by Tony Lewis
“Me found it in same place as me keep my key,” he announced, smiling a smile that was all puckered scars, cold flesh and dribble.
“You haven't got a key,” said Stitches as Ollie took the key from Flug. “You've got a flap, remember? You have a bit of a problem with doors.”
“Oh yeah… Wot doors?”
“Do you mean what are doors, or do you mean what doors do you have trouble with?”
“Umm. Me mean…”
“Yes,” Said Stitches encouragingly, hoping for an answer before New Year's Day. 2051.
“Wot doors?”
“Never mind all that rubbish,” said Ollie. “Flug, point the torch at the knob, will you.”
(A small item needs to be mentioned here. I'm sure that the reader will be pleased to note that the author has chosen to disregard the blatantly obvious and quite frankly childish `willie' joke that could easily have been inserted at this juncture. Flug, as you would expect, did point the torch at the appropriate, or inappropriate depending on your point of view, area of his trousers, but in the interests of decency it is a small detail that really isn't worth mentioning. The joke, that is, not Flug's nether regions).
Despite the thickness of the door it was clear that whoever or whatever was on the other side of it could hear what was going on, because the scraping on the wood seemed to be becoming more insistent and was now being punctuated by the occasional knock.
Ollie slipped the key into the lock and gave it a turn. It went round as smooth as silk and the sound of a couple of tumblers could be heard clicking into place. It reverberated eerily down the passageway.
“Easy now. Sounds like there could be something very pissed off in there,” said Ethan, taking up a defensive position at Ollie's side.
Ollie stood poised with his hand on the knob.
Ethan stood poised, rigid and ready for action.
Stitches stood poised, trying to stop his joints from popping.
Ronnie stood poised, trying to roll a fag without rustling.
Gullett stood poised, truncheon in hand, ready to smash whatever came through the door.
Cross stood poised, notebook in hand and pen at the ready.
Deadhouse stood poised, camera locked and loaded.
Flug stood poised, not because he was ready, but because he was trying to remember what a door was.
Ollie pulled the door open. It creaked so loudly and at such a high pitch that it hurt their ears. When it was finally open they found that they were confronted with a darkness that was so intense if you had thrown a light bulb into it, it would have stuck.
“Flug,” said Ollie. “Point the torch inside.”
When he did, they all gasped at the sight that greeted them.
It was a laboratory, that was evident from the test tubes, beakers and bubbling liquids, but it was what they saw in the middle of the room that drew their immediate attention. There, on what could only be described as a mortuary slab, was what appeared to be a human jigsaw. It was if someone had poured all the requisite parts out of the box, but had yet to sort them out into edge pieces and middle bits. On first sight it appeared that all of the parts were there, but this was probably due to them being so haphazardly arranged on the cold metal of the table. A closer inspection revealed that there was no head or torso.
“Ethan,” said Ollie. “Take Ronnie, Gullett and Flug and get yourselves topside right now. Whoever was responsible for this seems to have gone, but they can't be far away. It must have been them making those noises in here. When they heard us they must have made off.”
“Good thinking,” said Gullett. “That was probably the noises we heard. It was them trying to clear out because they heard us.” (He knew what he had just said was a rehash of what Ollie had just said, but he needed to say something even if it was a rehash of what someone else had just said. Besides, if Ollie hadn't have said it, Gullett would have said it anyway, rehashed or not. Nuff said!)
Stitches noticed a cord hanging from the ceiling and gave it a tentative pull. He had all sorts of visions flash through his mind as he did, ranging from a spiked ceiling crashing down on them to a secret door opening up and revealing untold visions of hell and other horrible stuff. Luckily it wasn't, and a light came on over the table that was bright enough to illuminate not only the whole room but their retreating colleagues, who were now three quarters of the way back to the stairs.
“My goodness-s-s-s. It looks like a butcher's shop-p-p-p,” said Deadhouse, merrily snapping away. “I haven't-t-t-t seen anything like this-s-s-s since we did that article about Mrs Strudel's café.”
