It worked every time. The vampire went flying, Blob grabbed the ball, and they were back in possession.
Another twenty minutes of this and then…
‘WHEEEEEEE!’
went Vladimir Vampire, one last time. ‘And the winners are – Pete, Blob the basset, Dad in his jim-jams, Slurper Sue and Eeky Edward!’
Everyone cheered, even though half of them had lost the game. Because the vampires weren’t really all that bothered about winning or losing, now that they could get back to sucking each other’s necks. Double-quick, so they’d have enough energy to scarper from the scene before daylight.
‘See you again, Pete,’ said Vladimir, licking his disgustingly red lips.
‘Maybe you will, Vlad,’ said Pete, taking the whistle from him, rubbing it on the grass to get rid of the blood and spittle, and then stuffing it in his pocket. ‘But then again…’ he said, winking at Blob and Dad, ‘…maybe you won’t.’
Blob wagged, and grabbed his favourite ball.
And off they went, back through the last of the darkness. Back across the Severn, back up Westgate Street and home to bed.
‘And next time you need to go out in the middle of the night, my boy,’ said Dad. ‘I’m coming too, right? It’s not as if I want to – I’d much rather be catching up on my beauty sleep – but the sort of scrapes you get yourself into, Pete, you need someone sensible with you…’
Pete smiled at Blob and Blob smiled at Pete.
‘Someone sensible like you, Dad?’ he said.
And Blob said nothing. Because bassets can’t talk.
The Night of the Werewolves
‘It’s too hot to sleep!’
It was the warmest night of the year, and Pete was tossing and turning in his bed.
So the next morning he rummaged about in the shed and found Dad’s old tent – the one he’d used for going to festivals when Pete was little.
That night Pete was lying in his dad’s old sleeping bag, in his dad’s old tent. He was STILL all hot and sticky.
He threw back the cover, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. Pete could hardly breathe.
Listening to the sounds of the night, he heard the wind shushing up in Allt Goch woods behind him. He heard a car, somewhere in the distance… An owl, hooting…
He climbed out of the bag to throw back the front flap of the tent and let in some air.
And there, by the light of the rising moon, lay Blob, his ever-faithful hound. Good old Blob, keeping guard against the creatures of the night.
‘Night, night, Blob,’ he whispered.
The basset opened one of his big droopy eyes, and sort of winked.
Pete tried again. But it’s never easy sleeping, when you’re a Night-time Wanderer. Particularly when it’s hot. Particularly when there’s a big yellow moon, lighting up the night, making you think of all the exciting adventures you could be having, while the rest of the world’s asleep.
Meanwhile the moon rose in the sky till, in all its glorious fullness, it was shining directly on Blob’s face…
‘HOWL!’
Pete nearly leapt out of his skin. It was the loudest, most blood-curdling noise he’d ever heard. Worse, even, that the heavy-metal records his dad dragged down from the attic every now and again and put on, full blast.
Worse, even, than Veronica Vampire screeching at him for disallowing her goal.
‘Blob! Did you hear that horrible sound? What on earth was it?’ gasped Pete, to the shape at the mouth of the tent.
Blob turned to him, and…
‘HOWL!’
Pete’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. Because there, instead of a normal-looking cuddly basset hound – all long and low and jowly – was a monster-dog three times Blob’s size. With a head four times Blob’s head, the longest ears in the history of doghood and great nasty fangs, fifty times their normal size, sticking out of its massive mouth.
It was still Blob, but he didn’t look soppy any more. He looked SCARY!
‘Blob!’ gasped Pete. ‘What’s happened to you?’
But he knew what had happened, really. Because Pete was a bit of an expert on all things monster, and there was no two ways about it – Pete’s cuddly basset hound had turned into some sort of a … a weird sort of a … doggy sort of a … WEREWOLF!
‘Oh crumbs!’ he muttered. ‘What’ll we do now?’
