Stitch Head

by Guy Bass

  Stitch Head looked again. Posters were falling from the sky! Dozens of them . . . hundreds! He reached out and let one of them flutter into his hands. As he peered at it, his stomach rolled with fear and excitement — looking back at him was a picture of his own stitched-together face, and the words:

  It was his poster! A poster for The Unforgettable Stitch Head! It was as if someone had reached into his brain and borrowed it from his dream!

  “Stitch Head, my dear boy!” came a familiar voice. “My wonderfully hideous friend!”

  Again, Stitch Head looked up. There, floating in the night sky, he could see a large, round shape. It looked like a balloon but roared like a monster. As the vast, flying balloon-thing drew closer, he could make out a large basket beneath it. And in the basket . . .

  “Fulbert Freakfinder!” cried Stitch Head.

  “How about this, eh? They call it a ‘hot-air balloon’ — it’s the only way to travel!” he laughed. “I thought it might get your attention! Speakin’ of which, what do you think of my posters? I had the printers workin’ day and night to get them ready for the most unforgettable show on Earth!”

  “What’s going ON up here? Who IS that, Stitch Head?” cried the Creature. It had followed Stitch Head up to the ramparts, but dared not step out into the light of the full moon.

  “Last chance, my boy! I can make you the most famous freak the world has ever known!” continued Freakfinder. “But I can’t wait forever. I won’t be coming back. This is a one-time offer! Let me in right now and I promise you I’ll show you a life you’ve only dreamed of!”

  “What’s he TALKING about? You’re not LEAVING, are you?” asked the Creature, still shuddering nervously.

  “I — I . . .” began Stitch Head. He looked at the poster again, and then at the Creature. He remembered the professor looking past him, looking through him. He remembered the years in the professor’s room, gathering dust and cobwebs, waiting, waiting for something that was never going to happen. He was never going to be remembered, not here. Not in Grotteskew. He’d had enough — of hiding, of this castle . . . of the professor. Then he remembered his dream. The cries of horrified admiration rang in his head. He looked up, his ice-blue eye glistening in the rising moonlight.

  “I’m coming with you!” he cried.

  No sooner had the Creature bellowed, “Stitch Head, you CAN’T leave! We’re BESTEST friends!” than Stitch Head was racing down the winding stairwells of the castle, repeating, “I’m coming with you!” until he was hoarse. The Creature tried to follow, but Stitch Head knew a dozen shortcuts to the Great Door. He quickly slipped through a crack in the wall and vanished into the shadows. He could still hear the Creature’s cries as he hurried past the professor’s laboratory. He didn’t stop, not even as his master cried, “Live! Live, I say!” for the umpteenth time.

  Stitch Head reached the Great Door and hopped onto the crate. He stretched up to the Great Castle Key and turned it with all his might. The key crunched in its lock, unturned for a hundred years. Stitch Head pulled hard against the door, until he felt as if the seams in his head would come apart. Then, with a creak and crack, the door slowly began to move. It scraped and rumbled along the ground for what seemed like forever, until Stitch Head suddenly stopped pushing, and looked up.

  The Great Door was open. Stitch Head peered over the horizon to the town below him, and further, to the hills beyond, and to the endless ocean, glimmering in the moonlight. None of it seemed quite as scary as before.

  He took a long, deep breath, and stepped through the doorway.

  For the second time in his life, he was free. But this time, he was free of the castle itself . . . free of the professor.

  The hot-air balloon had just landed. Freakfinder clambered out of the basket, along with his assortment of odd-looking companions.

  One of them, a tall, rigid fellow, held a large sack over his shoulder. The sack wriggled, squirmed and growled as if there was a wild dog inside.

  A beaming Freakfinder strode with purpose toward Stitch Head. As he reached him, he held out his arms.

  “Finally! You’ve done it! Well done, my boy!” cried Freakfinder, clapping his hands together in delight.

  “I — I want to come with you,” said Stitch Head. “I want to learn the ways of the traveling carnival, and become . . . unforgettable.”

  Freakfinder grinned, but it was a grin Stitch Head had never seen before.

