Basil's Dictation (Found Abandoned in the Pantry)

You! Thought I’d seen the last of you and your pen. What the devil are you doing in the house?

It’s just a turn of phrase. Don’t be so bloody literal. Thought you were more of an outdoor sort of demon, right? Catching the fresh air, writing the odd sonnet. Emphasis on odd, of course. Point being, you lot ought to know your place. As in, places where you stay put. Troublesome enough that I can’t go for a walk without tripping over a baker’s dozen imps, the least you can do is stop wandering around. How’s a fellow supposed to keep track? You don’t see some ghost on the moors deciding to wander down to Brighton for the season, do you? You should take notes. Ah, good, I see you are.

What do you mean it’s all my fault? You could have gone back to where you came from, not set up residence here in the pantry. So what if I made it unpleasant along the seashore? That was the bloody idea. A man’s got a right to go patrolling about on the beaches. And if he sees the odd grouse, pheasant or hellspawn demon, he’s got the further right to send his dog and a bit of shot after it. Droit du seigneur, don’t you know?

Well, that too, but truthfully, I wouldn’t touch one of those peasant girls without giving her a serious scrubbing down first. One learns these things out here in the countryside. Getting back to my point, that beach is properly mine! Well, ours. But I doubt Adele could make the trip without fainting, and Theo is allergic to fresh air. Haven’t seen the lad much recently, come to think of it. Maybe he’s discovered peasant girls. He’d best not bring them in the house.

I can rattle on about what I damn well please! But now that you mention it, I’ve another complaint.

Ha ha and furthermore, ha. Yes, I tried asking after the name you gave me. The local imps told me all about how to get an appointment with him. Don’t think I feel up to dying just yet, unshriven or unshaven for that matter. You hellspawn really need to work on your customer service.

Well, yes, getting nipped on the heels or whatever is deucedly unpleasant. And who’s responsible for that? Anyway, it certainly didn’t improve your behavior, what with the house being infested now.

You’re here, ain’t you? Counts as infested in my book. Stick around and I might get round to patrolling up here, not just down at the beach. Once you give me my dog back.

You know full well what I’m talking about. That’s what the nature of the complaint is. It just wasn’t cricket, what you did.

“You” plural. But don’t tell me “you” singular doesn’t damn well know what happened.

Well, fine. Just a few hours back, I had to pop in to use the loo. Prefer to do that alone, of course, so I left Champ to chase some of those rabbitish things that’ve been running about of late. Damn loo was in a state, old chicken bones left around, general sulphuric stench and filled with red smoke. I’m a man who prefers a certain je ne sais quoi when he sits down with the Times, so I had to clean the damned thing up myself.

Really wish we could retain a maid. Hells clanging bells, I’d be happy if we could get one to just come out here for an interview. I’d even put up with a bit of screaming and fainting if it made for a clean water closet.

So, after I clear out that cloud of thick red smoke and deal with the necessary, I go down to the garden to pick up Champ. And he ain’t there.

Yes, he’s wandered off before. No, I’m not worried about nothing. I know you know what I know, so you know it would be nice if you stopped pretending you don’t know.

I saw his tail behind what was left of the rosebush, so I head over there. And you know what? The mutt gives me this saucy “Oh, you” look, sniffs the air, then charges off with you know perfectly well who.

HER. That’s who. Right little tramp, you could tell from her coal black nose to the tip of her wagging little tail, with a stop in between for what I have to admit was a rather well formed dog. Wouldn’t have been ashamed to enter her in trials, were it not for the deep red fur and bat wings.

Now that you mention it, she was holding one wing rather stiffly. I thought it was a bit of a flirting, you know, like women and their fans. But who cares? It’s simply not cricket to go stealing a man’s dog like that! I know, you pride yourself on being tempters, but leave dogs alone, you hear me?

Hit a sore point, haven’t I? Good to see you all alarmed looking like that. The smoke pouring out the ears is a nice touch.

Hey! Where the devil are you going?

Told you, it’s just a turn of phrase.

Well, in that case, be sure to hand him that complaint.


(David Parish-Whittaker)

Dear Demon

Dear Demon, whatever your name may be (oh,I wish I knew!) I hope that you can understand this note. You look so human--except for the wings and the claws and fangs, of course, and the fact that you are so much lovelier than human girls-- so I have to assume you speak English. I thought I saw comprehension in your eyes the day I found you on the beach. I know you must have been in horrible pain—your wing was so tattered!--but you didn’t strike out at me when I told you I was there to help you. And I am.
So I hope you understand that I had to lock you in the loo. I know it’s not exactly ideal, but it was only a matter of time before my older brother Basil would come along with his gun and his dog. It simply wasn’t safe for you to be out in the open—and it’s getting less safe by the moment. My sister Adelle has hired a demon hunter, a Mr. Arthur Harkness. He arrived yesterday. Thankfully, so far he has stayed up by the main house, and you will certainly know if he comes down here by the guest cottage because he speaks as if he’s on the stage and he reeks of cigars. My sister is smitten with him, naturally, and follows him like a puppy looking for scraps. She’s determined that I should like him, too. Something about me “needing male role models” and “making something worthwhile of this foolish obsession with demons.” Well, I’ll never apprentice myself to someone who hunts demons and mounts them on the wall, and I certainly have no intention of being bossed about like he bosses his man-servant, Edgar. It’s no wonder Edgar is such a nervous, shifty little man. He watches me with those little vole eyes. They’re both only interested in me because my sister told them I survived the pox demonic. Well, I’ll only talk to them if it means a chance to find out more about their strange contraptions. There’s something called a necronometer in our front hall. Perhaps I will write to the Royal Academy of Demonology to ask them what it does.
Well, there is a bright side to all this: Basil is barely around. He is spending every moment of his time on the beach with Champ. He says he’s trying to train the dog to hunt, but he may just be trying to stay away from the demon hunter. For the first time in history, Basil and I agree.
The other bright spot in all this my sister’s friend Marguerite, who also arrived yesterday. She and my sister have been friends since the cradle. Now she is studying nursing at the hospital I stayed in while convalescing from the pox. She is such a sensible sort and quite kind. If your wing continues to fester, I would consider telling her about you because I believe she may be able to help. Do you think that you could tolerate her ministrations? I am loathe to trust anyone with our secret, but I think she could be trusted to keep things hush. In fact, I am beginning to suspect that she may have a secret of her own.
Well, consider these chicken bones an offering. I’m sorry it isn’t more, but it’s all I could smuggle today. Tonight my sister is roasting lamb—“It’s Mr. Harkness’ favorite!”—so I will try to filch you a cut. Until then, I hope you are healing and growing strong. And I hope you will write me back.
Your would-be friend,
Theo



Laura Bradley Rede