR NOTHING!" said the ventilation shaft above my head.

Wadsworth glanced at the ventilation shaft. His expression said nothing, but I could tell he was annoyed. I've been around him for so long that I can just tell.

"If you don't mind me asking, Sir, is there any particular reason that you called me from my duties rather than asking the resident poltergeist?"

"IT IS BECAUSE HE FEARS ME."

"It's because I want true information."

"ARE YOU CALLING ME A LIAR?"

"Only in the narrowest interpretation of the word."

"THANK YOU, I'M FLATTERED."

"Despite the untrustworthy nature of the entity in question, it is likely that he will be able to shed more light - "

"DARKNESS"

"-on the subject than I can, Sir."

I'm not sure exactly how to describe it, but I got the distinct impression that the vent was grinning at me.

"So, just how do you propose I separate the fact from the fiction?"

"AREN'T YOU WRITING FICTION? I'LL WAGER THAT THE LIES THAT I TELL WILL SELL BETTER THAN THE LIES THAT YOU TELL"

I hope that facial expressions transfer both ways through the vent, because I scowled heartily at it.

Wadsworth cleared his throat to regain my attention. "Demons, like most multiplanear apparitions must abide by certain rules sir. There is a kind of oath that Beezle can make that will force him to speek truth."

The vent boomed with deep laughter.

"AND WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I WOULD MAKE THAT VOW TO 'LORD' SECREST?"

That was my question too. I thought Wadsworth had finally lost his marbles. I was convinced when I heard him say,"He will bring a sacrifice."

"I CAN PENCIL YOU IN FOR TOMORROW AT MIDNIGHT."

Wadsworth looked pointedly back at me and said, "Will that be all, sir?"

I was still fairly stunned to have heard Wadsworth proclaim that I would be offering a sacrifice to an entity of darkness, but I decided that it would be best to talk to him later out of the earshot of Beezle.

"Yes, Wadsworth. That's all."

"Very good sir. Dinner will be served shortly."

That was half an hour ago. The smells wafting in my direction are overpowering every other sense I have, so I bid you ado.

-J.L.Secrest

What ho! (That is to say, welcome.)

What ho!

I'm no Englishman, and I have no British accent. However, this is my first blog entry from my study of The Mansion House, and I'm doing my best to do my part as the Lord of the Manor. Hence the "What ho." That's what a youthful, with the times, and jovial estate owner would say, right?

I employ a valet names Wadsworth who also doubles as my butler. He's a real gentleman's gentleman. Besides that he has a natural aptitude for everything. I also keep a man at arms around, Captain Cole. He used to be a captain in an imperial army, but now he rally's the troops around here. At least, I think that's what he does. If the truth be told, I haven't seen any troops here besides him.

Unfortunately, there is a tenant living in the basement - a demon named Beezle. He's flippant, evil, and unruly. He also has a morbid sense of humor. I think that's why the place was so cheep. The last owner of The Mansion House, Lord Goldermint, couldn't figure out how to evict the demon. His pocket book overfloweth, so his solution was to practically give the house away (fully furnished, might I add) and move to a penthouse flat somewhere with lots of sun and beaches. For the kind of deal he was offering, I thought I could put up with a resident bastion of evil.

Beezle's not so bad, actually. Generally he keeps to himself unless he's bored (which is most of the time). When he does manifest himself, it's through obnoxious and/or amusing magical antics or annoying comments through the ventilation system. He won't admit it, but I think he got himself trapped down there, and now he can't get out. Otherwise, he'd be off somewhere in the world eating human scarifies and making goats explode. Whether that's true or not, he makes for interesting company.

There are others who stop by occasionally. Inspector Fibs, a large bear named Duncan, a witch, and several others tend to visit occasionally. Even Death drops by for brunch every now and again. I think it's because he's in love with Wadsworth's rolls.

Finally there's me. I'm Jason Secrest. As the Lord of the Manor I'm going by J. L. Secrest. It sounds more official. I'm a poor college student who aspires to one day be a full time author. My major has nothing to do with writing, but that's just the way I roll. I take inspiration for my writing from my employees and resident demon and I even use their names for my characters. Beezle wants a cut of the royalties. He doesn't grasp the fact that I've got to get published first. Besides that, if his name ever does bring in royalties, I feel comfortable considering it his rent. I haven't told him that yet though.

Well, that's the gang. Feel free to drop by and read about life at The Mansion House. If I'm not a dweeb I'll update regularly. Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll be able to snag a page out of Wadsworth's journal and post it. I assure you that what he has to say makes much more interesting reading than anything I can come up with.

-J.L.Secrest

*EDIT:

I thought I'd better make this change here rather than in the comments section, lest a reader miss it, or think I'm joking. There is, of a truth, a "dumpster out back, which contains, amid the leftover light refreshments and old suits, a young boy." I'm not sure how I neglected to mention this. Perhaps it was for fear that the police might take exception to me keeping a young boy in my dumpster in the back. Whatever the case, he is there, his name is Will, and he can be a whiny royal pain. Duncan can attest to this. Do not fear for him, he enjoys the light refreshments very much, and when his cloths get old he wears the suits. He also never has to clean his room. The garbage man takes care of that once a week. His is a sheltered life, yet a good one.