Deary Abby Game

Next Letter:

Deary Abby:

First, let me just state that I commend you for the service to the public which you do. Likewise, I serve the public, as a physician in a small coastal community in New England. While not as fast paced as my experiences as a young field surgeon in Korea, it can get rather dicey. I’ve handled a variety of complex, and even odd cases in both my military and civilian practices, but, nothing has been as downright surreal as that which is currently happening in this town.

It all started a few months ago when I was called upon to treat a young man who had suffered some rather odd wounds, and whose blood exhibited very strange… well, certain… impurities. Since then, another patient, a young woman, exhibited the same set of oddities. She was subsequently kidnapped by a madman. Miraculously, she was recently found… but, unfortunately, she died shortly thereafter.

Abby, I’d just like, if I may, to extend my gratitude to one outstanding citizen of this community. This gentleman has opened his home; made available the assistance of both himself and his servant (the young man I had treated); and was even there at the hospital in the middle of the night to offer his concern within just a few minutes after the young woman had been recovered. Although this man only recently arrived in our country, at about the same time as all this trouble started, he has really earned the respect of all. In fact, one might say that he's our very own "Caped Crusader."

My question is this: should we build a bronze statue to display in the town square, or just throw the man an honorary parade once each year? The town is already named for his ancestors, so that is already covered.

Thank you, Abby.

Signed,

So relieved it’s over

Next Letter:

Deary Abby,

You’ve just got to help me with this problem, or I don’t know what else I will do. I grew in New York… the streets of New York, to be precise. Now, in my early twenties, I’ve spent most of the past eight years in various institutions. The idiot doctors claim I have a personality disorder, but I’m fine.

Anyway, about a year ago, I embarked on a train trip from New York to Boston. On the train, I met this little Sandra Dee type of girl about the same age as me. Though we had nothing in common, we talked at length. She told me how she had been hired, sight unseen, to be governess to some little brat at a big estate in Maine. She was on her way to her new job, and was leaving New York for good. I just could not let the opportunity pass, and decided that I must take her place. She never arrived in Maine – but, the body of an unidentified young woman was later found in an alley behind the station in Boston, where she was changing trains.

I regret none of this, as I do whatever I must to further my goals. So called “morals” are for losers. I love my new life and identity, and everything is looking up. This innocent little ingénue scam is the best con I’ve ever run. So far I’ve done quite well for myself: I get room and board, and a pay check; I’m skimming from the household accounts; and, in my free time I’m still able to turn tricks out of the local bar.

Abby, my problem is this: although I’ve done well here, I’ve money for only one vacation this year. Should it be Paris or Tuscany?

Signed,

Understanding more than I let on

Next Letter:

Deary Abby,

Thank you, Abby, for your many years of entertainment. I’ve enjoyed reading your columns for the past eighteen years. As a side-note, please excuse me if my thoughts ramble, and for the liquor stains on this letter – I like to drink. Anyone have a problem that? I’m rich, I’ll do what you want… er, what I what. Whatever.

Anywho, I’ve not left the house in eighteen years because I’m having too much fun. In 1949, I tricked my then husband into faking his own death. I even let his crooked friend think that I had killed him, and think he’d buried him in the basement. What a hoot! Yeah, I let my lesser half skip town with a few grand; but, the real scam took place at the local tavern just before he left. My friends (let’s just call them “The Old Ones”) arranged to have one of their operatives trick hubbydearest into selling his soul. The dumb bunny!

Since then, for eighteen years, in return for hubbydearest’s soul, I’ve been lavished with riches: all the free booze a girl could want; unparalleled success in the canned fish business; and, monthly in-home sex slave visits from a really famous blue-eyed singer. Everyone thinks that this famous singer is involved with the mafia, but he’s actually one of us. We own him.

The problem is this: recently, my thought-to-be-dead-hubby’s best friend returned to town, and is trying to blackmail me into marrying him. I’m tempted to just expose the whole murder plot; but, I’d have to open the locked room in the basement. Not that there is actually a body in there, but, because that is where my shrine to The Old Ones is kept.

What can I do?

Signed,

Pickled in a pickle

Next Letter:

Deary Abby,

I’ve never resorted to asking for advice in this manner, but I really do not know where else I can turn.

My Grandmother recently passed away, and I’ve become the matriarch of my wealthy New England family. It is a thankless task, but that is what Grandmother wanted in her Will (that’s my story and I’m sticking to it). I swear, my family, and everyone on this estate have all gone crazy.

My sister-in-law is a pyromaniac; my second-youngest brother keeps coming home in the morning with blood all over his torn clothes after drinking himself into such a stupor, he can’t even remember where he’d been; and, that same brother previously walked around the house as a zombie (what a scandal that could have caused if it had become known in the community that we had one of those in the family). Worst of all, is the situation at the family’s original home (located on the other side of the estate). My Grandmother had previously given permission to a couple of Gypsies to take up residence there (rent-free, of course) in exchange for palm-readings. I don’t believe in such drivel, and want these undesirables gone. Not only won’t they leave, but now, they’ve allowed a very weird man (claiming to be our family’s “cousin from England”) to live there with them. We never see him during daylight hours; and get this: he wears a cape. An f’n cape. Really? I think he’s just a shiftless, fashion-impaired bum who likes to sleep all day.

Abby, the only good thing happening around here is my recent marriage proposal from a very respectable and recently widowed minister.

