Skullenia

by Tony Lewis

  Stitches scratched an ear and inadvertently moved it an inch lower down his head. “I imagine it wouldn’t be wise to constructively criticise anything then.”

  “Best not. One of his thralls did last week, and found himself walled up in the dungeon for all eternity. There’s a beautiful pair of silk curtains covering the brick work though.”

  “Nice. Seems like we’d better extol the virtues of everything then. Shall we continue?” suggested Ollie.

  “Indeed we shall. This way.”

  Twenty feet into the next lengthy corridor, Ollie stopped and stood staring, mouth agape and gazing in disbelief, amazed at what he was looking at. “What,” asked the incredulous half vampire, “the hell is that?”

  Stitches put a hand over his mouth and closed his eyes. If he had had any moisture in his system, you would have heard a loud gulp.

  “Ah, one of the Master’s more conceptual works. Rather original, don’t you think?” said Egon.

  “That’s not quite the word I’d use,” said Stitches.

  In front of them was a large arched window ten feet tall and five feet wide. What they could see of it was made up of the most beautiful stained glass. The remainder was hidden by the obviously dead figure of a man who was nailed to an ebony frame, which was itself attached to the window surround. Two puncture wounds on his neck indicated the nature of his demise, but it was the other aspects of the display that puzzled Ollie.

  “Um, why is he wearing dark glasses and holding a white stick, Egon?”

  “Very astute of you, Master. You’ve noticed the most cunning part of the piece. The deceased gentleman was a gondolier in his former life, so his Lordship thought it would be pleasant to have him permanently on show up here at the window.”

  “But what is it supposed to be?”

  Egon cracked a grin that would have put the willies up Broadmoor’s most deserving guest. “A Venetian Blind.”

  Ollie suppressed a shudder that was almost violent enough to qualify as a fit, and indicated that they should proceed. “Good grief, can you believe that?” he asked Stitches.

  “I know. I think we should get out of here before we end up as soft furnishings.”

  Four turns, five hallways and various cringe-inducing decorative disasters later they arrived at the sketching room. Egon was about to knock on the door when a voice from inside said “Enter.” Egon opened it up, entered and stood to attention to announce the visitors. “Mr. Ollie Splint and Master Stitches to see you, my lord.”

  Jocular was standing at the window, gazing contemplatively into the night. He truly was a colossal being. He was the best part of seven feet tall and built like the top three contenders of the world’s strongest man competition combined. Hands that could have popped a basketball like a balloon hung at his sides. It was one of the great misconceptions from literature and film that full blood vampires were slim, elegant, caddish characters that beguiled ladies by making them go weak at the knees, and who could easily blend into mainstream society by simply changing clothes. Rubbish. They were powerfully built, killing machines that ripped through flesh and bone like a meat grinder on speed. His only concession to popular myth was a cape that he wore over a very nice two piece suit. Turning to face his guests a slight smile passed across his face, but it belied a sadness that was lurking beneath.

  “Sank you, Egon,” he said. “You can leave us.”

  Now that they were alone with Jocular, maybe they would finally find out what they were doing here.

  “Mr. Splint, sank you for coming.”

  “No problem, sir. Always glad to help. What seems to be the problem?”

  Jocular glided across the floor towards them, making Stitches think that he must have a skateboard under his cape, he moved so smoothly. He spoke in a hushed voice, as if he didn’t want anyone to overhear what he had to say.

  “Vell, it is all rather upsetting really. Normally, ven any problems arise on my property, I, or von of my employees deals vis it. Zis, however, is most perplexing. My children, and more specifically my verevolves, are going missing.”

  Ollie frowned. “As in running away?”

  Jocular raised a long, manicured index finger and waggled it in front of Ollie’s face.

  “No. My children are supremely loyal to me, and me alone. I sink zat somevon, or somesing is kidnapping zem, and no matter vot I do to try and find out vot is going on, I cannot seem to get to ze heart of ze mystery. Maybe I’m too close to ze issue to make any headway, and anyway, I’m far too busy to investigate such matters, but. I do have one of my most trusted followers conducting her own enquiries, zough she seems to have come to a dead end.”