  “Take you with me? Ha!” he chuckled. “You stupid little creature . . . why on earth would I want to do that?”

  Grotteskew, how do you scare me?

  Let me count the ways.

  You scare me till the dark is gone

  and night turns into day,

  And even then I’m still

  Quite simply terrified of thee.

  Why, every time I look at you,

  I do a little wee!

  “What? I don’t understand,” whispered Stitch Head, as Freakfinder laughed in his face. “But you said — I mean, you told me . . .”

  “I told you what? That I’d make you a star? Ha!” sneered Freakfinder. “Why would I want to bother with a little snot like you, when I can have an endless supply of monstrous freaks?”

  “But, I don’t understand. You — you said I was . . . ” began Stitch Head, holding up one of the posters and waving it weakly.

  “I said what?” snapped Freakfinder. “That you were unforgettable? The only unforgettable thing about you is that you gave me a way into this castle — and not before time. Do you really think I can make my fortune with you — a pint-sized ragdoll with a few stitches in his face? Lugs and mumbles, I’d as soon use them stitches to tie two cats together and call it a Siamese!”

  “But — but you promised,” whimpered Stitch Head, his almost-life crashing around him.

  “You’re missing the point,” snarled Freakfinder. “I want monsters! And I want them made to order. See, a rude little girl told me there was a nutty professor in there who made monsters, creatures, mad things! You remember me askin’ you if that was true, when we first met? I could see in that funny blue eye of yours that it was. I had to get into this castle, by hook or by crook. I tried breakin’ in, but there you were to stop me! So I decided to make you my way in. I told you exactly what you needed to hear. It took a little time, but I knew if I made a big enough fuss of you, you’d open the door, sooner or later. And, oh! Look — here we are!”

  Stitch Head glanced back at the open door. He’d been tricked! Freakfinder didn’t think he was unforgettable — he never had. He just wanted the professor. Stitch Head rushed to close the Great Door.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” cried Freakfinder, grabbing the tiny Stitch Head by the scruff of his neck. He threw him into the air and caught him by the leg. Stitch Head found himself dangling in the air for the second time that day. He tried to struggle free, but it was no use.

  “Now, my companions and I are going to remove that professor of yours from the comfort of his castle, and engage him in more profitable pursuits,” hissed Freakfinder. “Namely, creatin’ me every kind of monstrous freak I can dream of!”

  “What? He’ll never help you!” said Stitch Head. “He doesn’t experiment for money. He does it for — for the good of mad science!”

  “Is that so?” growled Freakfinder. “Well, let’s just say I won’t take ‘No’ for an answer. Oh, and just to prove it, I’ve made sure no one’s going to get in the way of me getting what I want. See, I’m not sure what’s inside these walls, but I do know I’m not mad enough to take on a castle full of monsters!”

  Freakfinder flung Stitch Head through the air. He landed hard on the ground and skidded to a halt at the feet of the tall man carrying the writhing, growling sack. Stitch Head clambered painfully to his feet.

  “What . . . what is that?” he whispered.

  “Show him, Maurice,”
said Freakfinder. Stitch Head watched as the tall man upended his sack — and a human girl tumbled out.

  “OW!” she cried, scrambling to her feet. “You mucky-rotten goats! That hurt! Wait till my grandma gets a hold of you, she’ll bash your disgusting, scum-filled brains in!”

  “Stitch Head, meet . . . Arabella, isn’t it?” said Freakfinder as the girl dragged herself to her feet. As she dusted herself off, she spotted Stitch Head peering at her.

  “What’re you looking at?” she snarled. She was twice as tall as Stitch Head, and skinny, with messy blond hair — and she didn’t even seem to notice Stitch Head’s strange appearance. “Never seen a girl fall out of a sack before?”

  “She’s charmin’, isn’t she?” laughed Freakfinder. He grabbed the girl by the scruff of her neck and held her at arm’s length as she kicked and flailed. “I . . . borrowed her from the good people of Chuggers Nubbin.”

  “It’s Grubbers Nubbin, you pig-faced lump! Now let me go before I kick your teeth out!” snarled the girl, spitting on Freakfinder’s shoe.

