But then Pete heard it.
‘Aw-rooooooo!’
And it wasn’t just any old nightmare. It was real – and it was right outside his window. Which was even better, according to Pete.
He ran over to the curtain, pulled it back and…
‘Aw-roooooo!’
He saw a hundred pairs of glittering eyes, staring up at him. And heard a hundred hounds, howling.
‘What in the name of all that’s horrible is that?’ he asked Blob, with a gleam in his eye. ‘It’s a nightmare in my very own garden!’
You see, scary things were meat and drink to Pete. (Which doesn’t mean he ATE them. More like he LOVED them.)
But anyway, Blob didn’t answer. Because bassets can’t talk. As you very well know.
But you know what they CAN do? When they’re really, really scared? (Or when they’re really, really scary, like the ones outside.)
‘Aw-roooooo!’
That’s what they can do. So that’s what Blob did. At the top of his lungs.
‘Shush, Blob!’ said Pete, stroking him. ‘You’ll wake Dad!’
But,
‘Aw-roooooo!’
came the answering cry, from outside.
Only a hundred times louder. Because there were a hundred times as many out there. (Except it wasn’t quite a hundred times louder to Pete, of course, because the hounds were outside, and he was in. If it’d been a hundred times louder inside the house, then not only would his long-suffering dad have been wide awake by now, but the whole building would been shaken to its very foundations.)
Pete fetched his super-dooper beam-blaster, opened the window wide, and shone it up and down the street.
And guess what he saw?
A hundred long, low very black dogs! All gazing up at him with their glittery green eyes and howling…
‘Aw-rooooooo!’
‘They look like bassets!’ said Pete, shutting the window quick. And the curtain. ‘Are they bassets, Blob?
And Blob, right there next to him, gave a little apologetic yes-yap.
‘But I always thought you were the only one in town!’ said Pete. ‘So where have all the others come from? Are they friends of yours, from Newtown or Aber or somewhere?’
And Blob gave a little no-growl.
‘Relatives, then?’
Another very definite no-growl.
‘Well, who are they, and what are they doing here? I mean, what do you think they want, and why do you think they chose our house to howl at?’ asked Pete. And then he got it. ‘They’re bassets, and they want you to join them! Do you want to join them, Blob?’
Blob jumped back into bed, shut his eyes and growled.
‘I’ll take that as a no,’ said Pete. He pulled open the curtain again. Two hundred eyes were still out there, still glittering. ‘Hmmm,’ he said, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. ‘I think this calls for further investigation.’
Pete threw on his night-time explorer gear, and headed for the door.
‘Are you coming?’ he asked Blob.
A little no-growl.
‘Too much of a bag of nerves, by any chance?’
A little yes-yap.
‘What? Aren’t you my big brave basset?’ Pete reached down and stroked his ever-faithful pup.
Blob gave him a little look. Then gave a little … yap.
‘…who comes out in the night and helps me set the world to rights,’ added Pete.
Another look from those big mournful eyes. Another little yap.
‘…who keeps me on the straight and narrow when I’m out and about, making things safe for daytime folk.’
A third little yap of agreement.
‘And you know Dad says I always have to have someone with me on my night-time wanderings … someone sensible… Well, aren’t you that very someone, my little basset bach? Haven’t you always been?’
One more look. One more little yap, and a tapping on the mattress with a tail.
‘Thought so!’ said Pete. ‘Well, come on, then, my old faithful! Let’s sort this pack of yowlers out before they wake the whole town!’
But by the time they got outside, the night bassets had given up on trying to get Blob to come out and join them.
And by the time Pete and Blob had tracked them down (easy enough with all that infernal yowling, which they carried on doing, all the way into town), the long, low, black dogs had made their way back over the bridge.
‘Uh oh!’ cried Pete, when he saw what they were up to.
The contents of every single rubbish bin between the roundabout and the Market Hall – the ones outside the chip shop, the kebab shop, the pizza shop, the Post Office and all four pubs – had been tugged out onto the ground. And the hungry dogs were snuffling around in the gubbins, trying to find something good to eat.