Stitches gingerly placed a hand on one of the forearms resting on the table. “Freezing,” he said. “But it hasn't started decomposing yet, which is a plus. Hang on a minute.”
He examined the body parts one by one, studying each of them closely.
“Well, I'm no expert,” he declared, “but judging by the looks of the suture marks on this lot these are the bits and pieces missing from the cemetery. You can see where Bodkin Strutdyflaps's elbows have been sewn on.”
“But where's the rest of it?” asked Ollie.
“Who knows?” said Cross. “Maybe there's a clue in here.”
“You're absolutely right,” said Ollie as he picked up a small, leather bound book off a work bench. “Looks like a diary of sorts.”
He flicked through the pages and stopped at random.
“Day 12,” he read aloud. “Have started collecting the parts but find I am having trouble keeping them fresh. Note to self, must buy a freezer. Or at least a big bag of peas.
Day 23. Almost got it right today but due to inferior equipment I electrocuted myself, after which my shoes started talking to me. They weren't very helpful.”
Ollie flicked through to the last entry.
“Day 31. I think I may have found the head and torso that I need to complete the project. They're not the best looking and wouldn't win any beauty contests, but anatomically they're perfect.”
Stitches was on the other side of the room and was looking at the various items of equipment on display.
“It looks a lot like Crumble's lab,” he said, holding up a test tube at eye level and giving it a shake. “Obviously a tad more sinister, I'll grant you.” The glass phial clinked subtly as he put it back into place.
“Mind you, if you're actually brave enough to go into the mad old duffer's house of horrors in the first place, at least you're not liable to trip over any detached body parts lying on the floor,” the zombie continued. “Not unless he's got a new hobby that we don't know about, of course.”
“If I didn't know any better,” said Ollie replacing the notebook, “I'd swear this is how Flug started out. Goodness me, you don't suppose that the mad accountant who created him is at it again, do you?”
“I wouldn't have thought so,” said Stitches. “He got snapped up by some big company in Vena Cava just after he dragged Flug kicking and screaming into the world. He does all their finances for them as well as a little off the record dismemberment.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. High finance is a cut throat business, you know.”
The swoosh of Cross jotting and the click of Deadhouse's camera filled the room as they tried to figure out what was going in this strange and eerie place.
* * *
Ronnie, Ethan, Flug and Gullett climbed back out of the passageway and into the town square. Most of the crowd had dispersed which, in the case of the ghosts and the phantoms, was literally the truth. There were a few stragglers left, most of whom were finishing the snacks they'd bought off Mrs. Strudel's Travelling Abattoir. A few quick enquiries established that no one had come out of the hole under the fountain in the time that it had taken for them all to get in and the four of them to get out. Also, nobody had seen anything out of the ordinary happen topside.
“What now?” asked Ronnie, uncertain as to what course of action they should take next.
“Have a look around, I suppose,
” replied Ethan. “See if anything turns up.”
Gullett patted his hands on his large belly and flexed his knees. All he needed to do now was say `Evenin' all' in a deep, broad cockney accent and he would have the stereotype done to perfection.
“What I suggest, gentlemen, is that we split up and revisit the crime scenes that we already know about. I'll take Flug and we'll go and see Grendle whilst you two go back to the cemetery. Seeing as the underground lab is devoid of a perpetrator, it may very well be the case that he, or she, or it if we're covering all eventualities, is out and about and up to some sort of naughtiness.”
“Good idea,” said Ethan, mightily impressed with Gullett whom he had always assumed had as much idea about crime detection as a caveman had about personal hygiene and good housekeeping. “Where do you want to meet up when we're done?”
“Back here seems as good a place as any,” said the policeman.
Twenty minutes later Ronnie and Ethan passed through the cemetery gates.
“I've got a good mind to go invisible,” said Ronnie as he lit up a cigarette.
