The Creeps: A Samuel Johnson Tale

by John Connolly

  The white light was fading from Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley’s eyes, and his skin was assuming the hardness of plastic. The dark force that had animated him was leaving, but there was a little wretched life left in him yet.

  “It’s—” he began again, but Mumbles interrupted him.

  “Sinjin-Chumley,” Mumbles said, pronouncing it perfectly.

  “We knew all along,” said Angry. “Serves you right for being unpleasant.”

  Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley found the strength to make his eyes glow an angry orange one last time before the light vanished from them and all that remained was a plastic head. Two thin streams of pure darkness poured from his ears and flowed beneath the walls of Santa’s Grotto, and that darkness seemed to be mirrored above their heads. More stars were snuffed out, swallowed by swirling clouds like thick black ink. Eyeless faces appeared in the void, but their very blindness made them more threatening. Long grasping fingers stretched out toward the Earth, and black tongues licked at lipless mouths, as though already tasting the planet’s light and life before consuming it. But the barrier between the Shadows and the universe held, for now. The Shadows flattened themselves against it, but they could not penetrate. It would not hold for much longer, though. Already cracks were visible, shining red like streams of lava.

  Nurd appeared at Samuel’s right hand.

  “All of this because of us,” said Nurd, and he sounded both amazed and terribly, terribly sad. “She will sacrifice whole universes to the Shadows in order to avenge herself.”

  “What if we just offered ourselves to her?” said Samuel softly, and if Nurd had been astonished by the lengths to which Mrs. Abernathy was prepared to go to have her revenge, he was more astonished still at the boy’s words, and he felt honored that he could call such a person his friend. Billions of years in age separated them. One was human, the other demon. Yet in all his long life, Nurd had never felt closer to another being than he did to Samuel. The Multiverse had brought them together, and they had both been changed utterly by the meeting. Samuel had crossed dimensions, and now understood something of the true nature of existence. He had confronted the greatest of evils, but he had also been saved by a demon.

  And that demon had himself been saved by Samuel: had they not met, then Nurd would still have been living in exile in the bleakest, dullest part of Hell with only Wormwood for company, devising plots that would never come to pass. Nurd would just have been another failed demon, an entity not weak enough to be truly evil, but not strong enough to be good either.

  Now this boy was suggesting that they try to lay down their lives not just for their friends but for humanity and for every other life-form, known and unknown, that swam or flew or crawled in the Multiverse. As Nurd watched, Boswell, who had been standing just behind Samuel and peering through his master’s legs at all that was happening, shifted position, and moved to Samuel’s side, where he sat down with his weight leaning against the boy’s right leg.

  He hears Samuel, thought Nurd, who had long ago learned not to underestimate the little dog. He senses what the boy is thinking of doing, and he will not leave him. This dog will die with its master rather than abandon him. If a small dog is willing to stand beside the boy at the cost of its life, then what choice have I but to do the same?

  “We can try,” said Nurd, “but I fear that Mrs. Abernathy is so insane by now that it won’t be enough for her to see only us suffer, and she has made her bargain with the Shadows. They will not let her break it easily. Perhaps, though, we can appeal to her vanity. Even the cruelest of beings must sometimes show mercy. If there is a power in taking lives, there is a greater power in sparing them. If we can make her believe that letting humanity survive would better demonstrate her might than allowing the Shadows to consume everything, then we could have a chance.”

  Samuel picked up something in Nurd’s tone.

  “But not a big chance,” said Samuel, and he managed a smile.

  “Not really,” said Nurd, “but that’s better than no chance at all.”

  Maria joined them.

  “What are you two whispering about?” she said, but even as she spoke Lucy bustled forward and plonked herself between Maria and Samuel. Lucy might have been a little shallow, and very self-obsessed, but she was nobody’s fool. She might not have liked Samuel as much as she once thought she did, and she certainly didn’t understand him, but there was no way that she was going to let anyone else take him from her.

  “He’s my boyfriend!” she said.

  “Er, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” said Samuel, although it struck him that this probably wasn’t the ideal time to bring it up. Then again, if the universe did come to an end, he didn’t want to spend his final moments stuck in a doomed relationship with Lucy Highmore.

  “Excuse me?” said Lucy.

  Nurd took a discreet step back. It is said that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Nurd had spent a long time in Hell, and he knew just how furious it was. If scorning Lucy Highmore was going to be worse than Hell, then Nurd didn’t want to be stuck in the middle of whatever happened next. He managed to put Constable Peel and two dwarfs between him and the argument.

  “Hey, wait a minute—” said Constable Peel, who might have been dim at times but could see where this was going.

  “You’re a policeman,” said Nurd. “You have a duty to protect.”

  He kept a tight hold of Constable Peel’s shoulders, just in case the policeman got any ideas about seeking cover for himself.

  “Look, it’s just not working out between us,” said Samuel. “It’s not you, it’s me.”63

  “How dare you!” said Lucy. “You’re saying that it is me!”

  “No, I’m not,” said Samuel. “At least, I don’t think that I am. Hang on, I might be.”