If I marry this honorable man of faith, will this improve our situation around here; or will I only be digging an even deeper hole? Please advise, as soon as possible; and, thank you for your time.

Signed,

Queen of Spades

P.S.

I am considering having another phone line installed within the household; where should I put it?

Next Letter:

Deary Abby,

You’ve just got to help me, please! I’m in a terrible situation, and just don’t know where to turn or what to do. It’s a strange story, but I swear, it is all true.

I wasn’t brought to my parents by the stork like most people; I was delivered in a wooden box by a man in a cape. (No, really… a cape). Anyway, my mother must have been affected by the weird mushrooms she’d been given by a friend (who got them from her biker ex-boyfriend), resulting in my remarkable growth rate. I was in the box for only a few weeks. I was an infant for only about one week; I was six for about another week; I was twelve for yet another week; and, finally I am an adult. I didn’t like any of the names my parents gave me, so I’ve picked my own now.

Anyhow, some really strange people have started showing up in town, claiming to be here to assist me with some big plan that I’m supposed to be carrying out. They’ve got this really freaky idea that they want to turn me into a monster, so they can take over the world. First, there’s this weirdo in a fur coat who runs around threatening everyone with a knife, while claiming he is here to protect me from werewolves. And now, this Cheshire Cat grinned putz, who claims to be in big with the guy with the horns and the tail, says I’d better fulfill my destiny or there will literally be hell to pay. He keeps locking me in my room. It’s too stuffy and warm in there, and I start having an asthma attack every time, but he won’t let me out until agree to be his good little monster.

Abby, the point is this: BUT I DON’T WANNA BE A MONSTER!!!

What can I do?

Signed,

No fun at the top

Next Letter:

Deary Abby,

I am entrusted with a great responsibility. I'm the housekeeper for a very wealthy, old New England family. In my position, I have access to all that goes on in the household, and would never dream of violating such a trust. However, I could tell you things that... well, I'm not one to gossip.

Now, even though I originally took this position for the purpose of reporting all the goings on here to an adversary of the family, I've come to appreciate them and have stayed on. That doesn't mean all is as it should be. For one thing, the monthly liquor bill for this house must exceed the gross national product of some small countries... but, you didn't hear that from me. Also, they've got a young girl working here who, for Pete's sake only knows why, keeps car parts in her underwear drawer... She's also about as sharp as a cue ball. And, the children? Ha! The young boy of the house belongs in a reform school. His Aunt (my employer) keeps bringing young girls into the household, supposedly to give him a playmate. Hugh Hefner never had it so good! His *cough* father *cough* isn't much better. He keeps marrying pyromaniacs and witches. Oh, and now... now, the best one yet. Some bum, with fresh raw meat on his breath, shows up out of the blue, claiming to be a relative. What does the perpetually pickled Lady of the house do? She let's him stay, rent free, in the family's original home on the other side of the estate... cohabitating with a young man, half his age. Worse yet, he wears a cape. Now, I'm not prejudiced, but... a cape? Of course, I'm not one to gossip, so... you didn't hear any of this from me.

My question is this, Abby... Am I being too harsh in my assessment of the situation, or is this place over the top? Should I keep it to myself, or tell it all to the nice woman who recently came to live here to write a history of the family?

Signed,

Tight Lipped, but not blind

Next Letter:

Deary Abby,

I recently married, and moved into my husband’s ancestral home on a large estate in coastal Maine. When first married, we were living out of state, and all seemed blissful. Then, having moved back home, I was miserable. I don’t want anyone to be able to identify me, so I’ll just refer to myself as Jan.

My husband’s first wife (let’s call her Marcia) died about six months ago. Although he appeared to have moved on, his son and the housekeeper have not. The housekeeper insists on keeping Marcia’s portrait in her room upstairs, and is constantly talking about how wonderful she was. Same with her son, although in his case, it is somewhat more understandable. I’m made to feel unwanted and irrelevant here. All I hear all day long is how great Marcia was at this or how wonderful Marcia did that. Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!

Couldn’t get any worse, right? Well, night before last, I heard voices in the Drawing Room, and I went down to see who was there. As I stood outside the open double doors, I could not believe my eyes as there was Marcia, embracing my husband. He tried to tell me that it was Marcia’s sister, Cindy, returned from Europe. I don’t believe him. I think Marcia is alive and I’ve been gas lighted. I don’t know why, but that’s what it seems like. Marcia, Marcia, Marcia! I swear, I just want to smash her in the nose with a football.

Abby, I’ve left my no good husband and am currently staying with a girlfriend out of state. What should I do? Might he be telling the truth? If the woman is in fact Marcia’s sister, Cindy, should I try to coexist with her?

Signed,

Stuck in the middle

Next Letter:

January, 1971

Deary Abby,

It is just beyond belief the things that occur in this house. I was just on my way out for the evening, when suddenly, three strangers emerge from our upstairs linen closet. They included a scholarly looking gentleman with an eye monocle; an auburn-haired woman who tried to offer me a sedative; and a weird man in a cape. I know none of these characters, and haven’t a clue why they would have been in my house, let alone in the linen closet.

They knew my name, and tried to tell me that they had returned from the past, where according to them, they had “set everything right.” My husband, Jason, threw them out and we haven’t seen them since. I’m afraid they may come back. I knew these religious groups were getting increasingly pushy in their ‘witnessing’, but to ambush people in their own homes by springing out of the linen closet is just over the line.

Should I call the Sheriff if they come back, get a restraining order, or what?

Signed,

Strangers in my house