And Blob, who deep down was still Pete’s bestest-ever pet – despite having been transformed into a creature of the night by the light of a full moon shining on his face on the first Wednesday in August – crawled into the tent and licked him…
(Make sure you remember all that about the moon and the first Wednesday in August, my friend – it could come in handy one day. They tell you it’s the full force of the sun you need to be avoiding these days, but the moon has powers we can only dream of.)
But licking his friend and master was the very worst thing Blob could have done, as Pete well knew (though he didn’t have time to stop him). Because the touch of a werewolf’s fangs on your skin … the dribble from a werewolf’s kiss … the ucky-yucky smell as it slobbers its chops all over you…
Does one thing and one thing only (like when a vampire sinks its teeth into your neck). It turns YOU, the one who’s being licked, kissed or slobbered on, into another … WEREWOLF!
‘HOWL!’
said Blob the werewolf.
‘DOUBLE HOWL!’
that was Pete, by the way – Pete the werewolf.
‘Uh-oh,’ he moaned. ‘I’ve been and gone and done it now.’
And he tippy-toed back into the house to get a good look at the effect becoming a werewolf had had on him. (And the reason he was tippy-toeing was because he didn’t want to wake his dad and scare the poor man clean out of his wits. Not till Pete knew what he actually looked like, anyway. Not till he’d worked out how he was going to get himself back to normal.)
Up the stairs he padded, three at a time (being three times bigger than usual), and into the bathroom. Bashing his head as he went in, of course – being taller than the door. ‘Duh!’
Then, ‘Oh ’eck,’ he said, looking at himself in the mirror.
Because yes, just like Blob, Pete’s body was three times its usual size. His head was four times its usual size. His fangs, hanging down the side of his mouth, were fifty times the size of his dainty little teeth (and fifty times smellier).
And where he used to look sort of boy-in-the-street normal, he now looked distinctly MONSTROUS!
‘At least I look like a human sort of a werewolf,’ said Pete, looking over at Blob, who’d followed him up, ‘and not a basset-hound sort.’
Because when you’re transformed, in an instant, into a horrible-looking monster, you have to be thankful for small mercies.
I mean, Pete’s teeth might be halfway down his chest, but at least his ears didn’t dangle nearly to the ground, like Blob’s did. At least he didn’t look like a cross between a hippopotamus and the most enormous sausage in the world. (Pete was a bit surprised at this rather unkind thought, to tell you the truth. It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d usually think about his favourite friend, Blob. But then, Pete was a werewolf now – and werewolves aren’t best known for being all caring sharing cuddly.)
Pete got out his toothbrush and gave his choppers a good scrub. He took a swig of his dad’s mouthwash, swirled it around and spat it in the sink.
Phew! At least his mouth didn’t taste like the inside of a wellington boot any more.
And then a cheeky little smile lit up his face. Pete was always one for looking on the bright side of things.
‘Hmmm,’ he said to his doggy friend. ‘I suppose, though it is a bit of a shock – being turned into a werewolf all of a sudden – that you and me could have some fun with this, Blob … I mean, any excuse for a night-time ramble. And I’m sure Dad wouldn’t mind – we’re not likely to get into much bother now that we’re werewolves!’
So off they went into town, to see what they
could see.
Down Westgate Street. Turn right and over the Severn, with the moon glittering on the smooth-flowing water.
And down to the ducks, sleeping on the rocks in the middle of the river.
‘HOWL!’
went Blob.
‘DOUBLE HOWL!’
went Pete, giving it a jolly good go.
And the poor birds, frightened almost out of their feathers, took off with a fearful quacking. Under the bridge and away.
Then up Long Bridge Street to the Old Market Hall went the werewolves, where they sat on their hunkers and
‘Howled!’ yet again.
And the awful eerie sound echoed through the timber-frame of the ancient building, bounced around the arches…
Then up and down the town it went, and into the ears of its sleeping inhabitants (most of whom had their windows wide open because of the terrible heat).
‘What’s that?’ said Mavis Davies, turning in her bed.
‘Bit early in the year for Fancy Dress Night,’ said old Will Thumbscratcher, turning over and going back to sleep.