  “But nobody has ever broken up with me before,” said Lucy. “I do the breaking up. I even have a speech about how we can still be friends, and how you must be brave, and all that nonsense.”

  “Right,” said Samuel, and his mouth began working before his brain could catch up. “Well, we can still be friends, and I suppose you have to be brave—”

  Any further musings he might have had on the future of his dealings with Lucy Highmore were brought to a sudden end by the impact of her right shoe against Samuel’s left knee.

  “Oooooooh!” said Lucy. “Well, I’m glad I’m not going out with you anymore! You’re strange, you’re too short, and your shoes sometimes don’t match. And by the way, this has been the worst date of my life!”

  She turned to face Maria.

  “You Jezebel!” 64 she said. “If you like him that much then you can just have him, and I hope he makes you as happy as he made me.”

  She stomped away, then stomped back again.

  “Just in case you didn’t understand what I meant,” she told Maria, “I was implying that he didn’t make me happy at all, and I hope you’re just as unhappy with him as I was.”

  “I knew that,” said Maria. “And I do like him. I think I may love him, actually.”

  “Bully for you,” said Lucy. “I don’t want an invitation to the wedding.”

  She stomped away for the second time, and stood beside Nurd and Constable Peel with her arms folded, simmering like a pot on a warm stove.

  “What are you two looking at?” she said.

  “Nothing,” said Nurd.

  “Me neither,” said Constable Peel. “I’m just minding my own business.”

  “Just keep it that way,” said Lucy. “Oh, men!”

  Samuel, meanwhile, was staring at Maria with the confused expression of a man who has just learned that day is, in fact, night, and the moon is made of cheese after all.

  “What?” he said, as he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Maria, then added: “You’re an idiot.”

  “What?” said Samuel—again.

  “For a smart boy,” said Angry to Jolly, who had been watching th
e entertainment and enjoying it immensely, “he really is surprisingly stupid sometimes.”

  “Look, I like you,” said Maria. “A lot. I’ve always liked you. A lot. Do you understand?”

  “What?” said Samuel, for a third time.

  Maria kissed Samuel gently on the lips.

  “There,” she said.

  “Ah,” said Samuel.

  “The light dawns,” said Angry.

  “It’s like watching a caveman discover fire,” said Jolly.

  “Now,” said Maria, “to return to the original question: what were you and Nurd whispering about?”

  Samuel could taste Maria on his lips. His head was swimming. It was such a shame that he was either going to be killed or the Multiverse was about to come to an end, because he realized he had always loved Maria. He definitely didn’t want to die now, and he rather hoped that the Multiverse might be saved without his death being part of the bargain, but then he also understood that there really is no sacrifice, and no bravery, unless there is something to be lost.

  He put his hand against Maria’s cheek.

  “Nurd and I are going to offer ourselves to Mrs. Abernathy in order to save the Multiverse,” he said.

  “Over my dead body,” said Maria.

  “That,” said a voice lubricated by poisons, “can probably be arranged. Oh, and ho-ho-ho.”

  * * *

  62. The word vertigo is frequently used, incorrectly, to describe the fear of heights, but vertigo is a spinning sensation felt when someone is actually standing still. The correct term for a fear of heights is acrophobia. Good grief, I sound like that grammarian bloke Dominique Bouhours, and he was really annoying. Sorry.

  63. Please see footnote 16 in Chapter Five, and then substitute “me” for “you,” and “you” for “me” in the sentence above.

  64. This is quite an insult, but only really works on a girl who has tried to steal another girl’s boyfriend. If you’re a bloke and you call someone a Jezebel, you’ll just be looked at oddly.

  XXXV

  In Which We End on a Cliffhanger

  SAMUEL AND MARIA HAD seen photographs of Hilary Mould, but had obviously never imagined meeting him in the flesh, not that they had lost a lot of sleep over it. Even in life Hilary Mould had not been a very handsome man. He had fish eyes, a misshapen nose, and a chin so weak that a small child could have taken it in a fight. What little hair he had stuck up at odd angles from his head like clumps of bristles on an old, worn paintbrush, and his ears stood out at right angles from his head like car doors that had been jammed open. He was also so pale and sickly that he resembled a corpse that had recently been dug up and then forgotten about.

  In a way, this should have meant that actual death was unlikely to make him any less appealing than he already was, but anyone hoping that might be the case would have been sorely disappointed. Hilary Mould now looked worse than ever, and his name seemed to suit him even more than it had in life since he was literally moldy: something unpleasant and green was growing on what was left of his face, and he appeared to be at least 30 percent down in the finger department. His skin had retreated from his fingernails, making them appear disturbingly long, and it was possible to see the tendons working through the holes in his cheeks as his jaws moved. His big eyes had turned entirely black, and wisps of darkness hung like smoke around his lips as he spoke. The fact that he was dressed as Father Christmas did not help matters.

  “Mr. Grimly, I presume?” said Sergeant Rowan. “Or do you prefer Mould?”

  “You may call me Mister Mould,” said Hilary Mould. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this day. Now—”

  “Excuse me,” said Jolly.