  “Why on earth would anyone want to steal a werewolf?” asked Stitches. “And what about feeding it, and where the hell would you keep it?”

  “In a verehouse,” replied Jocular with no hint of humour whatsoever.

  Unfortunately Stitches did see the funny side of it and he clamped a hand over his mouth, but an errant giggle escaped nonetheless.

  “Vhy do you snigger, Master Stitches. My volves, ven zey are in human form, live in a large house on my estate.”

  “Sorry, sir, touch of dust in the old windpipe. It’s the plague of a zombie. Dust.”

  “I see. Vell, ze accommodation is about a mile from here. Perhaps it vould be prudent for you to start your investigation zere.”

  Ollie offered up silent thanks that Stitches’ little indiscretion had gone unnoticed.

  “That’s all very well, sir, but is it safe for us to go tramping through the woods in your grounds. With all due respect, I don’t relish the thought of ending up on tonight’s menu.”

  “It’s all right for you,” protested Stitches. “I’ll end up being buried somewhere.”

  “Don’t vorry yourselves, gentlemen. You von’t be molested or harmed in any vay. Trust me.”

  Trust you, thought Stitches. That was the equivalent of Adolf Hitler saying ‘I only came to Poland sightseeing. I’m not staying. Honest.’

  “Find my children, Mr Splint. Ze nights are too qviet vizout zem. And ven you discover who is responsible, bring zem to me. I should very much like to speak vith zem.”

  “We’ll get right on it, my lord. How shall we find the house?”

  “Egon vill show you ze vay. And now I must get on. I’m sinking of turning zis room into a snooker area vith an African theme. Vot do you sink?”

  “Lovely idea, sir,” offered Stitches. “Very tribal, should work well.”

  “I sought so. It also takes my mind off vot’s been happening,” Jocular replied, turning back to the window.

  “Mmmm. Something to get your teeth intooooof!”

  Stitches rubbed the spot where Ollie’s elbow had connected sharply with his ribs.

  “I’m sorry?” questioned the Lord of Darkness.

  “Oh, nothing. We were just leaving. We’ll get back to you when we’ve got some answers.”

  “Very vell. Good luck, Mr Splint, and sank you.”

  The door opened and they saw Egon waiting in the corridor for them.

  “This way, gentlemen. Would you like some refreshment before we depart? It’s not a long trek to the werehouse, but it can be heavy going through some dense woodland.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a glass of water,” said Stitches.

  “Very well. And I have something rather special in the fridge that Mr Splint will appreciate. Follow me.”

  Ollie inclined his head towards his zombie companion and hissed quietly into his ear. “Thanks, mate, he’s going to get me a glass of blood to drink. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Oops. Sorry, boss. Tell him you’ve not long got up, and it’s too early for you.”

  “A visiting vampire cannot turn down the offer of fresh virgin’s blood in Jocular’s own home. One, it’s rude and two, it’s me. Next thing you know I’m staked out and barbecuing at dawn, because he’s found out I hate the stuff. Dimwit. Now put your ear back where it should be and shut up.”

&n
bsp; “Bu…”

  “Shhhhh.”

  They made the rest of the trip to the kitchen in silence.

  * * *

  Ronnie crossed the Town Square and waited quietly at the top of the alley between Mrs. Strudel’s Bavarian Café and Hector Lozenge’s house. Being invisible was all well and good. but it didn’t preclude you from making noise, so Ronnie still needed to be stealthy and vigilant about where he was treading and whom he was near. As if to highlight this point, Hector came wobbling up behind him and almost knocked him clean off his feet.

  “Where are you? I know you’re in there somewhere,” he slurred, rummaging around in his pockets. “Ah, there you are, my beauty.” Recovered key in hand, he staggered to his front door and got it open on the third attempt before falling inside and slamming it shut.

  “Drunken old bugger,” Ronnie muttered under his breath.

