Victory

It went better than I could possibly have hoped. Let me reconstruct the scene for you: Mr. Svend had called me up to the witness stand to needle me with ridiculous questions about my mental state. It took a bit of acting, but I was able to steer his line of questioning to my family's lineage. I could tell he was wary of wading into anything to do with my family history, since any inherited illness could be used against my brother as well. Eventually however, he took the bait and asked aloud if any records of my father's remained. He meant it to be a rhetorical question, and the look of triumph on his face made what happened next all the sweeter. I cleared my throat and told him that I was able to salvage a copy of my father's book Walking Beneath the Sky. He tried to laugh it off, but I had my lawyer bring the book to me and I began to read aloud. I won't share the passage I read (my brother still doesn't deserve it), but it worked. The look on the jury's face afterwords was only beaten by Svend's reaction. I could tell he feigned shock at what S. had done, and decided it was time to bail. He did a complete one-eighty degree turn, trying to pretend that he had no idea that his client had done anything of the sort; and that furthermore, his participation was fairly minor. Then came to greatest moment of my life up to now, I asked my lawyer to bring up the pictures I'd taken on Wednesday of Svend snooping around the house and showed them to the judge. Svend rushed up and grabbed the photos, looking over them with his beady eyes as his mouth struggled to frame words. He denounced them as fakes, saying that it wasn't him; but I simply pointed out that there aren't many other seven foot tall pasty bald men in suits out to get me. The judge shook his head at Svend and threw out the case in total. I looked back at my brother, only to find that he'd already left. (I can't say I'm sorry to see him go after all this, but still...) Halfway out the door I turned to give a parting smirk to the man who'd made my life a living hell these past weeks. He was kneeling down on the floor, still looking over the photos with a dumbfounded look on his face; and well, I just couldn't do it. A bittersweet end to a unwanted reunion to be sure. howiregretthatday

Evidence

I knew it. I happened to look out the back window today and what did I see? A tall man in a suit watching the house from the woods. I must admit that I'm a little surprised Svend's doing his own dirty work, but it doesn't matter. I snapped a few pictures to further compound the evidence, and I contacted my lawyer. He agreed to move up the next court date to Saturday. I can't wait to see that smug smile fall away when we present this. Its going to be wonderful.

In other news, I've finished refurbishing the ground floor. Since I'd rather not deal with the basement yet, I'm moving on to the second floor today. I've got big plans for this mansion, big plans.
thefeelingismutual
EDIT: Apparently Svend thinks we're bluffing, and he's requested that we move the date to Thursday. We told him we'd love too...

Footprints

Ok. Once again I'm at a compete loss as to how I'm going to explain what happened yesterday. But, there I was, minding my own business (replaying Bioshock 1 and 2 while I wait for Infinite) when this- this noise starts up. Now at first, I would say that it sounded like a concrete slab being dropped repeatedly on an iron floor, but that wasn't quite it. It had a... static quality to it, like it was a recording of a slab being dropped being played on bass speakers, but that still isn't quite correct. It stopped as quickly as it started; and after I got over the shock I raced upstairs to locate the source of the noise (after grabbing Ol' Faithful of course). The second floor was empty as usual but the third floor wasn't. Remember how the third floor is covered in dust? Well it still was, but now it has a trail of gigantic footprints in it. Seriously, I measured, each footprint is eighteen inches from heel to toe. Wanna know something else? The footprints started under the window and ended next to a wall. As I've mentioned before the dust in there is extremely sticky, and there is no way I can think of that would allow a person to climb three stories, sliently, and stomp around a dusty room before exiting through a wall. I'm racking my brain to come up with a rational explanation for what's going on and I just can't-
dustdoesnotlie
Actually, now that I think about it, its probably connected to the noises I heard outside a few weeks back. You don't think this is some sort of elaborate hoax do you? Like in those old Scooby Doo episodes were the old man tries to scare the owner of the roller rink/amusement park/aquarium/etc. to sell by dressing up as a ghost? Would my brother really sink to that level? No. No he wouldn't. He may have done other things in his lifetime, but this is too far out for him. Is it Svend? Is he really that stupid? Heh. Guess he's getting desperate! Think I'll let my lawyer know about this. K out.

