Crimson Surprise

Forgive me, but I'm still not talking about quarters today. I was working on a history of Beezle's obsession... trying to decide what was relevant and/or entertaining and what was not. Unfortunately something more drastic has occurred, and I felt it more relevant. Enjoy this week's installment of "Crimson Surprise!"

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               The last few days have been trying to say the least. I've been dealing with things that are... less ordinary that what I'm used to. The details of the whole story started a long time ago, long before I was born, and I'm not really too clear about exactly how they go, so I won't attempt to divulge or explain them. My part begins four days ago on Saturday, May 28, 2011.

                Saturday morning I abstracted from the Mansion House to my Provo residence where I met up with a few friends who had invited me to spend the day with them at Conduit. Conduit, for those who don't know, is an annual convention that encourages authors and nerds in general to be as embarrassing as they want to be without feeling quite as self conscious about themselves. I've attended twice now, and after observing a few of the attendees I've concluded that a few of the people are much like me - we experience reality slightly differently than the people who surround us. I'm convinced, for example, that Larry Corriea carries a concealed weapon not because he's a gun nut, and not because he feels the need to protect himself from other people. I suspect rather, that he is acutely aware that creatures of myth and legend are stalking him on a regular basis. It is likely that Monster Hunters International is a spiced up set of memoirs.

                I enjoyed the convention greatly, took a few notes, and did my best to schmooze with the successful people around me. One such person goes by the name of Paul Genesse, though now I wonder if that's just an alias. You see, Genesse has been collecting stories about demons, and he's especially interested in Urban Fantasy (you know, accounts of winged nightmares that terrorize the streets in back-road villages; inner-city libraries that hide do-it-yourself possession booths in the self-help sections - stuff like that.) At first, I found Paul's invitation to submit a story intriguing. I keep a demon in my modern-day basement after all  and I exploit the antics of said demon shamelessly in an attempt to win myself a little fame and fortune without selling my soul. Paul's pitch sounded just exactly like my kind of thing. I said as much to Paul, and immediately regretted it.

                Most of the time, when I tell people about Beezle and The Mansion House, they chuckle with me and we move the conversation along. Paul however had a completely different reaction. He got a sort of darkly eager look in his eyes and started probing me with endless questions. I answered them uneasily and did my best to end the conversation. Paul reluctantly let me go, but he insisted on trading business cards. I pretended to have lost mine, but he pressed his into my hand along with a flyer requesting submissions for his Crimson Pact anthology. I smiled, said I might submit something, and backed my way towards Correia's corner of the room. Genesse's eyes followed me as I went, but I felt a little safer. Larry, as I mentioned earlier, packs heat. It wasn't long before Paul was smiling at another fan, and I slipped out of the signing area. I sent a text to my friends saying that I felt ill, walked around the street corner, and abstracted back to the mansion house where I breathed much more easily. I shrugged the episode off and completely forgot about it by dinner time.

                Monday was memorial day. I went home to Roosevelt to visit the graves of some loved ones and to enjoy the company of my immediate family. When I returned to the estate, I abstracted into the northwest forest. This perturbed me because I'd been aiming for the cluster of trees next to the driveway. The evening was late and cloud-cover hid the moon and stars. No lights were on in the house and the walk was dark and foreboding. I was severely anxious until I remembered that I'd given Wadsworth the day off so that he could honor a few comrades who had fallen in The Wars. (He wouldn't say which ones. He gets cryptic like that.)
              In Wadsworth's absence I grabbed a snack from the fridge and settled down in the study to work on my memoirs. After an hour the silence of the house was grating on my nerves. Beezle hadn't breathed a word. I checked my ventilation shaft. It was neither stuffed nor shut. Generally I see quiet as a blessing, but given that the day was Memorial Day, I wondered if Beezle wasn't preoccupied with some special way of honoring the dead. (The list of rules at the mansion house is growing long. One of the prominent rules reads "Reanimation and other extracurricular activates involving the (un)dead are strictly prohibited." This rule is preceded only by the rules that prohibit things like lighting me on fire.)