‘Are they really bassets?’ he whispered to Blob. ‘I thought bassets were supposed to be all friendly and sensible, all good and clean and tidy, like you?’
And Blob gave a quiet little yes-yap. They ARE really bassets.
Followed by a cross little no-growl. These ones are NOT those nice things you so kindly said I am. Because there are all sorts of bassets you know.
(Bassetts Allsorts? Got it?)
‘Yeah, but bassets don’t come in all sorts of colours, now do they?’ said Pete. ‘I mean, there’s brown and black and white ones, like you. And I once saw one that was brown and white, and didn’t have any black. And when I looked up bassets on the internet I saw a black and white one that didn’t have any brown. But I’ve never seen an all-black one – in fact, I don’t believe there are any – not in the real world, anyway,’ said Pete.
And then he twigged. ‘They’re not just any old common-or-garden bassets like you, are they, Blob?’
Blob gave a little growl. (Which either meant no they’re not, or meant stop saying I’m just a common-or-garden basset, I thought you said I was special. Or possibly both.)
‘No, they’re Night Dogs!’ Pete realised, at last. ‘They’re Hounds from Hell!’
And Blob gave a yap, then a growl, then slunk in behind his master.
‘Wow!’ said Pete. ‘First there’s vampires … then werewolves … then a little bwca-man … and now a hundred Hell Hounds! We don’t half get all sorts of weird and wonderfuls here in sleepy old Llani, in the middle of the pitch-dark night! But what are we going to do, Blob? How are we going to get rid of them?’
And then the Hounds from Hell spotted them.
‘Aw-rooooo!’
The longest, lowest, fangiest one came racing towards them, full pelt, followed by every single one of the other ninety-nine nasties.
Well there’s a time for talking and a time for running, and this was definitely a time for running.
So Pete and Blob were off like a shot, well two shots actually, back down Long Bridge Street, over the river, up Westgate Street, and through the front door of 14 Swansea Terrace, slamming it JUST IN TIME!
‘Aw-roooo!’
howled the Hell Hounds, in the garden and on the doorstep.
And the longest, lowest, fangiest one pushed his head through the cat flap.
‘Aw-roooo!’
And his breath smelled DISGUSTING!
‘What was that noise?’ called Pete’s dad, stirring from his slumbers.
‘Only Blob, having a bad dream,’ said Pete, rushing upstairs to reassure him with a little white lie. ‘Go back to sleep, Dad. Everything’s fine!’
‘We’ve got to do something, Blob!’ hissed Pete, once he was back down in the kitchen. ‘We can’t just have them wrecking the place!’ And then he had an idea.
Quiet as a mouse, so the Hell Hounds wouldn’t hear him, Pete eased open the back door and snuck down to his dad’s shed, where he rummaged around in the dark. (He didn’t bring his torch in case they spotted the light.)
Then, when he’d managed to find what he needed, he returned to the kitchen.
‘Right, Blob,’ he said. ‘You’re longer and lower t
han any of them, even that big scary boss one. So what we’re going to do is…’ And he produced, from behind his back, a big tin of paint and a brush. ‘We’re going to paint you black! Then they’ll think you’re one of them, and because you’ll be the biggest meanest one of all, you can take over as boss of the Hell Hounds – well, they were trying to get you to join them anyway – and lead them out of town. What do you think?’
And you can guess what Blob thought of that. Not a lot.
‘There’s way too many of them!’ said Pete. ‘They’ll trash the town, pee on the plants, poo on the paths, and then, to cap it all, if they’re still here in the morning they’ll terrify everyone! I mean, think of the effect on all the poor little kiddies on their way to school if a hundred Hounds from Hell are roaming the streets! Oh, we’ve got to get rid of them, Blob – come on, you and me, we’re the Night-time Defenders, remember! It’s our job to save Llani from attack!’
Blob knew he had no choice. So he lay on the kitchen floor, good as gold, sticking his tiny legs in the air, while Pete sploshed the brush in and out of the pot and painted him black all over, from his flippy-flop ears to the white little tip on the end of his long thin tail.
