Skullenia

by Tony Lewis

  The person with the most comprehensive mechanical knowledge answered.

  “It’s working a treat,” said Mrs. Ladle, proud of her handiwork. “That should keep you going for a good few thousand miles, I reckon.”

  Mrs. Ladle was openly congratulated and thanked for all her efforts by the guys. Secretly however, they were all thankful that they hadn’t been the discoverers of the age old mystery of what a witch kept under her skirts. That was a puzzle best left to the imagination. Admittedly, that imagination belonged to someone who spent rather a lot of time alone, drew in crayons and whose patio needed investigating, but you get the point.

  As they all piled back into the car, Ollie called to her from the passenger seat.

  “Can we, ATCHOO, ooh bless me, give you a lift anywhere? It’s getting a bit late now.”

  “Oh, no thanks, love,” Mrs. Ladle replied, remounting her broomstick and kicking it into action. “I don’t trust those things. Always breaking down, don’t you know? Wouldn’t be caught dead in one. Bye.”

  She sailed off into the night with an azure whoosh and a shower of sparks.

  * * *

  “Idiots,” said the hooded figure once more, gazing into the shifting waters of the marble bowl. The current images had unfortunately shown the five so called adventurers pondering over the state of their vehicle. A loud groan elicited from the hood when the witch arrived to help them get moving.

  “Is this how it is to be?” a voice ruminated quietly. “The fate of the quest entrusted to these brain dead freaks. How are they ever going to succeed? What will the Gods do to me if they fail?”

  The table began to shake, as if a large lorry were rumbling by a few feet away. The figure put hands palm down on either side of the jiggling bowl in an effort to keep it, and the table, in place. The candles on the mantelpiece went out as a frigid breeze swept across the small room. A familiar voice boomed from the darkness, but it was still enough of a surprise to cause a start.

  “IT WOULD SEEM THAT YOU ARE HAVING DOUBTS, MORTAL.”

  The voice was everywhere, all-encompassing like being under water. No matter which direction the figure listened, it seemed to be right there, next to an ear, in front of an eye, penetrating flesh and bone and infiltrating to the soul beneath.

  “I will admit to being somewhat nervous,” came a timid voice. “I am concerned that the chosen five are not up to the task, and will fail.”

  “AND WHY IS THAT?”

  “Because they can’t get more than a few miles down the road without needing help from an old woman.”

  “BUT THEY HAVE RECOMMENCED THEIR JOURNEY, YES?”

  “Well they have, but…”

  “FEAR NOT. WHILST THEY MAY OUTWARDLY APPEAR TO BE FIVE BUMBLING BUFFOONS, I CAN ASSURE YOU THAT THEY WILL ULTIMATELY BE SUCCESSFUL.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “DO YOU QUESTION MY WORDS, MORTAL? DO YOU DISBELIEVE WHAT I AM TELLING YOU?”

  “No. I apologise profoundly and remain your humble and obedient servant?”

  “YOUR SUBSERVIENT GROVELLINGS ARE ACCEPTED. NOW HEED WHAT I SAY. THEY WILL STUMBLE. THEY WILL HAVE TO OVERCOME MANY PROBLEMS, BUT THEY WILL PREVAIL.”

  “Thank you for putting my mind at ease. I will endeavour to put my trust in what is certain to be.”

  “VERY WELL. I WILL NOT RETURN UNTIL THE FINAL PIECE IS LOCATED. FAREWELL, MORTAL.”

  The room returned to normalcy once more, and the only indicator that the demon had visited was the pounding headache that the summoner had crashing through their brain pan. The afflicted area was rubbed between fingers and thumb, as the now still waters of the bowl were studied once more.

  “I need to relax or I’m never going to get through this. I need to have faith in what I’ve been told.”

  The figure stood up, picked up the bowl and walked over to the back door, kicking it open and throwing the contents outside. It landed with a resounding splash on the ground where it fizzed and bubbled, destroying the surrounding grass. Whilst standing in the doorway, the light from the moon and the intricate constellations cast their glow onto the now dead patch of earth, and the bowed, hooded head hung low, as many rambling thoughts were processed. But the overriding one, the one that would get them through this process, overrode all the others. Patience.

