As strange symbols continue to proliferate across town, the Fauxhasset Paroder has been treating these incidents like a particularly mystifying chapter of The Hardy Boys. This must stop. You are only encouraging them.
Since 1952, my husband and I— well, truth be told, my husband is no longer with us, so it is just “I” now, but regardless… for all those intervening years, I have lived across from what is now the Lame Jane development, and I can assure you that the “otherworldly diagram” painted in the basement was the work of hooligans and juvenile delinquents.
Before Mr. Henry purchased the property, my husband (who served in the Great War as well as the Fauxston Police Department – he had very keen blue eyes, broad shoulders, a good, sturdy handshake, and a nose for when something wasn’t right, which is how he came to bring this matter to my attention) – he and I used to see teenagers trespassing in the condemned house on that lot at least once a month. I guarantee that the images in Mr. Henry’s basement and in the cave on Mr. Donne’s island were created by the same.
The troubled youths used to spend hours in the crumbling house, probably drinking cheap vodka and smoking that Mary Jane when they should have been home helping their mothers with the dishes. To create such upsetting and occult imagery on someone else’s property certainly must have required the influence of very serious substances – perhaps even, as my husband (a God-fearing man) used to say, “Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll.”
We had reason to believe these hoodlums were engaged in all three. They thought we couldn’t see them, lighting the way with only the pale blue glow of their cordless telephone screens, but we saw everything: the strange shadows, the flickering lights, the silhouettes of flailing limbs, all to the screeching and pounding of that electronic noise that kids these days are calling “music.”
Now that their old hideaway’s gone, is it any wonder these reprobates sought out – and evidently found – other dark corners from whence to practice their heathenry? It hardly matters to them whether they trash Mr. Henry’s good name, or anyone else’s, in the process.
It’s not right, and something ought to be done about it. Mr. Henry is such a nice man who is trying to do great and noble things for our humble village district. Rather than blaming gods, demons, or aliens for this vandalism, I urge the Fauxhasset Police (and perhaps a few local parents, as well!) to look a little closer to home for the culprits and to furnish the emotional and psychological help that these children so clearly need, before it is too late.
A Concerned Citizen