‘Hmmm,’ said Pete, looking at the floor. ‘Maybe we should have put some newspaper down first. Oh well, never mind…’
Then Blob padded out into the night, to meet the Hounds from Hell.
Down the street, over the bridge he went, dripping great black blobs all along the pavement.
And there they were, down by the river, terrorising the poor ducks.
‘Aw-roooooo!’
went the Hell Hounds.
‘Quackity quack!’ went the ducks.
(And I know we saw Pete and Blob having a bit of fun scaring the living daylights [the living night-lights actually, come to think of it] out of the poor unfortunate quackers when they were werewolves, but this is different, right? I mean, this is out-and-out NASTY!)
Blob stuck his head through the railings of the bridge and scowled down at them.
‘Aw-rooooo!’
he howled, in his bestest, deepest, scariest hell-howl of a voice.
And it wasn’t a howl of friendship. It was a howl of challenge!
‘That’s it, Blob,’ hissed Pete, following him at a safe distance. ‘You tell them!’
The Hounds from Hell looked up from their duck-scaring. A hundred pairs of grisly green eyes, glittering in the pitch-dark night.
And then they charged!
The longest, lowest one reached Blob first. But Blob the Bravest Basset stood his ground.
‘I’m longer and lower and darker than you are, mate, so BACK OFF!’ growled Blob, in doggy language.
And the King of the Hell Hounds slunk back.
‘A new king! A new king!’ aw-rooed the hundred Hell Hounds. Well, ninety-nine of them anyway. Because the old king had slunk away, defeated, never to be seen again, hopefully.
And Blob knew what to do. He didn’t really want to – he’d much rather be tucked up in his doggy-basket, safe from harm – but he knew he had to, to save the town…
So off he strode, at the head of the pack. And the remaining bunch of bassets followed their new leader, King Blob, up Long Bridge Street to the old black and white Market Hall, down Short Bridge Street to the river, up Penygreen Road (past the posh people, snoring away) and on out of town.
Blob led them on, plodding proudly at their head now (because it’s quite nice being a royal, really, for a day or two), along the banks of the Clywedog, and all the way to the Hafren Forest.
Then through the trees and out of the trees they went, all in a great long line, till they came to the mouth of the River Severn, where they stopped for a paddle and a drink. Slurp, slurp.
Because it’s thirsty work being a Hell Hound, what with all that howling and stuff.
Then all the way upwards, by the light of the harvest moon, till they came, with poor tired feet, to the very top of Plynlimon, the mighty mountain … where the cloud was so thick that the ninety-nine Hell Hounds didn’t notice brave Blob slink away out of sight … down the mountain, through the forest, along the riverbank, past the posh people, over the river (twice), and back to his lovely basket, in his lovely house, where his lovely Pete was tucked up in bed, with his fingers crossed.
(That’s Pete with his fingers crossed, hoping his faithful companion would return safely, not Blob. Blobs don’t have fingers. And if they did, they couldn’t cross them, right?)
For though Blob had come to enjoy being a king for a few hours, with ninety-nine followers following, he didn’t actually much fancy the life of a Hell Hound. Not without Pete, anyway.
But where did that leave the rest of the pack? Up the creek without a paddle, basically. (Not that Blob’s a paddle, of course – he’s a basset. And not that Plynlimon’s a creek, but you get my drift…)
Because they didn’t have a boss any more, the ninety-nine Hell Hounds. So there was no one to lead them back down off the bleak and windswept mountain, even when the cloud cleared and the sun rose over the wind farms to the east.
No one to take them back to Llani…
No one to lead them home to whatever hell-hole they’d crawled out of in the first place…
No, they didn’t know where to go, and they didn’t know what to do, and they didn’t know how to make any sort of a decision because things had always been decided for them…
So there was nothing for it but to stay where they were, on the top of the mighty mountain, for the next day and the next, in fact from that day until this.
