Skullenia

by Tony Lewis

  “Do tell,” said the witch. She had a sneaking suspicion about what had happened though. All the signs were here. And there, and everywhere else as well.

  Egon gave her a brief rundown of the night's events thus far.

  “And that's how the door broke,” he concluded.

  Mrs. Ladle shook her head, sighed and sparked up immediately, giving off more smoke than a steam train going uphill.

  “I knew it would go wrong,” she said. “It always does. I'll never understand why beings of limited intellect insist on meddling with forces beyond the grasp of their single celled brains.”

  “Because zey strive to furzer zere knowledge off ze frontiers of science in an attempt to improve zere vorld,” said Jocular, appearing behind her like a seven foot vampire. “Also, it is tremendous fun into ze bargain.”

  “That's another way of looking at it, I suppose,” said Mrs. Ladle. “Anyway, let's get on with cleaning this mess up so I can go and help the boys find this missing monster. Lord alone knows what trouble they'll get into by themselves.”

  * * *

  Professor Crumble, lending credence to the rumour that witches had an uncanny idea about what was going to happen in the future, was in trouble. In fact, it had bugger all to do with Mrs. Ladle's powers of prognostication, and more to do with the fact that Crumble and crew were about as much use as a Braille copy of Lord of the Rings was to a double arm amputee who didn't know Braille.

  At present, the Professor was hanging upside down by his ankle and swinging back and forth like a wrinkly, white haired pendulum.

  “How did you manage that?” said Ethan, looking at Crumble going forwards and backwards like a tennis ball. “I would have thought that me saying `careful of the trap' would have given you some sort of a clue to be careful of the trap.”

  “My fault entirely I'm afraid,” said Crumble, his face starting to turn an impressive shade of crimson. “I noticed that it was tied with a Rhinos Twist. I haven't seen one used in this capacity before. I got a bit curious unfortunately.”

  Professor Crumble liked knots. He had a collection in a drawer back at the lab. He had everything from the more common types such as Dudley's Elbow and the Parson's Tangle, to rarities like Appleyard's Möbius Three Rope Nightmare, and Ironfist's Thump. Such was his knowledge on the subject that in knotty circles he was known as something of a guru. In not knotty circles, he was known as a crazy old duffer who had an unhealthy attraction to bits of string. Knot quite all there, if you like.

  Ethan followed the rope to where it was looped around the trunk of a large tree.

  “Brace yourself,” he said as he cut the line.

  Crumble tumbled to the ground with a loud crash. Luckily he landed on his head so he didn't damage anything vital.

  As they were helping him up, Kilo stopped and said “Shush a minute.”

  “What?” said Ethan.

  “I thought I heard a rustle over there in those trees.”

  “I don't know anyone called Russell,” said Crumble, divesting himself of leaves, twigs and other forest detritus, some of which had legs and sharp pincers.

  “Is he serious?” said Kilo, noting the serious look on the Professor's face.

  “Oh yes,” answered Ethan. “You'll know when he tells a joke. A pig will fly past a blue moon on a day that's got a Z in it.”

  “So never then.”

  “Well, once actually.”

  “How on earth did that happen?”

  “Time and space type of accident. Something to do with quarks, neutrinos, positive destabilisers, and a jar of mixed fruit jam if I remember rightly.”

  “Excuse me,” said Crumble, gloriously unaware of the conversation going on between the other two. “I don't wish to be rude, but shouldn't we go and see if Russell's alright?”

  The trio followed the noise. It led them about fifteen yards into a dense clump of trees and undergrowth. As they pushed through the branches a small furry, lumpy thing jumped up and ran off.

  “Skullenian Forest Devil,” said Kilo.

  “Agreed,” said Ethan, “and look.” He pointed at a patch of dark liquid on the ground.

  “Looks like tomato sauce,” said Crumble.

  Ethan raised his nose into the air and sniffed. “It's blood,” he said. “Fresh too. Not more than three or four hours old.”

