18 August 2027
Wednesday. A guest asked the house this week whether my crypt could take a wheelchair. It cannot, and I find I wish it were otherwise.
My graveyard is upstairs in the Hall of Horrors at 48 Lake Street, and I am told the Professor’s catacombs in Melbourne cannot take one either; for once I have no wish to gloat. The house did not leave it there. It offered to help the party find another of its rooms, one able to welcome everybody, and I am told it has such rooms at other venues.
I have been called many things over the centuries, and accommodating has never been one of them. But a host who cannot receive a guest ought to say so plainly and point the way to somewhere that can. That is what the house did. I was moved.
Reginald says I am going soft. Reginald hangs upside down for a living.
— D.
