JOURNAL OF THE BLACK LODGER (1)

AUG-27-19---

Mrs. Beasley rented me a grand room containing a lumpy bed and moth eaten blankets. The room is the same size as the room I was given by the b******s that said I was looney. That will be a word I'll not use often with my own lips, as it is a very dirty word.

Mrs. Beasley is a lovey large woman just ripe for the picking. I lick my chapped lips every time I see her, and I see her often through the little hole I made in my bedroom wall.  I always just catch her as she is finishing dressing or bathing her left side of her body.  What were the chances mine and her bedrooms were next door. Just ripe for picking.

Mrs. Beasley tells a tale of a missing husband at  a young age. A right fool if you ask me. She said Father and husband didn't get along. The husband went missing a few months after they were married, never to turn up again. So, the only way to make ends meet was to rent rooms.

There are other guests in Mrs. Beasley's house. A large house her Father used to own. As she said, her Father was a renowned Surgeon and respected scholar in the medical field. What Mrs. Beasley don't know is what is stored in the basement of the house. Something I stumbled on when I was looking to get rid of that nasty cat of hers I was experimenting with sassafras and arsenic.

I rather felt in awe of a master, it seems. Pure genius, the b*****d was. I accidentally touched a lever of some sort and the wall of the cellar moved. It opened up to a new dark and dank room. What I saw was completely and utterly beautiful.

It was about twelve of these wonderful human sculptures. Several people with animal body parts. One woman had the legs of a goat. A man had the head of a deer, antlers and all! But my favorite to have been the man split in half, sewn together with the right side of a woman.

I wonder what Mrs. Beasley would think if she ever stumbled upon her Father's passionate art?

Reviews

[Joe Morris]

I once again marvel at your impressive use of dark imagery that I enjoy reading so. the way in which you end with the words 'passionate art' sends a nice shiver down my spine that such an atrocity could be considered as such. A brilliant piece Mr. Slade :)