‘Nightmares again, is it?’ moaned Hywel Hamer. ‘Oh, this is BEYOND!’
Pete and Blob decided to move on, before anyone came out to see who was making all that fearful racket.
Quick as a flash – because another thing about becoming a werewolf is that it gives you super-human (and super-dog) speed – they zipped down Victoria Avenue to the donkey field, where…
‘HOWL! DOUBLE HOWL!’
they went, one more time.
(Mind you, Blob wasn’t quite as fast as Pete because, as you probably know, and if not you’ll have seen from the pictures, bassets aren’t exactly built for speed, what with their super-heavy bodies and their tiny little legs. Werewolf bassets have longer legs than normal ones, of course, but their bodies are MASSIVE, and oh-so-heavy, so they’re still not the world’s best runners.)
The poor old donkeys, shocked at the sight and the sound, galloped over to the far corner of the field, as far away from Pete and Blob as possible.
Pete looked round. ‘You know what they say about werewolves?’
Blob shrugged his shoulders, in a doggy-sort-of way.
‘They’re indestructible,’ said Pete.
Blob gave him a quizzical look. He wasn’t very good with words of more than about six letters, never mind fourteen.
‘It means you can’t kill them,’ Pete explained. ‘You can’t even hardly hurt them.’
So he raced round to the play park, hopped over the fence, climbed to the top of the slide and jumped off the platform into thin air.
‘HOWL!’
he went, as he fell (just for the fun of it). But somehow, without even trying, he twisted and turned, landed on his feet and didn’t feel a thing.
So Blob lumbered up the slide and did the same. Which took a lot of courage, as well as a lot of effort, as bassets are not exactly well known for their jumping. Too much weight for too little legs, see.
But it worked, just like it did with Pete. Except he landed on all four feet, rather than two.
So then Pete climbed onto the swings, swung himself as high as he could, and let go.
‘Wheeeee!’
he yelled, flying through the air and landing on his feet yet again.
(Don’t try this at home, folks – it is NOT a good idea. Unless you’re a werewolf, of course. But if you are, what are you doing reading this? You ought to be out and about, scaring people!)
‘Let’s have a go at something higher! Much higher!’ said Pete.
So they loped back up through town to the old bridge, leapt off, landed on the rocks far below, and didn’t feel a thing.
(Guess what? Unless you’re a werewolf, this is not the best plan, either.)
But as they were climbing back up the bank they saw a flash of torches.
‘I thought I saw something,’ said a voice. ‘But when I looked again, there it was, gone!’
‘Look – over by here!’ said another. ‘Who belongs to this footprint?’
‘No, down by here!’ said a third. ‘I’m sure I heard a splash!’
And there, on the bridge, was a police car, lights flashing.
‘Someone must have reported us, Blob!’ hissed Pete. ‘Well, I suppose we were making rather a lot of noise.’
Pete grabbed a mighty tree and bent it right over so they were hidden in the thickest part of the leaves. (Because I’m not sure if I told you yet, but being a werewolf gives you super-human strength, as well as speed.)
The coppers made their way down the bank, slipping and sliding in the shadows and, just as they got close, Pete let go of the tree which shot back to standing position, sending one hundred and forty-six sleeping birds flying into the air. Squawk! Squawk!
The startled policemen looked up, just as…
‘HOWL!’
went Blob and Pete, in their very best werewolf howls.
And the terrified coppers fell into the river. Splash!
Pete and Blob ran up onto the bridge and crouched down behind the wall, watching to check the policemen got out of the water safely.
They may have become werewolves, and they didn’t mind giving people (and birds, and donkeys…) a bit of a scare, just for the fun of it, but they didn’t actually want to hurt anyone, oh no, because deep down they were still Pete and Blob. Yes, deep down, they wouldn’t hurt two flies.
Then when they saw the trio of dripping policemen making their way back up to the squad car, they headed for home, double quick.
Except Pete had an idea.
‘Let’s nip in here,’ he said, heading down Church Street.