                Concerned, I cleared my throat and called into the air duct, "Beezle, how's Memorial Day been for you?" I got no reply. After several seconds I repeated, "Beezle? What are you doing down there?" Nothing. I listened intently. The silence was complete. Usually I can at least pick up the soft roar of Beezle's hellish fireplace. My stomach twisted with anxiety and I had to force myself to walk instead of run to the wine cellar. As I went I made loud remarks like, "Duncan is more than willing to lend me his witch taser," and "Beezle, answer me or so help me I'll cut off your internet access again." By the time I'd made it to the basement door I was jittery and nervous, looking everywhere for anything out of place.
               Nothing was. Everything was unnervingly still and orderly. Even with Wadsworth home there was always something misbehaving. I gave up on walking and dashed the rest of the way to the cellar. I had force myself to slow again and to take the stairs carefully. They're old and rotted. I replaced them once, but they decayed again before the day was out. At the bottom I dashed through the perpetually dusty wine racks. I seized the box of matches by Beezle’s tunnel. My hands were shaking so badly that I snapped three match heads before I managed to light the torch in the scone. Usually when I visit Beezle I burn away the ever present spider webs that lead to his door. This time I just ran with the torch before me and blazed a trail through the webs. In retrospect, this was rasher than it sounds. Some of those webs are occupied by more than one variety of deadly arachnid. The end of the tunnel and the heavy bronze door couldn't come quickly enough. I rounded the final corner to find that the door was already open.

                I cannot think of any situation in which that might be a good thing. Beezle can't open that door. He can barely affect the world beyond that door. If he found a way past it, heaven help this world. More than that, heaven help my Uncle. Uncle Nick travels dimensions. Beezle happens to be his ticket home.

                I burst through the entry, ready to charge into Beezle's cavernous lair. Only, it wasn't cavernous anymore. I nearly crashed into the close far wall. The room was as it had been ten or twelve years ago, when I unwittingly opened a portal for Beezle and launched my uncle deep into somewhere else. There were only two differences between now and then. The first was a large splotch of blood on the south wall. The second was a sealed envelope on the polished onyx floor. In shock I picked up the letter and examined the red wax seal. It was stamped with the letters CP. When I lifted the seal the bronze door slammed shut and a gust of wind circled the room. I ran to the door and inserted my key. It wouldn't turn. I tore the typewritten letter from the envelope and read,

 "Dear Lord Secrest,
 Until recently there has been an evil entity occupying this space. Whether you considered it a blessing, curse, or tenant, it will not bother you again. To ensure both your safety and cooperation this room has been sealed for the next twenty-four hours. Have an enjoyable weekend. As always, feel free to submit stories about any demons you encounter for inclusion in 'The Crimson Pact.'
 -The Spirit Traveler"

--to be continued---

Sorry for the break. I had to stop here to cry a little bit. Much as I hate to admit it, I've grown attached to Beezle. This is an emotional scene for me.

-Jason

(Crimson Pact references used with the written permission of Paul Genesse. Get the anthology or risk your life submitting your own demon related experience at www.thecrimsonpact.com)

Texting to the Mansion House Is Not Approved

I have a lot on my mind today: Here's a short list of the things I'd like to cover. We'll see how far I get.

1. The secret location of the mansion house.
2. The less secret method of travel to the secret location of the mansion house.
3. The other people who ride the less secret method of travel to the secret location of the mansion house (but don’t get off there).
4. Beezle's affinity for quarters.

Some of you may have noticed that I've never been very specific about the exact where of the mansion house. It's because it's a well kept secret, and I don't know it. Wadsworth does. I do not. "But Jason," crys the logical mind, "you live there. You also write posts about riding the bus to and from the mansion house."

That I do, logical mind. That I do. Here's the thing: the most direct route to the manor is through what my great uncle Nicholas calls 'abstract travel'. It takes a special kind of ‘unfocus’ combined with motion. I find that I travel most abstractly on the bus. All I need is a newspaper or an interesting person to watch.

