The Creeps: A Samuel Johnson Tale sjvtd-3

by John Connolly

He frowned and tapped a finger to his lips.

  “Now, what did it say on the side? Was it ‘Dan’s Twits,’ or ‘Dan’s Thieving Little Gits’? No, wait a minute, don’t tell me, it’ll come. Ah, I’ve got it now. ‘Dan’s Sods’! At least you can’t be accused of false advertising.”

  “Very funny,” said Dozy. “Cost us a fortune, that van did, and we can’t afford new paintwork. How are we supposed to get around now? We only have little legs.”

  “It’ll just make it harder for you to run away when we come looking for you,” said Sergeant Rowan.

  “Why would you be looking for us, Sergeant?” asked Angry.

  “Because the last time you lot worked as Christmas elves, there were some very nasty incidents, and don’t think that I’ve forgotten about them. That reindeer probably hasn’t forgotten about them either.”

  “We were just feeding it a carrot,” said Dozy.

  “Carrots go in the other end, the mouth end.”

  “It was dark in that stable,” said Jolly. “It wasn’t our fault.”

  “And then there was the poor bloke playing Father Christmas.”

  “We were sure that beard wasn’t real,” said Angry. “I mean, ninety-nine percent sure. I’d have put money on it.”

  “But you didn’t put money on it, did you?” said Sergeant Rowan. “You put glue on it. You glued it when he wasn’t looking and then asked a child to give it a tug. You thought you’d end up with a small boy with a beard stuck to his hand, but instead you got a Father Chrismas with a small boy stuck to him. Father Christmas had to have his beard cut off, and the kid ended up with hands that looked like the paws of an elderly werewolf.”

  “It won’t happen again, Sergeant,” said Dan. “They’re changed men.”

  “The only thing that will change that lot is Death,” said Sergeant Rowan. “Even then, they’ll probably try to steal his scythe.”

  Dan began to hustle the dwarfs along.

  “Well, we must be off,” he said. “We’re running late as it is. Good to see you again. Maybe we’ll all meet up at the Grand Opening!”

  “I can hardly wait,” said Sergeant Rowan.

  He turned his chair to face Constable Peel.

  “We need to watch them, Constable. We need to watch them like hawks. No, not just like hawks, but like hawks . . . with binoculars. We—”

  He paused.

  “Where’s the rest of my pie gone?” he said.

  “Sergeant—” began Constable Peel as an engine started up.

  “And my tea. And the teapot!”

  The engine was followed by a burst of sirens, but they were quickly silenced.

  “Sarge—”

  “They’ve even taken the cups!”

  “Sarge!” said Constable Peel with some force.

  “What is it?”

  “I think they’ve stolen our car.”

  IX

  In Which Clever Disguises Are Adopted

  NURD TRUDGED BACK TO Mrs. Johnson’s house, his head low. Wormwood had chosen to stay late at the car-testing center. There had been some spectacular crashes that day, and Wormwood liked nothing better than rebuilding crashed cars.

  Nurd was wearing a bulky jacket, and a hood covered his head. His hands were plunged deep into his pockets. It looked like rain, but he had decided not to take the bus because taking the bus meant being near people. Even though Nurd’s appearance had changed a great deal in his time on Earth, he was still strange enough to attract startled glances from passersby and fellow passengers. Small children sometimes cried at the sight of him, and he had lost count of the number of elderly ladies whom he had caused to faint with fright. It was easier just to walk home, even if it did take him an hour.

  Home. Nurd grimaced at the word. Mrs. Johnson’s house wasn’t home. Oh, it was comfortable, and Samuel and his mother did all that they could to make Nurd and Wormwood feel like part of the family, but as time went on, Nurd just became more and more aware of how different he was. Earth was better than Hell, but Nurd still didn’t belong there, and he didn’t think that he ever would.

  A bird sang from a nearby tree. Nurd stopped to listen. The bird took one look at him, let out a startled squawk, and suddenly decided to fly south for the winter, even though it wasn’t a migratory bird.

  Nurd adjusted his hood until only a tiny circle of his face was visible, and walked on.

