Samhain Sojourn I: Milhous of Horror

WIZARDS bear many duties in this world, & the others. We may guard artefacts—or distribute them—or steal them. We may guide the young, or mind the Weave, or host talk shows…any number of odd & secret errands fill our diaries. Every Samhain, in repayment for a debt to the last Druid to ever draw breath, I take up my strangest office: to fulfill the request of the first spirit who finds me. I may not turn them down—no matter how ghastly the ghoul, no matter how terrifying the task.

Most years, ‘tis simple, if sad. Many departed mortals simply wish to be heard one last time, or tell one final joke, or know how their families carry on. Once, a deceased duke demanded revenge upon his rivals; I spent an entire year on that, & the rotten requestor complained the entire time! In the 1980s, a deceased oil executive managed to track me down. I watched him shove a sad child-ghost out of the way to reach me first, which I did not know ghosts could even do, & he revealed that his request was to “ruin a hobo’s day.” I felt tremendous guilt, wracked my mind for some kind of non-evil solution—& then, I saw a poster for a film called Trading Places. In it, Eddie Murphy—an incredibly wealthy man by then—played a hobo. Huzzah, a loophole! Since the rich are so easy to inconvenience, I simply dropped an enormous boulder on one of his many frivolous cars, & he screamed for 48 hours. The odious oil executive fumed that a rich person had been the “victim,” but could not deny I held up my end of the bargain, & thus I considered it a successful Samhain!

This year brought weirdness my way: while strolling through a quiet wood, enjoying rising mists & falling temperatures, I stumbled into a horrid purple sphere. On it, the horrible insignia of a deranged maniac, & inscribed in runes, “leod-sceaða.” An auld term, but a colorful one: “the folk-harmer.” Horror crept up my spine, & I attempted to slink away before the occupant could rise to greet me—no such luck. The Dishonorable Richard Milhous Nixon, a vile grin stretched across his shade, swelled up like a poison cloud. Instantly I knew he knew of my Samhain office, & braced myself for repugnant business.

“Nixon, you charmless churl, how come ye here? Thy tomb sits in Yorba, thy spirit in Hell! Explain this treachery!”

“Well, I could stand here before this audience & make all kinds of excuses—”

“No dithering, fiend, ye have no audience & no votes to win. Speak plainly, if ye can.”

He sneered, & ‘twas satisfying to see. Nixon earned many monikers in his wasted life: “President,” “Jabbering Dupe,” “King Swine.” I never understood the last, for swine are useful, unlike Nixon. As truffle-scouts, house-wards, & for their remarkable ability to turn garbage into meat. Not modern garbage, mind ye, where ‘tis mainly plastic & horrible poisons. Nay, proper refuse, like gristle, & spent grain, &—

“Are you listening, you sorcerous son-of-a-bitch?”

Nixon’s impatient attack caught me totally off-guard. “A-aye, reluctantly. Speak thy request, that I may dispense with it swiftly.”

That wretched smile returned to his hideous face, & I felt instantly doomed.

“I wish to win one last election.”

The horror continues next Monday!

Nixon as my taskmaster? O, what cruel fate…or is it?! The adventure shall unfold in two more parts, coming Mondays until Samhain. I hope ye enjoyed this first folio!

Thank ye all, kind readers, & thank ye to the kind upgradors. I shall write ye come Wednesday with news about the upcoming CASHY AWARDS. Until then, be safe, be well, & avoid any dreadful purple spheres!

Cheers,
Amoenus Franco
Wizard, Writer, White House Plumber: The Next Generation