I've never been able to drive to the mansion house. I'd have to be distracted - texting, or something - in fact just the other day a seventeen year old kid from Chicago with the last name of Jones smashed through the conservatory and into a baobab tree. Leon, the more aggressive of our two bangled tigers circled the car for an hour before I got home and saw the kid there, shivering in his boots and screaming for help. I jumped into the car with him as soon as I saw Leon pop out of the brush. (Leon's a touch sadistic. He likes to get a good look at me getting a good look at him before he chases me down. He doesn't hurt me of course, or at least, not much. He just plays aggressively. I can tell you from experience that scratches from a bangled tiger are a slightly bigger deal then the ones from your household kitty. Unfortunately, he's too old to declaw. When he gets out of the conservatory he does murder to our screen doors - thinks he can hang on them like Will's tabby.)

Of course, this unfortunate accident happened on the second thursday of the month -  Wadsworth's day off. Jones and I hunkered down in his beat up old pinto and ate the granola bars I keep in my backpack for exactly these kinds of emergencies. Before that though, we took a moment to express our feelings. Jones yelled at me historically. Called me crazy for keeping a tiger in my house, and thought I should be arrested for endangering public safety. I in turn, tried out a little trick I'd learned from Wadsworth. I raised a brow, glanced pointedly at the phone he still held in a death grip, and rounded the whole expression out with a wistful silent appraisal of the gaping hole in my conservatory. The coupe de gras was the bit where I held out a granola bar and asked if he'd like to share some light refreshments.

After that we talked a bit about girls, grades, parents, and the location of one white tiger named Leon until late in the evening. Jones was fairly open. He told me just about everthing about himself like he thought he was about to die. I thought about getting out of the car, or pushing Jones out just to get things done with so we could go inside, but by a stroke of luck Duncan sauntered around the back of the house looking for me. He understood the situation immediately and growled, "Go to your room." (Leon's 'room' is a small lockable compound where he is confined when he is being disciplined.)

As much as Leon views me as a toy, he sees Duncan as an authority figure. Duncan is, after all, an immense talking grizzly bear. Leon doesn't talk - at least unless when Beezle isn't putting words in his mouth - but he does pout. He pouted at me when I got out of the car. He pouted at Jones (who opted to remain in the car whispering "I'm not crazy" over and over.) He pouted at Nisa, his smaller, more domestic sister when she joined us as we strode to the other end of the conservatory's "Jungle Room." He glared at  Orvil, the Jungle Room parrot, who shrilled out "Na na na na na nana" over and over as we walked under Orvil’s branch.  Leon didn't pout at pout at Duncan though. He wouldn't look at Duncan. Other than Orvill, everyone was silent. That's the rule: when disciplining, everyone who isn’t giving an instruction is quiet. It helps more than you might think.

As Leon slunk moodily into his compound and I secured the gate, I said, "Thanks, Duncan. I wasn't in the mood to 'play' tonight."

Duncan shook his head slowly and rumbled, “You let him walk all over you. You’ve got to get him in line. Or maybe you need to get yourself together. Whenever Wadsworth takes the day off everything goes to pot around here.”

I chuckled and nodded amiably. It doesn’t bother me anymore when Duncan gets gruff with me. He gets gruff with everyone.

Duncan continued, ”Who’s the kid? Another distracted driver?”

“Yep. Third one this year. Most destructive one too. He must have been going pretty fast. Probably texting on the interstate or something before he abstracted here.”

“Stupid kids. They think they’re invincible when they get in a car. I wish they’d abstract into the lake.”

I nodded heartily. “That would make them pay attention. So did you come up just to check on me, or is there something I can help you with?”

“A few years ago I gave your uncle an artifact to hold for me. I need it.”

“Oh, well do you know where it is?”

“In the shed, probably. Looks like a marshmallow roster with a blue glass handle.”

“I know the one. It’s close to the door. What is it?”

A cheerful tone crept into Duncan’s voice. “A kind of  a witch taser. Meg’s been over stepping bounds a bit. I thought I ought to remind her who’s in charge the next time she does it.”

“Well good luck with that. I’m going to let you find it. I’ve got to make some calls to the insurance people. Will you do me a favor and help that kid abstract his car home?  He lives close to Durso Park in Chicago.”

“Oh?” Duncan said, “did you get his name?”

“He goes by Jones. Wouldn’t give me his first name.”