  Stitch Head had never seen a human girl before. Were they all this angry? And what on earth did Freakfinder want with her?

  “Shut it, you little snot, or it’s back in the sack with you!” barked Freakfinder, shaking Arabella by the neck. “As I was sayin’, I needed a way to make sure the professor’s castle full of creatures was . . . dealt with. And what better way than an angry mob?”

  “Angry . . . mob?” repeated Stitch Head.

  “Oh, yes — quite furious, as it happens,” grinned Freakfinder. “See, after I kidnapped miss potty-mouth here, I just happened to mention to the townsfolk that she’d been taken by one of Grotteskew’s foul monsters . . . and dragged into the castle to her doom.”

  “You sweaty, hog-eared liar!” screamed Arabella, kicking the air wildly. “I’m going to bite off your nose!”

  “Lugs and mumbles, what an uncouth child,” he sighed. “But look! See there, that orange sort of glow, comin’ over the hill? That is your common angry mob, come to wreak righteous revenge.”

  Stitch Head looked to the horizon. A fiery shimmer lit up the night sky. He could hear cries of rage carried on the wind.

  Humans.

  An army of them!

  It was Stitch Head’s worst nightmare, the moment he had always feared. The professor was doomed, and there was nothing he could do.

  The people of Grubbers Nubbin were coming to destroy Castle Grotteskew.

  HOW TO MAKE AN ANGRY MOB

  by Fulbert Freakfinder

  You will need:

  Pitchforks

  Torches

  1 town full of people

  1 small child

  1 sack

  1 Most Excellent Lie

  “Maurice!” cried Freakfinder, landing Arabella back on her feet. “Put the girl and the ragdoll in the sack — we’ve got a professor to kidnap!”

  “No, please, don’t — don’t take the master . . . I beg you!” cried Stitch Head, as he watched the fiery glow of the townsfolk’s torches move over the horizon, their vengeful cries growing ever louder.

  “Beg all you like,” scoffed Freakfinder. “It’s time to look for a new castle to creep around — this one’s about to be taken.”

  All was lost. The mob would soon be at the castle. Freakfinder would snatch the professor. There was nothing he could do.

  “I ain’t going back in no sack!” roared Arabella — and stamped hard on Freakfinder’s foot. He shrieked in pain and Arabella wasted no time in punching him hard in the stomach. Freakfinder tumbled to the ground, clutching his belly.

  “Yeah! Who’s laughing now, fatty fat guts?” growled Arabella.

  “BRAT! Lugs and mumbles, get her!” screamed Freakfinder, writhing in pain. Arabella tried to make a run for it, but Doctor Contortion, Madame Moustache and the Topsy-Turvy Twins circled around her.

  “You hog-heads couldn’t even scare your own grannies! I’ll take you all on!” cried Arabella, but she was still just one girl. There was no way she could stop them all.

  Stitch Head looked on in horror, desperate to help. But what could he do? Suddenly, his hand chanced upon his bag of potions, still slung round his chest. He’d never even imagined using them on humans. Who knew what might happen?

  Must be something I can use, he thought. He took out two bottles and read the labels.

  “Creation Calming Cream? Savagery Soothing Salve?” he whispered. “They’re so . . . gentle!”

  As Freakfinder’s cronies closed in on Arabella, Stitch Head shook the bottles hard. Orange and yellow fumes and froth began to bubble out from the stoppers. Stitch Head gritted his teeth. . . .

  “Hey!” he cried, and flung the bottles. They crashed to the ground in front of Madame Moustache, and thick plumes of bright orange-yellow smoke poured into the air.

  “Hey! What’s the big idea?” said Madame Moustache, as the smoke enveloped her and her cohorts. “You rotten little ragdoll! I’m going to bash your . . . your . . . braaaaiiinss . . .”

  As she breathed in the bright fumes, Madame Moustache started to sway like a ship in rough seas. After a moment, she yawned and fell beard first onto the floor, fast asleep.

  “Wha-whassappening . . . ?” muttered Doctor Contortion, his eyes heavy. He fell into the Topsy-Turvy Twins, who tumbled to the ground like dominos — and immediately started snoring loudly.