  • • •

  Once they had retrieved their car—following a long lecture from Sergeant Rowan to Jolly about the difference between “borrowing” and “stealing,” which Sergeant Rowan suspected went in one ear and out the other, but not before being relieved of any valuables—the two policemen decided to drive over to Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s to see what the scientists were up to in their Secret Laboratory That Everybody Knew About. It was part of the Biddlecombe constabulary’s weekly routine: pop in, say hello, pretend that the scientists were simply sweet manufacturers working night and day to perfect new types of sherbet, and make sure that they hadn’t opened any portals between worlds.

  “We should have arrested them for stealing our car,” said Constable Peel as they neared Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s.

  “Some things aren’t worth the time or the trouble,” said Sergeant Rowan. “At least we got it back before they sold it.”

  “You’re very tolerant of them.”

  “Spending time in Hell with people will do that to you.”

  “Spending time with them is Hell anyway,” said Constable Peel. “Spending time with them in Hell was just Hell squared.”

  “You know, I think they like you,” said Sergeant Rowan.

  Constable Peel couldn’t help but feel pleased despite himself.

  “What makes you say that, Sarge?”

  “Have they burgled you yet?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “There you have it. Stands to reason, doesn’t it, that they must like you if they haven’t burgled your house?”

  “I don’t think they know where I live.”

  “Really? Well, be sure not to tell them, then. You wouldn’t want to put temptation in their way.”

  They pulled into the yard of Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s. The factorye—sorry, factory22—occupied a big gloomy Victorian monstrosity designed by Hilary Mould. All of Hilary Mould’s buildings were gloomy, thought Sergeant Rowan. They might not have started out that way on the plans, but that’s how they ended up. Hilary Mould could have designed a playhouse and made it look like a mortuary. His buildings were the kind of places that were probably advertised in newspapers in the Afterlife:

  FOR IMMEDIATE OCCUPATION: Building looking for ghost to haunt it. All Dark Corners, Weird Carvings, Creaking Doors, Sinister Paintings of Relatives of Whom Nobody Speaks, and Secret Rooms Not Listed on Original Plans entirely intact. Would suit ghoul, specter, poltergeist, or other incorporeal entity. Available for eternity, although shorter leases will be considered. Inquiries to the wailing, demented spirit of Hilary Mould.

  Why Mr. Pennyfarthinge had originally chosen a “Mould” for the location of his business was something of a mystery, but it had certainly thrived there. Its success was helped by the fact that Mr. Pennyfarthinge and the mysterious Uncle Dabney were one and the same person, a detail that emerged only following Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s death by gobstopper. The basement of his factory was found to contain thousands of boxes of unsold Uncle Dabney products, including prototypes for some that had not yet been unleashed on the public: Uncle Dabney’s Orange Bombs (which turned out to be actual bombs, with a hint of orange essence); Uncle Dabney’s Chocolate Bullets (real bullets covered in rich dark chocolate: not less than 50 percent cocoa and 50 percent gunpowder); and Uncle Dabney’s Nuclear Blast Toffees (of which the less said, the better). There were also samples of Uncle Dabney’s Cough Drops, which caused coughing instead of curing it, and enough sachets of Uncle Dabney’s Flu Powder to count as a potential epidemic. It was said by some that the building had driven Mr. Pennyfarthinge mad. All things considered, it
was a very good thing that the jars of gobstoppers had landed on Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s head when they did, for who knows what he might have ended up inventing if he hadn’t been killed.

  None of this, of course, concerned the scientists. They were just happy to find a place that they could rent cheaply, and the sale of sweeties—including the remaining Uncle Dabney products that had not been destroyed or classified as weapons—helped to fund their operations. To ensure that their cover remained intact, they had taken to wearing large beards to disguise their faces, for both Professors Hilbert and Stefan had visited Biddlecombe in the past, and were worried about being spotted by locals. Their assistant, Dorothy, also enjoyed wearing a beard. The scientists were not sure why, and didn’t like to ask.