  * * *

  The hearse shook, rattled and rolled, and any other appropriate fifties rock and roll song genre that you can think of, down the road, the beams from its headlights bouncing up and down all over the place like a cave guide with Parkinson’s Disease.

  Ethan was firmly in place behind the wheel and as it turned out, he wasn’t actually a bad driver. He wasn’t a very good one either, but you can’t have everything. Still, he didn’t really have a lot of choice in the matter. Seeing as Ollie couldn’t drive, Ronnie could but was currently on a twelve month ban for driving under the influence (it was Nosey the Bogeyman’s influence, actually. The spectre had convinced Ronnie that it would be a topping wheeze to drive the car whilst invisible, and make everyone think that it was haunted. It was all going swimmingly until he had run a blood red light and run over Constable Gullet’s size fourteen foot). Stitches wasn’t allowed, because there was a very real risk that his arms would pop out at the shoulder at a most inopportune moment, and there was absolutely no use whatsoever in getting Flug to do it. One, he didn’t fit in the front seat, it looked like someone had tried to force a sausage into a thimble, and two, there was no way that he would be able to get his limited mind around the rudimentary functions required to get the damn thing moving. If we’re being perfectly honest, and to put that into some kind of perspective, Flug would have struggled to work out how a hamster wheel went round. Obviously you would have to explain to him what a wheel was first, and possibly a hamster, for that matter, but you get the picture.

  So, by a process of elimination and due to the fact that everybody else was rubbish, Ethan had become the quests designated driver.

  “Boss,” said Flug from the back seat, his face peering out from between his knees.

  “What is it, Flug?” replied Ollie, watching as the scenery literally flashed past at nearly thirty miles an hour.

  “It dinner time.”

  “Pants,” said Ollie disgustedly as he felt a soft object nudge him on the right shoulder. He reached over and grabbed the squashy item and placed it into his lap. He undid the lunchbox and looked dejectedly at the contents. Even away from home, Flug hadn’t neglected his duties. Everything else he forgot in an instant, to the point that it was a good job breathing was involuntary, because if it wasn’t he would run out of oxygen faster than a naked climber on top of Mt. Everest, but reminding Ollie about his liquid refreshment was something that he never, ever forgot.

  Inside the pack were two containers. One was plastic and had a screw top lid. A shaker. The sort that you would normally see permanently attached to the lips of a bodybuilder as he tried to cram in another few grams of protein. He lifted it out and tapped at it dispiritedly with his index finger.

  “You put water in it, Boss,” Flug pointed out helpfully.

  “Yes, thank you. I gathered that.”

  “You not looking forward to your food?” asked Ethan, genuinely interested.

  “Is it that obvious?” said Ollie, unscrewing the lid and putting the container between his knees and taking out the second one.

  Ethan nodded, casting him a sideways glance.

  “Pretty much.”

  Ollie removed the lid from the second container and poured the water into the first. The liquid sat on top of the red powder and flatly refused to seep through.

  “I think you’re going to have to give that a shake,” said Stitches helpfully. “It’s mixing about as well as the guests at a Jews and Nazis singles party.”

  Ollie shook the mixer vigorously for about thirty seconds and checked the contents once more. It frothed and bubbled like a glutinous pink soup, and even had a few lumps in it to add to the look.

  “Well,
here we go.”

  He popped the lid and chugged the ghastly concoction down in one go. He followed it up with the traditional belch and look of extreme disgust. He passed the used vessel back to Flug to take care of, before speaking to Ethan.

  “So, whereabouts’ are we then?”

  “Hang on a sec.”

  Ethan wound the window down and leaned out.

  “How far till we reach Tonboot?” he shouted.

  SQUEAK. SQUEAK.

  He pulled his head back in and put the window back up.

  “About twenty miles, according to the Bat Nav.”

  Ollie turned in his seat and looked at Stitches, who was squashed in the back between Flug and a sleeping Ronnie.