  Hector was the town cleaner, who spent all of his days collecting and removing all manner of filthy detritus from the streets of Skullenia. He had been a promising warlock back in his youth, but his weakness for a bottle of anything vaguely alcoholic, and a dalliance with his tutor’s lady-friend had seen him expelled from university and stripped of all his flourishing new powers. He’d wandered aimlessly for a few years, trying to come to terms with being restored to merely human status, until he’d finally ended up in Skullenia. Now he was just a pathetic, lonely old man who picked it up all day and poured it down all night.

  Ronnie waited until the coast was clear before stepping into the alley. Try as he might, he still couldn’t make out what Flug had seen. He gradually made his way to the back of the buildings, narrowly avoiding stepping on a sleeping cat, and stood in the lane itself. There it was, in the pitch black about two hundred feet into the trees. Some vague shapes huddled together. Ronnie stayed where he was to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark void that he was concentrating on. After a couple of minutes and even with the fact that whatever it was was moving deeper into the forest, the forms coalesced into more recognisable figures. They were definitely men; well, they had heads and appeared to be in possession of the correct number of limbs, so he decided that his conclusion was a fair one. As his vision grew more accustomed to the intense darkness, he was able to make out more and more details. They were wearing uniforms of some description, and each had on a back pack, and what Flug had thought were witches’ broomsticks were, in fact, weapons of some sort. The distant click of a round being chambered into a gun barrel made him certain of that. He could only conclude that the mysterious figures were soldiers, but what on earth they were doing in the middle of a Skullenian forest in the dead of night was anyone’s guess. The area had had its fair share of visitors of one sort or another down the centuries, but what seemed to be a highly professional, heavily armed fighting force was a tad unusual. Still watching intently, Ronnie could see that the figures, whilst virtually silent, were very animated and gesticulating at an object that was being held between them. It was only when one of them moved slightly that Ronnie could see that they were studying a map. One of them would look at it, then point in a certain direction, and the others would nod in agreement and various hand signals were made as if they were using sign language. This was no ordinary group of squaddies out on a mundane route march. They were in a dense, dangerous forest that he knew from local stories probably wasn’t the safest place in the world. To be out doing what they were doing you either had to be as mad as the maddest of hatters or, and the second option Ronnie considered the most likely, focused on a mission of some description and determined to carry it out no matter where it took you. One of the figures folded up the map and tucked it away into the thigh pocket of his fatigues. With a gesture that indicated a bearing that would take them even deeper into the forest, he led them off.

  This was too good an opportunity to miss. After months of hanging around with nothing better to do than play asinine invisible jokes on his colleagues, something interesting seemed to be unfolding right in front of him. Ronnie crossed the lane, and when he was sure he had a safe enough distance between himself and his quarry, he entered the forest.

  * * *

  “How far did he say this place was?” asked Stitches, swatting yet another branch away from his face.

  Ollie wiped an arm across his sweaty forehead and let out a long, out of breath breath. Despite the chill of the night, the hike was taking its toll on the unfit undead.

  “He said about a mile, but it feels like ten already. And he could have told us it was mostly uphill.”

  Egon halted and turned to face them. “If you’re finding the pace too tough, gentlemen, we can always stop for a rest. I make the journey once a week, so I’m well used to it.”

  “No thanks, we’re fine,” protested Ollie. “Just keep going.”

  “I could give you a piggy back if you like, Master Stitches,” Egon proposed, a horribly lascivious sneer gracing his squashed features. “Just wrap your legs around me and hang on.”

  Stitches took a large step backwards and tried to hide behind Ollie, whilst trying to make it look like he wasn’t trying to hide behind Ollie.

  “Oh, ummm, no thanks. Dodgy hips you know, never know when they’re going to pop out. Next thing, leg falls off and I’m a walking pogo stick, not that a pogo stick can walk, it sort of pogoes, doesn’t it. Then it’s shank’s pony round and round in circles, wondering can I buy half a pair of shoes, which is one, and would it be half price…”

  “Stitches.”

  “Uh huh?”

  “You’re babbling.”

  “Am I?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Sorry, don’t know what came over me.”