  Thus it was that, when Sergeant Rowan and Constable Peel knocked on the side door of the factory, they were greeted by three people wearing false beards, one of whom was clearly a woman. Behind them was Brian, the new tea boy. He was not wearing a beard, which was unfortunate, as it might have helped to cover some of his very pale, very frightened face.

  To their credit, the policemen did not even blink at the peculiar appearance of the scientists. Sergeant Rowan had learned long ago that, if you started each day expecting people to behave strangely, then you would not be disappointed, surprised, or shocked in any way.

  “Hello, er, sweet makers,” said Sergeant Rowan.

  “Hello!” said the three scientists in the excessively cheery manner of people who have something to hide and are doing their best to make sure that it stays hidden.

  “Everything all right here, then?” said the sergeant.

  “It’s all fine, absolutely fine,” said Professor Stefan.

  “Nothing strange going on? No unexplained portals opening? No demons looking to take over the Earth?”

  “Ha ha ha!” didn’t laugh Professor Hilbert. “Jelly babies don’t cause portals to open.”

  “Ho ho, you don’t get demons from clove drops,” said Professor Stefan.

  “The only strange things here are the shapes of our caramels,” said Dorothy, in a voice that started out high and finished suddenly low, in the manner of a skier plummeting from a mountain.

  “And we haven’t seen any ghosts!” said Brian.

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Ghosts?” said Constable Peel.

  “Yes,” said Brian, realizing his error just a little too late, like a lion tamer entering a lion cage only to find himself wearing a coat made of meat. “The ghosts that we haven’t seen. We haven’t seen them. Those ones. Can I go now? I don’t feel well.”

  Brian went away.

  “Has he been drinking?” said Sergeant Rowan.

  “No,” said Professor Stefan.

  “Do you think he should start? I’d give him a stiff brandy, if I were you, especially if he’s not seeing ghosts.”

  Sergeant Rowan, who was a tall man, leaned over Professor Stefan, who was not tall, so that the professor appeared to be standing in the shadow of a collapsing building.

  “Because,” said Sergeant Rowan, “if I were to hear that innocent sweet manufacturers, who are not—I say absolutely not—scientists, were having strange experiences in my town and didn’t see fit to tell me, then I might get very, very annoyed. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” said Professor Stefan. “Very clear.”

  “Right. We’ll be off, then. Do keep me posted if you continue not to see ghosts, won’t you? Have a nice day, sir, and you, sir, and you, er, miss.”

  “Sir,” said Dorothy.

  “Don’t,” said Sergeant Rowan, raising a finger in warning. “Just—don’t.”

  He and Constable Peel got back in their car, and drove away.

  “Ghosts?” said Constable Peel as Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s receded into the distance.

  “Ghosts,” said Sergeant Rowan.

  “It’s lucky they’re not seeing any, isn’t it?”

  “Very lucky, Constable.”

  “Because, if they were, we’d have to do something, wouldn’t we?”

  “Indeed we would, Constable.”

  “And what would that be, Sarge?”

  “We’d have to be afraid, Constable. We’d have to be very afraid.”

  22. It reallye is catchinge.

  X

  In Which We Pay a Brief Visit to Hell

  THE MOUNTAIN OF DESPAIR was the tallest peak in Hell. It dominated the landscape of that terrible place in the way that only something really, really terrible can do, given the general terribleness of the place in which it happened to be. Even though no sun shone in Hell, and the skies above were forever darkened by warring thunderclouds, still the Mountain of Despair somehow managed to cast a shadow over everything, if only in the minds of those who were doomed, or damned, to exist there. It was so big that, no matter how far away you might stand, it never appeared any smaller. A lifetime might be spent trying to walk around it without success. A short lifetime might be spent trying to climb it, for some very disagreeable creatures lived among its cracks and crevasses, and they were always hungry.

  Mind you, there were some inhabitants of Hell who had no objection whatsoever to the looming presence of the Mountain of Despair. It provided employment to those who were content to ensure that the business of running an empire based entirely on evil, misery, and general demonic activity proceeded as smoothly as possible. A job, in their view, was a job, and, as with most jobs, you just had to find that perfect balance between doing as little as possible so you didn’t get tired, and just enough so that you didn’t get fired.