Duncan grinned, “Well this day gets better and better! I’ve had four wards this year from Chicago. Every one of them came in through a Durso Park dumpster at the hands of a kid named Jones. We’ll have to have a little chat. Maybe with a witch taser if all goes well.” (Duncan is a steward over a kind of magical safe house for bullied teens.  That wasn’t what it was originally built for, but for whatever magical reason, anybody who’s hiding terrified in a dumpster has a chance of falling through the dumpster bottom and into Duncan’s protective lap.)

“Don’t be too harsh on him.” I said, “Since he thought he was going to be eaten by a white tiger named Leon he flashed his life before my eyes. He doesn’t have a happy home and he’s failing out of school.”

“Well, maybe a well placed tickle with a marshmallow roaster will help motivate him to finish. I can only see everyone winning in this scenario.”

Duncan went back for Jone’s and I went into the house. What brought this up? Why was I telling this story? Oh. You have to be at least moderately distracted while in motion to get to the mansion house, and then be either lucky or attuned to the location. Speaking of which, I seem to have abstracted to The Mansion House Study. I was wiggling around a little bit in my cheep office chair at my Provo apartment while I was typing. I didn’t know that would do it. That’s good to know. Even better, it’s nearly lunch time. I wonder were having...

Oh. So. I didn’t make much progress on my list.. I got a bit off course. I’ll see when I can get to the rest.

-Jason

What Bears say when no one is listening.

Before I share the events of the day I wanted to think out loud about something that's bothering me. Those of you who use an RSS reader may not have noticed the comments in my last post. It's alright, you don't need to go look at them. Suffice it to say that Beezle discovered my Blog. I'm not sure how I ought to feel about that...

Assuming extreme optimism, I have one more reader, someone actually posted comments, and I've written something that an ancient evil felt strongly enough about to sit up and take notice - even actively oppose. (I should mention that he found one of my comments on a friend's site wherein I put in a plug for my own blog, and posted a reply publicly denouncing me.)

The thing is, it's really hard to feel optimistic when you feel violated; and I feel violated. I had one form of expression that Beezle did not yet have access to. That made it pure and holy and a great place to vent about him. Beezle found it and did his best to defile it. Something tells me that he's not going to stop. At any rate, I suppose I'll just do my best to ignore him. The last thing I'm going to do is acknowledge him or do anything that might count as "feeding the trolls" (except posting these inflammatory remarks of course). If I'm lucky he'll get bored and find something else to do with his time.

Anyways, I wanted to tell you about something else.

I was pleasantly surprised yesterday when Duncan stopped by for a visit. He doesn't like to come very often. The neighbors get nervous and call Wildlife services. (Duncan is, by the way, a rather large and gruff old grizzly bear.)

It's hard to convince the rangers that Duncan is smarter than the average bear and relatively gentle with people. (Will would argue, he's been on the receiving end of more than a few swats.) Generally, Duncan will get exasperated and tell them politely but frankly to "get the hell away" from him and tend to their own business. Generally after that they feel the need to find a shrink that can tell them that they didn't hear a grizzly bear talk.

By the way, I apologize to those with delicate ears. Duncan is a teddy bear on the inside; but as I mentioned previously, he gruff and cantankerous and fairly free with his 'hell's and 'damn's. I am, however, pleased to inform you that that is as colorful as he gets; and really, to be fair, he tries to keep it to a minimal when in my home.

To get around the park services issues we've tried a few things: cages and costume parties and the like. Once we passed him off as a circus bear - my idea, not his - and when the neighbors heard about it they all sent their kids over to see "Duncan the Wonder-bear". We had to hurry and improvise. I happened to have a clown nose, and we found some tennis balls for him to juggle, and we pulled off an impromptu performance. They loved it. Duncan swore to me afterwards that if I ever pulled that kind of stunt again, he'd eat one of the spectators. Truth be told, he loved the attention, and he loves kids, but that doesn't fit his image, so he complains and I grin for him by proxy.

When I greeted Duncan in the main hallway I said, "You should have told me you were coming. I'd have invited Susan."

Susan is a neighbor kid - seven years old, real cute. She likes to come around every couple of days, bash her eyelashes and ask, "did Wadsworth make cookies today?" Of course, he never has, but he throws together a batch and sets out the tea set for her and her dolly. She also happens to be one of Duncan's favorites.