  Egon stepped towards the shaking zombie and put a hand on his shoulder. “Not to worry, but if you change your mind, let me know, okay?” He gave a squeeze and returned to his lead position.

  “He winked at me,” said a rather disturbed Stitches.

  “No he didn’t, it was a trick of the light.”

  “What light? It’s gone midnight and we’re in the middle of an herbaceous black hole. I’m telling you he winked.”

  “Maybe he’s just being friendly. Why didn’t you get the Jelly Bodybits out like I told you?”

  “I forgot about the sweets because I was in a hurry to get away from that drooling pervert. And friendly I can put up with, but he makes Derek the mad cannibal look like a big girlie vegetarian. Just keep him away from me. Please.”

  Ollie gave him a reassuring pat on the back. “Okay, but hey, give it time. You two might hit it off.”

  “Mmmmph. I’d rather wash Flug’s underwear.”

  Ollie winced. “There’s a thought to make a strong man weep.”

  “Too right. I could have murdered Ronnie for showing him how to use the toilet. He was happy enough wandering around outside until nature took its course but now, wow. You want to go in after him, you better think about sending in a canary first. The last time I saw anything like that I was at the zoo.”

  “Why do you need the bathroom?” asked Ollie with a puzzled frown. “You haven’t got any bodily functions to speak of. You don’t even breathe.”

  “I need a soak every now and again to blow, well, wash the cobwebs away, and moisten everything up. And repairs are a damn sight easier when I’m wet.”

  “Urrrgggh. The bath must look like a bowl of muesli by the time you’ve finished. No wonder it takes a day and a half to empty it. I dread to think what it’s doing to the pipes.”

  “That’s a little terse,” replied Stitches, a hurt look on his face. “At least I don’t use a little pink toothbrush.”

  “Look, it’s the only one that gets in behind my fangs. They’re hell for getting food stuck.”

  “If you say so.”

  “If you two have quite finished, we’re here.” Egon indicated a light source emanating from a clearing about twenty yards ahead. “Through there, gentlemen. I’ll be waiting here for you.”

  “You’re not coming in?” asked
Ollie.

  “No. They don’t seem to like me. I don’t know why, but I seem to make them a little edgy.”

  You make me feel positively precipitous, thought Stitches.

  “So, if it’s okay with yourselves, I’ll stay out here and await your return.” Egon picked up his hump and went and sat on a large rock.

  “Fine by me. Anyone in particular we should ask for. I don’t want to go barging in and upsetting someone.”

  “Wouldn’t want to tread on anyone’s paws,” added Stitches.

  “Ask for Obsidia. She’s what you might consider to be the leader of the pack.”

  “The top dog, eh?”

  Ollie turned and headed for the house, followed by his companion. “Thanks Egon, see you later.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Ladle arrived at the office and walked straight in. Say what you like about life, death or even undeath, in Skullenia, there was a certain community spirit amongst the populous that rivalled anything that went on in most other villages, towns and cities across the globe. You could leave your door open and not worry at all about who or what was going to sneak in and steal your coffin. You could always pop next door and ask to borrow a pint of blood or a bowl of maggots, or whatever it was you needed, and the local branch of the Neighbourhood Witch was second to none. It boiled down to good old fashioned friendliness and every resident to a creature would attest to that (it was either that or it had something to do with the fact that, if you got caught in some beings house uninvited, there was a very good chance that you’d be relieved of a limb or two, and the juicier of your internal organs).

  “Anyone home?” she bellowed. Mrs. Ladle was met by stony silence. “Mmmm, must be a boys’ night out,” she mumbled to herself. She made her way to Ollie’s office and went directly to the secret door. She knew about it on account of the fact that she had been quite close to Ollie’s Uncle Gorge. They had wiled away many cold winter nights shooting the breeze, shooting the locals, and talking about anything and everything until the sun was due to rise. That, however, was as far the relationship went. They’d never taken it any further because the vampire - witch divide was just too great. It would have been ‘spooktacularly inappropriate’ as Gorge would often say in a rare moment of levity. Nevertheless, they had remained great friends.