CASE LOG #72. FILED UNDER: “FAE AND RELATED CREATURES; RESIDENTIAL.”

CALL TO ACTION: “Hello, my name is Chuck Taylor* have ghost in my bed. Not around my bed but inside the bed. Please help me, I cant go to sleep. These ghosts keep me awake playing hip hop music. Love, Chuck Taylor*”

*note: this is an alias chosen by sender. name may or may not represent true identity of sender.

BEGIN LOG TRANSCRIPT

Ah, the old apparition in the bed trick! I haven't heard a case like this since back in [OMITTED] when [OMITTED]! Hahaha, great times. Needless to say, I responded to Mr. Taylor* promptly, and found myself buzzing in to a nondescript apartment complex in midtown, then knocking on the door of apartment no. 73. Mr. Taylor*, who answered by poking his pointed nose out of the door and waving me in with one bony-fingered hand, was a tall, nervous man who had the red-and-purple rings around his eyes characteristic only to people in school and those individuals with haunted beds.

Since he was nervous, we first engaged in Polite Small Talk, which was interspersed with large yawns, first from Mr. Taylor*, then from myself. Even seasoned supernatural sleuths such as myself are not immune to the contagion of a really good yawn. I remember once in Ontario, I was sneaking into a yeti’s lair with a colleague of mine to collect samples when—Whoops.

To business, yes.

Mr. Taylor* led me to a closed door that, upon inspection, vibrated softly but insistently. “I have nothing against that sort of thing,” he assured me—referring, I can only imagine, to the hip hop music—”I just haven't slept in four days.”

I could tell, but I refrained from telling him such and requested he go recline the couch I'd noticed in the living room. It was too small for the poor fellow, who looked almost like someone had pinched him at the top of the head and he bottom of the feet and pulled, but it would do until I finished.

The walls of apartment no. 73 must have been extremely thick, because the music increased tenfold in volume as soon as I opened the door. Now that I could hear it properly, I snapped my fingers in frustration. Of course! No self-respecting apparition would be caught dead listening to Justin Timberlake—well. They would be dead, obviously. But not listening to Justin Timberlake.

No, no. This was worse than Mr. Taylor* had thought. This was a case of Brownies.

Brownies, for whom it may concern, are tiny men—often dirty, usually rowdy, always annoying—who settle in the homes of sane folk with little to no interest in things that don't exist. They came over from Ireland, hidden among the rats. They are not chocolate, or delicious, but they do share something in common with the similarly named baked good: once dunked in milk, they quickly disappear.

I closed the door on the music, which had emanated—as Mr. Taylor* wrote originally—from the bed, along with the occasional erratic shake. In the kitchen, I searched the fridge for a half-empty jug of milk, then the cabinets for a medium-sized bowl, careful not to wake Mr. Taylor*, who had already fallen asleep, sprawled awkwardly on the little couch.

Back in the room, I set the bowl precisely in the center of the carpet, using sophisticated measurements gathered via ancient hand signals I picked up from an apparition while on holiday in Machu Picchu. After uncapping the milk jug, all it took was a few drops in the bowl for the music to come to a sudden stop. Then, as the jug emptied and the bowl filled, I watched as one by one four little men in dirty brown overalls filed out of a hand-fashioned door in the side of the mattress and dove gleefully into the bowl.

While they were swimming, I, smiling, opened my briefcase and poured the contents of the bowl inside (to be disposed of properly later), then snapped the clasps shut with a neat click. I sighed, content. I love that sound.

On my way out, I left Mr. Taylor* a note explaining the case was closed, and three dollars to replace the milk.

Case #72 was, perhaps, the most fun I’ve had in years. Brownies, despite their musical tastes, are usually harmless, and, as this case shows, easy to remove. Now all that’s left is to clean my briefcase. Again.

END OF TRANSCRIPT.

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