So they leapt over the big high metal gate of the cemetery, and had pots of fun zooming up and down between the gravestones, jumping out on one another and…
‘HOWLing!’
They were having a barrel of fun, though I’m not sure what all the ghosts and ghoulies thought of it – they like to be left in peace, I’d say. And if anyone’s scaring people in graveyards, I suspect it’s supposed to be them.
‘It’s a good laugh being a werewolf,’ said Pete, sitting on his garden wall, at last. ‘But it’s a bit weird, too, don’t you think, basset bach?’
Blob just shrugged.
‘I mean,’ said Pete, ‘I wouldn’t want to be one for the rest of my life. In fact, I think one night’s just about enough, wouldn’t you say?’
Blob wagged his tail.
‘So if werewolves are indestructible,’ Pete asked himself, ‘how do you stop being one, I wonder?’
Blob frowned at him. Too big a word again. Too long since he’d had it explained. (Bassets are dogs of little brain, I’m afraid. Big ears, but little brain.)
‘We can’t be killed,’ Pete explained. ‘Remember?’
And he went in and looked it up on Wiki-werewolf.
Stick a knife in its head, was the first suggestion he came to. ‘No fear!’ said Pete.
Hammer nails through its hands, was the next. ‘I don’t fancy that either – do you, Blob?’
Blob shivered his ears.
Pete scanned down the page. ‘Silver!’ he said, at last. ‘You have to be stabbed by silver, it says. Hmmm.’
The trouble was, Pete didn’t really want to be stabbed. Not in his head, not in his hands, not anywhere, to tell you the truth. Not even gently, into his extra-thick werewolf skin.
Because even if you know it’s not going to kill you because you’re indestructible, it can’t be very nice, sticking a knife in yourself. Or into your bestest-ever friend. Or having them do it to you.
And just because it was made of silver or gold or whatever – the thing you were being stabbed with – it wasn’t going to make it any nicer. No way.
And anyway, just because it said on there that being stabbed by silver might stop you being a werewolf, what guarantee did you have that you’d go back to being normal common-or-garden boys and dogs?
‘I mean, for all we know, we might become vampires inste
ad,’ said Pete, remembering their night in the park.
‘Or zombies,’ said Blob. Or he would have, if he could have. And if he’d any idea what zombies were.
‘Or we might just disappear into thin air and never be seen again,’ said Pete. Which didn’t sound much like fun. ‘Because if you destroy something, it’s gone, isn’t it? I mean, it doesn’t just turn back into what it was before.’
And where were they going to find any silver, anyway? It wasn’t something there was a whole heap of lying around in 14 Swansea Terrace. Any of, so far as Pete knew.
So they went back outside, curled up in the tent (well, one in the tent and the other in the doorway), and fell asleep at last.
Because it’s a bit tiring, being werewolves … jumping off slides, swings and bridges … frightening ducks and donkeys, and giving the whole town nightmares… Being chased by the police, using trees as catapults, and scaring all the ghosts and ghoulies in the graveyard – that’s all a bit tiring too.
Even if you’ve got super-human (or super-dog) speed and strength.
They woke up, to hear Dad calling.
‘Pete! Pete! Are you all right in there? Pete – it’s past ten o’clock! The sun’s high in the sky!’
And, while his dad was speaking, Pete felt something strange happening. Like the reverse of what he’d felt when Blob had licked him, only a few hours before. Yes, his body was shrinking! His teeth were slipping back into his mouth! Whoopy-doo!
And he remembered having seen, when he was looking it up on the computer, that some people believed that there was one other way to stop someone being a werewolf (apart from stabbing them with silver, or through their hands or head, that is). And that was for them to say the person’s name, three times over, just like his dad had done.
It seemed way too easy, though, when Pete had read it, compared to being stabbed and stuff, so Pete hadn’t believed a word of it.
But it had worked! Dad had said ‘Pete! Pete! Pete!’ and it had really truly worked! He’d gone back to his normal size!
Pete and the Five-A-Side Vampires Page 2