  “How reliable is that thing?” he asked, pointing to the roof of the hearse with a thumb.

  “Should be fine,” the zombie replied. “The guy I got the car from said it was virtually brand new. All we have to do is make sure that it’s fully charged before we set off anywhere.”

  “And how do we do that?”

  Stitches pointed to the glove box in front of Ollie’s legs.

  “The charger’s in there.”

  Ollie opened the compartment. Nestled amongst a couple of blank cassettes, some used tissues, an unused car manual, a tin of sweets covered in enough sugar to cause diabetes and a map of Russia, was a small plastic container. He picked it up and had a look. Wiggling away inside were loads of fat, green caterpillars.

  “And this is the charger?”

  “Yup,” answered Stitches. “Before we set off we just pop a couple of those into the Bat Nav, and we’re good for about eight hours.”

  “Fair enough,” said Ollie, putting the container back. “I was thinking,” he continued, “once we get to Tonboot, why don’t we find somewhere to spend the day and rest up. Then we can start the search nice and fresh tomorrow night.”

  “Fine,” said Stitches, who would be glad of the time. It would probably take him most of the day to return his body to its normal width. At the present moment his heart was resting on top of his liver, and he could have crawled through a cat flap.

  “Sounds good to me,” said Ethan. “I need to get out and about anyway.”

  “That’s settled then.”

  * * *

  On their arrival in Tonboot, the boys parked the hearse and clambered out to stretch their weary, cramped limbs.

  “I think we must have taken a wrong turn somewhere,” observed Stitches, looking around. “We seem to have ended up at a genetic dead end.”

  They spent an hour or so exploring the town, ostensibly trying to find somewhere to stay, but taking in some of the sites as well. There were plenty of places to eat and drink, gift shops where you could buy souvenirs (Flug picked up a snow globe that had a Christmas scene in it. Well, Ollie had assumed it was supposed to be Yuletide based. Santa was on his knees and his neck was resting on a miniature, fully functional guillotine. He wouldn’t be going Ho Ho Ho for much longer. Cheery!), and an art gallery whose pictures made Dorian Gray’s look positively resplendent.

  As luck would have it, they found a quaint little bed and breakfast establishment called The Throbbing End, which was run by the very friendly husband and wife team of Mr. and Mrs. Bell. Obviously, when I say quaint, I don’t mean in a sleepy hamlet, occupied by persons who live in rose covered thatched cottages, where every day is a summer’s day full of ice cold Pimms and cricket on the green way. This was quaint in noisy, creatures up till all hours, killings, mayhem and long cold winters’ nights full of gallons of blood and sacrifices, on what would have actually been a very serviceable cricket pitch if it wasn’t soaked with bodily fluids, way. If you think of Southend on a Friday night, you were somewhere close. He, a retired warlock, and she, a former hag, had prepared them a very nice bedtime meal and shown them all to their rooms. Much to Stitches’ amusement the couple, both being consummate hosts who could spot a guest’s traits a mile away, even had one with a bed of straw and a bowl of water for Ethan.

  They had all retired to their rooms and crashed out, with the exception of Ethan, who had got himself changed and gone out.

  KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

  “Huh. What?”

  KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

  “Just a minute,” Ollie slurred as he tried to get his face to work. He had been in a lovely, deep and peaceful sleep. Crumble’s mattress had turned out to be really rather good. He had nodded off as soon as his head had touched the pillow. He stood up and put on his dressing gown before seeing who was responsible for waking him up. It didn’t matter who the inconsiderate dolt was, but that didn’t mean he had to lower his standards.

  “Can I help you?” Ollie asked, glancing very obviously at his wrist. His watch was on the bedside table but the gesture was well intentioned, if completely ignored by the person stood before him.

  The figure stuck out a fat little hand, grabbed Ollie’s and pumped it furiously enough to cause the tendons in his shoulder to complain.

  “Och am I glad to meet ye,” the little man said in his thick Scot’s brogue, still pumping Ollie’s hand up and down like he was trying to draw water from the earthy depths. “It’s Ollie Splint, right?”

