Ghastly Comfort XXIII

Dearest Mother,

You and father, as owners of not just a home but several barns, are most certainly aware that one of the persistent problems with any structure is dealing with the various infestations of insects and pests. And I am afraid to report that this inn–bequeathed to me by unsigned letter, sitting atop a cliff overlooking an ever-tumultuous sea and framed by ever-grey skies–is no different.

All summer long, I looked forward to the respite of a bug-less fall, but alas, it appears I will receive none. Ants still stalk across the kitchen floor at times, flies still buzz against the windows at night, keeping guests awake, and earwigs still flow forth in great numbers from certain faucets when someone attempts to run the bath. (It is a great bother, this earwig issue, let me tell you. And, making matters worse, one of the only plumbers nearby inspected the bath in question, told me he would need to retrieve something from his van, drove off, and has never been seen again. According to some village gossip that Hugo has picked up, he joined some far-flung monastery.)

Even worse than all that, we have recently been dealing with an absolute plague of late-season mosquitoes. Luckily, though many guests have been bitten, few have complained. They seem instead to be absolutely enamored with the new pianist we hired to play in the lounge. Although ‘hired’ might be a bit of an exaggeration. He arrived one day and began playing, and the effect was so immediate, I demanded he come back any day he pleases. I even offered him a small wage, but he refused, saying his audience’s adoration was payment enough.

I do worry about retaining him, though, without a contract or any monetary remuneration. After all, it was such poor timing, how the mosquitoes seemed to arrive the same day he did. And I know he himself is aware of how pervasive they are. He does this thing that I find charming, where he whistles along to his own tune on the piano, and during some of these moments, I have seen mosquitoes issuing forth from his lips! It amazes me that he has not sought out some other venue to play, where the pests do not swarm with such intensity that some end up within his mouth!

But, again, neither he nor the guests complain. He goes on playing and whistling, and the guests swat at the bugs biting them and listen intently. In fact, they seem to listen even more intently after they have been bitten, if you can believe it. Many follow him around during his breaks, and when he asks them questions, they answer in unison. Such is the pull of a fantastic entertainer like him!

As for me, I can only enjoy a minute or two of his playing at a time, with all the work I have to do, conducting every task with one of my rechargeable fly racquets on hand. They are fantastic because they are electrified, so as long as I manage to hit a bug at all as it flies through the room, it meets its end. This is not a total solution, mind you, but it will do until the pest control woman finally delivers the estimate from her walkthrough. (And I really do hope the convent rumors floating around the village are untrue.)

At any rate, I shall have it all figured out by the time of your visit. Otherwise, you will have to wear the horses’ fly guards just to walk through the hallways! (This is a joke just for us; I know father would not see the humor in anything frivolous to do with the horses or their apparel.)

Do tell me when!

Sincerely,
Miranda Prillchisky
Proprietor
The Dread Inn at Death Rock