Truthwalker

Well there's two days I won't be getting back. I'd say I'm pretty much the picture of mental health. Yes, I asked about the locked room. Apparently I sleepwalk, and the whole ordeal was simply a dream. In fact, I went back downstairs and found one of the walls had dents and scrapes on it. So in the end, it was unnecessary, but it sure is a relief to know I'm not losing my mind.
butyouarelosingyoursoul
And the good news keeps on coming. We found a key piece of evidence to support my case in a fragment of my father's book, Walking Beneath the Sky. I've put a good deal of thought into this, and I've decided that even with all the trouble my brother's put me through, I'm still going to withold the worst of the incident from the court. All the jury needs to know is the basics; which directly contradict Ol' Svendy's diatribes. Hopefully this will all be over soon.

No Foolin'

Yes, yes. I know what day it is, and I'm not going to play along. I've never really liked April Fools all that much anyway (and no, its NOT because I'm usually on the receiving end) so everything in this post is as reliable as all of my previous posts.

Stupid holiday aside, I'm ready to catch you up on what's been going on. Thursday was another court day, and... it didn't go so well. My brother's lawyer is finally getting into his stride, and I have to say, I'm starting to hate that man. His name is Victor Svend, and he is ruthless. Standing at an imposing seven foot three, and bald as marble, Mr. Svend is rather intimidating before he even opens his mouth. He speaks in a low whisper as he works his way around my lawyer's arguments, spinning meaningless but grandiose statements that sound impressive but have little legal weight. Still, the jury is obviously impressed by the guy, and he knows it. Everytime he sits back down after questioning he sends a frustratingly condescending smirk my way. It's really starting to get under my skin. But Thursday was the worst. He'd just gotten through telling the jury that I'd previously served eleven months in a psychiactric ward and that I was showing signs of another mental breakdown. The remark shook me, even though it was only a coincidence (he's thrown a lot of things at me that don't even come close to anything I've done). But this time when he seated himself he forewent the smug look in favor of a knowing glance. The incident left me wondering if he knows more than he's letting on. Or maybe he realized from my expression that he'd finally nailed me on something. Either way, my lawyer says to expect it to come up again; so I'm going to a clinic to prove I'm fine. whoareyoutryingtoconvince

Two Mysteries

I'm not quite sure what to say at this point, but remember that locked room I talked about? It isn't there anymore. I don't know when it disappeared, but when the locksmith came it was nowhere to be found. The locksmith was a little ticked off at being dragged out here (not too angry though, he was still getting paid), and he said that I should get my head examined (among other things I won't reprint). I've double checked all the doors in the basement and all of them open. I'm really at a loss to explain what I'm experiencing. I'd be inclined to believe it was a dream if I didn't have a garbage bag full of broken tools and a sore shoulder from my encounter with it. I really think I should take the locksmith's advice and at least get a cursory psyche exam, the problem is my brother's lawyer might find out about it and use it against me in court. Evidence of a mental breakdown is the last thing I need at this point.
whichcagewillyouchoose
There's something else. Lately I've been noticing strange noises outside the mansion at night. Now, since I'm out in the middle of a heavily wooded area, the mansion is a little hard to get to. If something were to go wrong, like a break-in or a fire, I'd be on my own. Therefore I've taken the liberty of purchasing a twelve-gauge, in case its not just in my head. Got to go, tomorrow is a court day and I have to prepare.

The Locked Room

Another discovery. Last night I found that one of the rooms in the basement wouldn't open. I tried every last one of the thirty-seven keys I received with the house, and none of them unlocked the door. Undeterred, I retrieved a set of tools from the garage to force my way in. That's when the situation became downright strange. All the electrical tools stopped working in the basement. I know they aren't broken, because I bought them last month and they worked fine on the ground floor. I even changed the batteries twice before giving up and moving on to the regular tools. None of them even scratched the paint of the doorhandle, not even the sledgehammer. (I'm not the strongest guy in the world, but I'm fairly certain that me, plus sledgehammer, plus door, equals no more door.) I'm rather ashamed to admit that I lost my temper at that point. My shoulder is still bruised from the repeated ramming attempts, and I'm the kind of person who can't let a mystery go unsolved. I'm calling a locksmith.joyansorrowliebeyond