“Why's that?” asked Ethan, scanning the open expanse before them.
“Just a precaution. Judging by the butchered body parts in that room there's a chance we could get waylaid and hacked to pieces.”
“I see your point, but I think it'll be a complete waste of time.”
“How so?”
“Because all our elusive madman will have to do is follow the `you' shaped cloud of smoke about. You might as well be wearing a luminous donkey jacket covered in bells.”
Ronnie surreptitiously dropped his fag onto the ground and stamped it out, whilst trying to look as if he wasn't doing it as a result of Ethan's observation.
“Had enough of that?” Ronnie said with a little bit too much conviction.
They got about forty feet into the cemetery when Ethan stopped completely and stood totally still, to the point that he could have been mistaken for a statue.
“Wh…”
“Sshhh,” whispered Ethan, cutting off Ronnie's question.
Ethan was staring off into the distance. He wasn't moving a muscle, having come to an instant standstill. Not so much as a twitch or sound came from him. Ronnie couldn't even hear him breathing. After about thirty seconds, Ethan blinked and turned his head ever so slightly to the left.
“There,” he whispered, imperceptibly nodding in that direction.
“What? Where?” said Ronnie, his mouth going dry and his heart rapidly picking up speed.
“This way. And quietly.”
Like a couple of trained snipers moving into position, they picked their way across the ground towards the source of the noise that Ethan had heard. After a minute or so Ronnie found that he was just about able to hear it. It was on the very limits of his sound range but it was definitely there. A vague splat, like a trifle falling onto a cold stone floor, could be heard every few seconds. This, in turn, was punctuated by the occasional grunt of effort.
Ethan guided them onwards, but it wasn't until they got to within about ten feet of an open grave that it became clear what exactly the source of the noise was. A clod of earth the size of a football flew out from the hole and landed with a moist thud on the ground. A weary grunt of effort accompanied it.
Swiftly and silently Ethan and Ronnie covered the remaining distance. They both arrived at the open grave at the same time and shouted in unison.
“What the hell do you think you're doing?”
As quick as a flash the figure in the hole disappeared in a blur of earth and darkness.
“Where'd he go?” asked Ronnie, looking round incredulously. “It's like he winked out of existence.”
Ethan leapt into the hole.
“Here,” he shouted, “there's a tunnel. Come on.”
They plunged into the dark void with Ethan leading the way. Although vision was limited, his superior eyesight allowed him to charge on without any particular risk.
Ronnie quickly took out his petrol lighter from his pocket and got it going. At least that was one of the benefits of smoking, he thought to himself. You never got stuck in the dark. He stepped into the tunnel, holding the lighter out in front.
“Hold up, Ethan,” he shouted into the void.
“S'okay,” came the reply. “I'm right on him. You watch yourself.”
“Thank God for that,” Ronnie muttered to himself. The last thing he wanted to do was head down the tunnel at top speed, not knowing what was down there. He could bump into anything. Literally anything. As he progressed he noticed that there were smaller passageways leading off the main one. He investigated one and found that it led straight to a coffin. The others that he checked did the same. “So that's how you've been getting round, is it? Sneaky bugger.”
Once back in the main tunnel he could still hear the sound of footsteps up ahead. He also realised that his eyes had grown accustomed to the semi-darkness. He picked up his pace and moved on.
* * *
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” said Stitches, leaning against the table he'd gotten the test tube from.
“I think so,” said Ollie, perusing the meat laden slab. “Who else would you suggest?”
“I suppose you're right. It's just that Crumble is usually about as much use as a pair of shoes for a snake. I can't see what possible…”
“Ooh, this is mysterious. I haven't seen anything like this since that time… No forget that. I have never seen anything like this. Except maybe for that time…”
“In here, Professor,” said Ollie.