  Two such beings were currently guarding the great carved entrance to the mountain. Their names were Brompton and Edgefast. Edgefast was, strictly speaking, simply a disembodied head,23 and Brompton was about as much use at guarding as a toy dog on wheels, but they had somehow managed to continue to be employed as guards despite their general uselessness. This was because Brompton and Edgefast were members of the Union of Demonic Employees and Tormentors (Guards Branch), which fiercely protected the rights of its members to lean on their spears and nap any time their eyes got a bit heavy; to take tea breaks at unsuitable times, including during battles, invasions, and serious fires; and not to actually guard anything if they thought that it might place their personal safety at risk. All of this made Brompton and Edgefast as hard to fire as a pair of chocolate cannons. The Mountain of Despair could have been stolen from under their noses and broken down to make garden gnomes and, thanks to the union, Brompton and Edgefast would still have been guarding the place where it once stood, in between taking essential naps and tea breaks.

  “Quiet today,” said Edgefast.

  “Too quiet for my liking,” said Brompton.

  “Really?”

  Edgefast couldn’t help but sound surprised. Brompton was the laziest demon Edgefast had ever met. Brompton could fall over and make hitting the ground look like an effort.

  “Nah, only joking,” said Brompton. “Not quiet enough, if you ask me, what with you piping up every few minutes about how quiet it is.”

  “Sorry,” said Edgefast.

  He’d said that it was quiet only once. It wasn’t like he kept repeating the word quiet over and over until nobody could remember what silence had been like.

  Edgefast’s nose was itchy. He’d have scratched it, but he didn’t have any arms. It was one of the problems with not having a body. Still, Brompton was very good about making sure that he had a straw through which to suck his tea, and he usually remembered to pick Edgefast up and take him home when they had finished guarding for the day.

  “Would you mind scratching my nose for me?” Edgefast said.

  “Oh, it’s all about you, isn’t it?” said Brompton. “Me, me, me, that’s all I ever hear. Who made you king, that’s what I’d like to know. Must have been when I wasn’t looking. All right, Your Majesty, I’ll scratch your nose for you. There! Happy now?”

  Edgefast wasn’t, really. He couldn’t be, not with t
he business end of Brompton’s spear jammed up one nostril.

  “ ’Es bine,” he said. “Mub bedder, dan gew.”

  Brompton withdrew the spear and went back to leaning on it and staring glumly over the blasted landscape of Hell.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Trouble at home.”

  “Mrs. Brompton?” said Edgefast.

  Brompton and Mrs. Brompton had a difficult marriage. There were fatal diseases that had better relationships with their victims than Brompton had with Mrs. Brompton.

  “Yeah.”

  “She move out again?”

  “No, she moved back in.”

  “Oh.”

  There was silence for a time.

  “I thought you were going to leave her,” said Edgefast.

  “I did.”

  “What happened?”

  “She came with me.”

  “Oh,” said Edgefast for a second time. There wasn’t much else to say. Brompton always seemed to be unhappy with Mrs. Brompton. The trouble was, he was even unhappier without Mrs. Brompton.

  “She’d be lost without you, you know,” said Edgefast.

  “Nah, I tried that,” said Brompton. “She found her way back.”

  “Oh,” said Edgefast, for the third time, followed by “Oh?” and then “Oh-oh!”

  Crudford manifested himself directly in front of the two guards with a sound like a plate of jelly being dropped on a stone floor. He raised his hat with his left hand and said, “Evening, gentlemen.” Under his right arm he carried a jar, and in the jar a mass of blue atoms seethed and roiled, slowly forming something that became, as he drew closer to Edgefast, a single hostile eye surrounded by pale, bruised skin. The eye seemed to glare at Edgefast, who would have taken a step back if it hadn’t been for his shortcomings in the leg department. Edgefast had clear memories of that eye. It had looked at him in a similar way just moments before some very sharp bits of the body to which it was then attached had ripped him apart.

  Crudford put his hat back on his head, and patted the jar the way one might pat the comfortable carrying case of a beloved pet.