  “It’s the smoke, you lazy lugs! He’s drugged you!” snarled Freakfinder, covering his mouth with a handkerchief. “Hold your breath!”

  Stitch Head did just that, and raced toward Arabella as she started to feel the effects of the fading potion cloud.

  “Poke out . . . your eyes . . . fatty,” she mumbled with a yawn. Stitch Head grabbed her by the bottom of her dress as she started to wobble.

  “RUN!” he cried, dragging her desperately toward the castle.

  “Don’t order . . . me around,” she slurred, tripping over her feet as they ran. “Twist your . . . nose . . .”

  “You rotten little snots! Come back here!” growled Freakfinder, still clutching his handkerchief over his face. He dragged himself to his feet and gave chase.

  Stitch Head pulled Arabella inside the Great Door and propped her up against the wall. He pushed hard on the door, and slowly it began to swing shut. . . .

  “Not a chance!” growled Freakfinder, jamming his foot in the doorway. He reached inside and clawed at them with his stumpy fingers. “Get back in that sack, snots!”

  “Chew your . . . ears off . . . pie-face . . .” mumbled Arabella, lunging lazily at Freakfinder and biting his hand.

  “YooOW! You rotten little snot!” he cried as Stitch Head grabbed Arabella again.

  “Come on! Please, RUN!” cried Stitch Head, dragging her through the courtyard and into the shadows of the castle.

  “Lugs and mumbles, you’d better run! If I ever see you again, that’ll be the end of you!” snarled Freakfinder. With an almighty shove, he swung open the Great Door. He rubbed his hands together, and then turned to his dazed companions.

  “Time to wake up, you lazy lumps! The mob’s on its way, and we’ve got ourselves a professor to pilfer!”

  When Stitch Head was sure Freakfinder had not followed them, he sat the all-but-asleep Arabella on the ground. He had to wake her up — but how? He rifled in his bag for something helpful. Eventually, he pulled out a small red bottle and peered at the label.

  “It could work . . .” he whispered. “And she’s pretty rageful already . . .”

  He uncorked the bottle and carefully wafted it under Arabella’s nose.

  “AAAGH! Smash your teeth out!” screamed Arabella, wide awake and swinging her fists. She bopped Stitch Head in the side of the head and sent him skittering across the floor.

  “Wait! Stop!” he cried, trying not to spill his pot
ion as he struggled to his feet. He jammed the cork back in and checked his stitches. “How — how do you feel?” he asked.

  “Like I could take on a whole army of Freakfinders!” she roared. “Where is he? I’m going to bite his toes off!”

  “I don’t know . . . but the Great Door is open, and the whole of Grubbers Nubbin is on its way here!” whimpered Stitch Head. “I don’t know what to do!”

  “Well, being a big crybaby isn’t going to get us anywhere,” huffed Arabella. “I’m Arabella. Now tell me your name or I’m just going to call you ‘Stitch Head.’”

  “It’s, uh . . . it’s Stitch Head. He called me Stitch Head.”

  “Who did?” asked Arabella.

  “My master! The professor! And I betrayed him! I betrayed everyone,” wept Stitch Head. “I wanted to be remembered, that’s all. Now they’re going to take the professor and burn down the castle!”

  “I thought I said no crying,” snapped Arabella, but as she watched Stitch Head fall to his knees, she placed a hand on his shoulder, and added, “Look, crazy stuff happens. It’s not your fault.”

  “It is my fault!” sobbed Stitch Head.

  “No, it isn’t,” said a voice from the darkness. “It’s MINE.”

  Arabella looked around. There, in the shadows, loomed a monster. It was a huge beast, with one eye and three arms, and it was so terrifying that it could have stepped straight out of a nightmare. Only her natural love of scariness stopped Arabella from screaming until she dropped dead.

  “Creature!” cried Stitch Head, wiping the tears from his face.

  “I FOUND you! Oh, I KNEW you wouldn’t leave your BESTEST friend!” said the Creature, hugging Stitch Head with two of its arms.

  “Wait, this is your friend?” asked Arabella.