Professor Rhubarb Crumble was led into the lab by Deadhouse, who had kindly volunteered to escort him from his den of lunacy to this one. Ollie had concluded that they needed someone with a scientific background to try and make sense of what they had discovered, and seeing that outside of Crumble no one else in Skullenia knew the slightest thing about that particular subject, his choice was pretty limited. If there had been a kindergarten in the vicinity, Ollie would now be chatting to a six year old who had just learned to rub a balloon on his head and stick it to the ceiling about a potential crime scene, and Crumble would still be in his lab defying the laws of nature and sanity with equal measure.
“Hello there, Ollie,” said the Professor. “My oh my, what do we have here?”
“That's what we're hoping you can tell us,” said Stitches. “All we've determined is that someone is harvesting various body parts for some unknown purpose.”
Crumble took off his glasses, folded his arms and cast his gaze across the room. He was clearly deep in thought. He ummed and arred, nodded his head, tapped his finger against his lip and breathed deeply. A hushed quiet descended as his grey matter got to work. After a couple of minutes Ollie said, “Well?”
“Well what, dear boy?” said Crumble.
“What do you think has been going on down here?”
“Oh, I haven't the foggiest idea. I was wondering what to have for tea.”
“Snake. Shoes,” said Stitches.
“Why don't you show the professor the diary,” said Cross as his pen moved across a page. “Maybe that'll help.”
“Have a read of this, Prof,” said Ollie, handing him the book. “I thought this whole set up might have something to do with the chap who created Flug, but Stitches said he's not around anymore.”
“Indeed he isn't,” said Crumble, leafing through the pages of the diary, “but that wouldn't preclude someone else from following the same path, now would it? You can get any number of books on this subject. I've got one myself entitled `How to make friends and imitate people'.”
“Please don't tell me that you've started tinkering around with this sort of stuff,” said Stitches.
“Oh, good lord no,” said Crumble, continuing to peruse the diary. “Far too messy a business. Causes havoc with the carpets. Well, I would conclude, based on these entries and the fact that there's a pile of flesh on that table that by rights should be connected together, that someone or som
ething is definitely trying to create a human being of sorts.”
“Well this one hasn't got a brain yet so it should at least be as intelligent as Flug,” said Stitches.
“So who do you think would be responsible for this?” asked Cross. “Anybody you know?”
“Oh I don't think so, my good man. I did meet Dr. Frankenstein once though. Strange fellow who seemed a bit disjointed to me. I always had the impression that he wasn't put together quite right.”
Just then they heard footsteps behind them. Gullett had returned but he was on his own.
“I've left Flug with Mrs. Ladle for the time being,” he announced. “He didn't want to come down here again.”
“Fair enough,” said Ollie. “Did you manage to find out anything else?”
“Nope. You?”
“Not really. Someone's collecting body parts. That's about it.”
“Maybe we should stake-e-e-e the place out-t-t-t,” said Deadhouse. “Lie in wait to catch-h-h-h the fellow red handed-d-d-d.”
“Seems like that's our only option at the moment,” said Stitches, watching as Crumble fiddled about with bits of lab equipment that wouldn't have looked out of place in a medieval torture chamber. “Besides, there are enough of us here to take on whoever comes back.”
It was at that precise moment that every one of them heard footsteps. Quick ones as if someone was running flat out. Before anyone could ask, Gullett turned and checked the entryway.
“Not coming from there,” he said.
“Then where on earth is it coming from?” said Cross, his constant jotting for the moment interrupted.
They all stood as still as they could to try and pinpoint the sound. Even Crumble managed not to move, and he usually fidgeted more than a Tourette's sufferer having an epileptic fit whilst being attacked by wasps carrying itching powder.
The seconds ticked slowly by. Not only did the metronomic thump of the footsteps get louder and louder, but they were also getting closer and closer.
“I do believe, dear boy,” said Crumble, pointing behind Ollie, “that it's coming from beyond that wall.”
Ollie turned round and faced the cabinet that he had been propped up against. He leaned forward and inclined his head.