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