"Why?" Duncan rumbled as he ambled in, "So she can tug at my fur and poke at my snout when I'm trying to nap? No thank-you."

"Oh, and here I thought that maybe you'd come looking for a small hand to scratch behind your ear."

"Pah!" Duncan said, and he eased down on to the shag carpet, "she's just a little snack waiting to happen."

"You say that every time you see her, but I haven't seen any missing children reports yet."

"I'm just waiting for her to fatten up a little bit. She's all ribs. Not even worth the trouble - yet. Maybe you had better call her over for cookies. Speed up the process."

I grinned. I knew from the start that he wasn't here for my company, so I picked up the phone and dialed. "Hello," I said, when the other side picked up, "Mrs. Lovegood?  Yes. It's Jason Secrest, down the road... Very well, thanks. Yes, everything is dandy. Listen, Wadsworth is making some cookies, and don't know what goes through his head, but he always makes too many. I don't suppose we could borrow Susan and Miss MarySueBee to make a few disappear? Oh, I always get that wrong... How does she say it? Marry-Soup-Bee? Got it. Thanks, you're a life saver. We'll call you when she gets here.  Uh huh. Bye."

From the Lovegood's house, it's a five minute walk to the Mansion, but for short legs and eyes that catch on every butterfly and daffodil it's fifteen in reality. I tugged on the chord that rings Wadsworth in and asked him if he could whip something up and pull out the tea set. He smiled magnanimous and said that he could.

In the meantime, Duncan and I chatted. He told me about his most recent headaches with "Meg the Heg" the resident semi-evil witch that's under his protective jurousdiction, and I told him that i was putting down solar flare for a little while to work on another project.

He snorted and said, "Let me guess, 'you're stuck?'"

I grinned sheepishly and said, "Yeah, I've got this other idea that's really nagging at me and -"

"Huh - you'll never finish a damn thing in your life. It's guys like you that make society crumble - generation 'get me a sandwich mom, and by the way, I'm living in your basement until one of us dies.' If you go a day without your Nintendo, you crack."

"Now wait a minute -" I started to counter, but the doorbell went off, and that was the end of that. Duncan smiled coyly. Talking to bears is strictly off limits when I have company.

Wadsworth got the door, and I phoned Mrs. Lovegood to tell her that her Susan had arrived safely. I almost didn't get the phone down fast enough for Mrs. Lovegood to miss hearing her daughter exclaim, "MR. DUNCAN IS HERE!"

Susan was wearing an enormous ladies hat with a long green feather when she entered, but her bouncing threw it to the floor when she dashed to the bear. She threw out her arms and hugged his great shaggy head. Miss Soupbee dangled by a threadbare doll-arm from one delicate hand, and the other was unintentional jabbing at one of Duncan's tightly closed eyes. I wished I had a camera.

The rest of the day was pleasant. Will shuffled in for long enough to make a tall stack of cookies in his hands and shuffle back out. Beezle was quiet, presumably pirating movies. Susan ignored the tea set, choosing to snuggle up against Duncan's side with her plate of cookies and chatter to him about the things that seven year olds save especially for their favorite bears. Duncan never moved an inch. He just lay there and lazily rolled his eyes to look at her now and again. If it weren't for that, you might have thought he was stuffed. Ever so slowly, a contented smile grew across his muzzle and as the hot afternoon grew into evening, Susan fell asleep on his forearm. He lifted his head and gazed down at her before putting it back down and closing his eyes.

I left them like that until Mrs. Lovegood called to request her daughter back. The ringing of the phone woke Susan up. She sat up slowly with her long blonde hair sticking out in every direction. Wisps of it covered her face. She pulled it back and stretched and said, "Mr. Seacwest?"

"Yes, Susan?"

"Did you know that Mr. Duncan can talk?"

"Oh?" I said. The surprise and interest in my voice were very real.

"Yes. He talks when nobody is here."

"And what does he say when he talks?"

Susan looked at him quietly for a minute. I listened to the soft wheeze of his slow breath, and watched her pat his ribs. Without looking back at me she stated as a mater-of-fact, "He says he loves me."

"You know," I said, "You're absolutely right."