  Hilary Mould tried to ignore him. He’d been walled up in the basement of Wreckit & Sons for a long time, even if his spirit had been able to wander in the form of a possessed statue infused with some of his blood, but that wasn’t the same thing as being out and about. He had a big speech prepared. He wasn’t about to let himself be interrupted by a dwarf.

  “Now, my great—”

  “Mister, excuse me,” said Jolly again. “Still here.”

  Jolly waved his hand helpfully, but Hilary Mould was absolutely determined not to be distracted.

  “NOW,” he shouted, “my GREAT MACHINE has revealed itself to—”

  “Really need to talk to you,” Jolly persisted.

  “Mister, mister,” said Dozy, waving his left arm to attract attention, “my friend has something to say.”

  Hilary Mould gave up. Honestly, it was most frustrating. He’d created an enormous occult engine, and had sealed himself up at the heart of it, undead and not a little bored, waiting for the moment when dark forces might resurrect him, and just at his time of triumph he found himself dealing with chatty dwarfs.

  “Yes, yes, what is it?” said Hilary Mould as he tried to think of ways that the Shadows could make the dwarfs’ sufferings last even longer as a personal favor to himself.

  “Mister,” said Jolly, “your hand has dropped off.”

  Hilary Mould stared at his left hand. It was still there, minus most of its fingers, but after spending more than a century walled up in a tomb you had to expect a certain amount of minor damage. Unfortunately, when he switched his attention to his right hand he discovered only a stump. The hand itself—his favorite one, as it still had three fingers and a thumb attached—was now lying by his feet.

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” he said.

  He bent down and picked up the hand.

  “You could try sticking it back on,” suggested Angry helpfully. “I don’t think glue will do it, but maybe if you wrapped it up with sticky tape . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Hilary Mould through gritted teeth, or through whatever teeth he had left to grit, which wasn’t many.

  “You could try a hook,” offered Jolly.

  “If you wore the right kind of hat, people might think you were a pirate,” said Angry.

  “Stop!” screamed Hilary Mould. “I told you: it’s fine. I have another hand. Just let it drop.”

  Jolly detected the opportunity for a joke, but Hilary Mould saw it coming and cut him off before he could get a word out. He stuck the severed hand in his pocket, and pointed one of his remaining fingers at the dwarf.

  “I’m warning you,” he said.

  Jolly raised two hands in surrender—well, one hand. He’d hidden the other one up his sleeve.

  Hilary Mould grimaced in frustration. This wasn’t going at all according to plan.

  “Mister,” said Dozy again.

  “Look,” said Hilary Mould, “please let me finish. I have a lot to get through.”

  He fumbled in another pocket and extracted a tattered, folded sheet of paper. He started trying to unfold it, but he immediately ran into trouble due to a lack of fingers.

  “Need a hand?” said a dwarf voice.

  Hilary Mould didn’t rise to the bait. He kept his temper, managed to get the paper open, and checked his notes.

  “Um,” he muttered to himself. “Yes, ‘waiting a long time for this day’—done. Laugh sinisterly. Move on to description of occult engine, tell them about ruling the world, laugh again in an evil way, hand over to . . . Okay, fine. Right.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “Aha-ha-ha-ha!” He laughed.

  “Mister,” said Dozy.

  “WHAT? What do you want this time?”

  “Do you wear glasses?”

  Hilary Mould looked confused.

  “Sometimes,” he said.

  “Well,” said Dozy, “I hate to break it to you, but you might have trouble with that in future.”

  “Why?”

  “Your right ear just fell off.”

  Hilary Mould reached up to check. The dwarf was right. His right ear was no more. He saw it resting by his right shoe.

  “Oh, blast!” he said.

  He didn’t want to leave it lying around. Someone might step on it. His hand, though, was barely manag
ing to hang on to his notes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but would somebody mind picking that up for me?”

  Jolly obliged.

  “I’ll get the other one while I’m down here,” he said, for Hilary Mould’s left ear, clearly pining for its friend, had detached itself from his head and headed south.

  “Do you want me to put them with your hand?” asked Jolly.

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” said Hilary Mould.

  “Not at all.”

  Jolly squeezed the ears into Hilary Mould’s pocket. Unfortunately, the pocket was already taken up with the hand, so Jolly had to use a little force to get the ears in there as well. He distinctly felt something snap and crumble as he did so: more than one something, as it happened.

  “Do be careful with them,” said Hilary Mould. “I’m sure there’s a way of fitting them on again.”

  “Don’t you worry,” said Jolly, discreetly using the end of Hilary Mould’s jacket to wipe bits of crushed ear from his fingers, “you’ll look a whole new man when they stick those back on.”

  Jolly rejoined the others.

  “He’ll never wear glasses again,” he whispered to Angry. “And I don’t know how he’s going to wind his watch.”

  Hilary Mould was worried. He had just discovered one of the dangers of walling oneself up in a basement for a very long time: rot tends to set in. Even with a hint of Shadow essence coursing through his remains, he was in very real danger of falling apart entirely before the real business of the evening was concluded.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I created my engine,” he said.

  “We were, a bit,” said Samuel.

  “I knew,” said Hilary Mould, “that there was a great force of Darkness somewhere out there in the vast reaches of space.”