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  Finally the digital assault stopped, which was just as well because Ollie’s shoulder ligaments were just about to write a tersely worded letter of complaint to his brain, enquiring as to why the head organ hadn’t instructed them to revolt and knock this bloke on his wobbly backside. The visitor beamed proudly, showing an impressive set of beautifully white teeth and an even more impressive set of fangs.

  “Allow me te introduce meself. Ma name is Splat McThroat-Tearer, but my friends, and I hope to count you among them, call me Douggie.”

  Ollie, still in a state of semi-consciousness, didn’t know why this odd little vampire had woken him up whilst he was resting.

  “That’s fine, Douggie, but what exactly can I do for you that couldn’t wait until later?”

  “Well, I’m the Mayor o’ this wee toon and it’s a great honour for us to have the son of Glut the Bodyripper staying wi’ us.”

  Pleasantly surprised to be known, Ollie smiled at his new companion.

  “So what I was thenken,” continued Douggie, “was that while ye and yer boys were here, you might like to take part in a wee tournament that we have organised for tomarra. It’d be great for the village and a rare treat for the other players.”

  Ollie furrowed his brow, not knowing what the Mayor meant.

  “Other players?” he repeated.

  “Aye. Every year we have a five a side football competition, and it just so happens that it’s later on today. We would be absolutely delighted if your group would join us.”

  The last thing in the world that Ollie wanted to do was play football. The second last thing he wanted to do was to be standing here and talking about it, especially when they were about to embark on their quest, but Douggie was looking at him with such pleading and longing that he didn’t have the heart to turn the little guy down. Anyway, it would probably be a bit of fun, and let’s face it, the five of them didn’t exactly pose much of a threat in the sporting arena. If they played anything other than a team of seven year old girls, there was every chance that they would get knocked out in the first round. But that was fine, because they could play for the minimum amount of time and satisfy the local populous, and at the same time do his reputation no harm whatsoever. They could effectively join in the tournament and recommence their journey with virtually no time wasted at all. In other words everyone was a winner, even if they did end up as losers.

  “Okay, Douggie, we’ll do it,” he said pleased that his affirmative answer had made the little blood sucker’s smile even wider and whiter.

  “Och that’s great news. The villagers will pleased as punch.”

  He reached down to his left and picked up a large sports bag that he handed to Ollie.

  “That’ll be yer streps for the games. Everythi
ng yer need. See yer at the village green at eleven.”

  “Look forward to it. See you, Douggie.”

  * * *

  Jekyll stood on the threshold of Flange’s house and peered inside. He had gotten the address from Starch earlier, when he had paid a visit to the museum. The curator had been very helpful but hadn’t been able to provide him with much more information than he’d either heard from Ollie in the email, or what he had looked up on the darknet.

  He’d had a look around the museum itself and got to examine the Compendia, which he had found very interesting, seeing as it had an arcane version of the very potion that he had concocted to, how shall we say, find himself. The only thing that he found a bit odd was that Vortex wasn’t at work. He had taken the day off but to do what, Starch didn’t have a clue.

  So here he was, standing at the house of the man who was the number one suspect. But, saying that, what he’d seen and heard of Vortex hadn’t totally cleared him of any wrongdoing. The man certainly wasn’t doing himself any favours either.

  As he went through the house he found it exactly as it had been described to him. Sparse was how he would have described it, though. There was virtually nothing in it to signify human habitation apart from, as Ollie had said, the back room. It was a complete jumble sale that constituted books, papers, books, manuscripts, books and more books. Ollie had mentioned this, but not the extent. Still, at least he had more time to search the place than the others.

  As it turned out, it was just as he suspected. A fair few hours leafing through the various tomes scattered around the room had elicited nothing more than a cloud of dust and a couple of stinging paper cuts. He sat at the table going through the final book, a reference manual about supernatural creatures and their feeding habits. He was halfway through it, perusing an article about golems, when he looked over at the door. His attention was drawn to something that, even in all of the clutter, didn’t look quite right. He left the book open on the table and approached the entrance where he got down on his hands and knees to have a closer look.