So here’s a warning, my friend. If you ever manage to find yourself up on the top of Plynlimon, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a cloud (you’d be a right banana if you do, but then maybe you are, for all I know … I mean, you’re reading this, aren’t you?) and you hear a horrible, horrible sound…
‘Aw-roooooo!’
Well, you’ll know who it is. And you’ll know who it ISN’T.
It isn’t Blob the basset, because he’s safely tucked up in his doggy basket in the kitchen of a house on Swansea Terrace. Or out on the prowl with his best mate Pete, protecting the good folk of Llani.
And it IS the Hounds from Hell. The Horrible Hounds from Hell. The Horrible HUNGRY Hounds from Hell!
Who haven’t had a decent meal in I don’t know how long.
So if I were you (and I’m glad I’m not), then I think you’d better…
RUN!
‘RINGITY RING,
RINGITY RING!’
It was seven o’clock in the morning, and Pete’s dad’s old alarm was ringing its bells off. (The one the little bwca-man had mended for him. Dad had grown to rather like it really, which is why it was still by his bed.)
Then, a few minutes later…
‘Pete!’ he roared, from the bottom of the stairs. ‘What in the name of all that’s extremely odd has been going on down here? The floor’s all BLACK!’ Silence. Then, ‘Oh my stars – so is Blob!’
‘Sorry about that, Dad,’ said Pete, coming out onto the landing. ‘We had a little bit of a night-time problem, but there’s nothing to worry about. It’s all sorted now, isn’t it, Blob?’
Waggity wag. Yap yap.
Fancy Dress Night
‘I LOVE Fancy Dress Night!’ said Pete. ‘Best night of the year, isn’t it, Blob?’
Yappity yap. Wag wag.
‘What are you dressing up as, Dad?’ Pete called through to the other bedroom.
But he knew his dad wouldn’t tell him. Nobody ever did.
Because the best bit about Fancy Dress Night was not knowing, and then meeting people on the street (or in the kitchen, in Pete and his dad’s case) and trying to work out who it really was, and what they were supposed to be. And it might be people you knew really well, but their disguise was so good that you wouldn’t be able to tell who it was in a month of wet Wednesdays (and you get a few of THEM in mid-Wales).
‘RINGITY RING!’
‘Six o’cl
ock!’ yelled Dad. ‘Time to go, guys!’
They met up down in the kitchen, and Pete was a bleeding zombie!
‘Ach a fi, Pete! That’s well-scary!’ cried Dad. ‘Have you been borrowing my make-up, by any chance?’
But his dad was a space-hopping astronaut!
‘Out of this world, Dad!’ Pete laughed. Then, ‘Hey, is that my goldfish bowl on your head?’
(Don’t even THINK of trying this at home, by the way. It is NOT a good idea!)
And Blob? Well, Blob was a Hound from Hell. He’d enjoyed himself so much the last time, he just had to give it another go.
(Pete’s bedroom was a total write-off after painting his best dog black, of course, but never mind – they’d sort it in the morning.)
So off they all trooped into town.
And they did what they always did on Fancy Dress Night, which was head up to the Fish Shop, buy themselves each a big bag of steaming hot yumminess, then plomp down on a bench in the Market Hall and watch the town turn itself inside out.
Because every year, at six o’clock, what happens is that the police put up roadblocks to stop the cars coming in, and the whole of Llani changes completely, into a place just for people.
And just about every single resident comes out onto the streets, dressed up in the weirdest and most wonderful outfits you could imagine.
It’s the most fun night of the year, in the friendliest town in Wales.
And it’s like, for just those few magical hours, everybody becomes a Pete or a Blob. Yes, the whole town’s chock-full of night-time adventurers.
And people pour in from all the towns and villages around, too, so there’s literally thousands of them, all jam-packed up and down the short-but-wide streets, in the most outlandish costumes known to man, woman or basset.
Pete’s dad went off for a wander, when…
‘Hey, there’s another zombie, just like me!’ cried Pete. ‘I wonder who it is.’
And he jumped up from his bench and went over to have a look.
Pete and the Five-A-Side Vampires Page 4