  “You can tell all that from one sniff?” asked Kilo.

  “Of course.”

  “Impressive. Unusual for a person to have such a strong sense of smell.”

  “A normal person, yes. But I'm fortunate to have the help of a rather special alter ego.”

  Kilo looked incredulous, almost as if he didn't have a clue what Ethan was talking about.

  “I haven't got a clue what you're talking about, Ethan.” (Told you so).

  “Werewolf,” said Ethan, pointing to his chest.

  “Over there, I think,” said Crumble.

  “Oh I see,” said Kilo, rather overawed but internally vowing never to be around the big fellah when he got peckish. “So can you follow the trail?”

  “Definitely. The tang is still in the air and seeing as it hasn't been too windy it's very easy to pick it up. It heads off in that direction. It's certainly Oboe. Her scent is all over the place.” He pointed at the heading that he was alluding to.

  “Let's get going then,” said Kilo. “If it's that fresh then she can't be too far away.”

  “Come on, Prof,” said Ethan, noting that he had slipped the knot into his pocket. “We've got a trail to follow.”

  Crumble followed on obediently, lost in his own little world as per normal. He was watching carefully where he put his feet, glad to be on the move again, and wondering why a werewolf called Russell was hiding in a bush.

  * * *

  Mind-numbingly bright colours, strange creatures that had no business existing in any realm, and noises the like of which should never be heard by earthly beings, pummelled her mind relentlessly. She tossed and turned, thrashing her limbs wildly, trying desperately in vain to escape the shadowy phantoms that stalked her in the darkness. There was no rhyme or reason as to why these denizens of the abyss wanted to hunt her down, but she knew that if they did she would be rendered asunder, suffering unimaginable torment in the process. She tried to flee but it was as if something was holding her back, an unseen but powerful force willing her to fail and fall prey to the screeching demons of the pit. Hot. She was so hot. A granite melting, volcanic core of molten agony seemed to be writhing within her belly, battering her with its unmerciful heat, searching for a way out. Then cold. A bone chilling, soul crushing cold the likes of which could only be found in the farthest reaches of the frozen North. It crept into her at a cellular level, making her very organs gelid and non-functioning. Need to get away. Need to get away. Need to get…..

  “Ou…..right? …..u hear me? …..ke up.”

  Her eyes flew open in an instant and focused on the figure hovering over her like a malevolent puppet. She cried out in utter terror not knowing who this was, what she was doing here, or why this aberration was leering down at her.

  Firm hands gripped her shoulders and forced her down, making it difficult for her to move.

  “Calm down,” the voice said. “You had a nightmare.”

  She heard the words but they didn't mean anything. All they registered as were random sounds generated by something that seemed intent on restraining her, for what purpose she did not know and had no intention of finding out.

  A wave of supercharged adrenalin rushed through her system, and with a mighty effort she took a hold of her erstwhile captors head and sat up. Flexing muscles that had until now laid long dormant, she squeezed as hard as she could and launched the interloper across the room. With a crash he landed on the kitchen table, the splintering of the wood intermingling with the crack of old, desiccated bones.

  She stood up and took in her surroundings. She didn't recognise anything, which heightened her anxiety all the more to the point that sh
e was in a near blind panic.

  “Urrghh.”

  The creature on the floor stirred, moaning in agony as it tried to move its shattered, useless limbs.

  “Help me,” it said, managing to raise an imploring hand towards her.

  Ancient impulses bent on survival at all costs did not register another sentient being's call for help. The strangled cries for mercy and the outstretched fingers meant only one thing to her addled mind. Threat.

  With only one intention, born of instinct, the need for self-preservation and fear, she crossed the room, swiftly closing down her perceived enemy giving it little or no chance to attack her once more.

  “Please,” it pleaded. Blood dripped from its lips and its breath rattled in its broken chest. “I tried to help you.”

  Once again the words fell on deaf and uncaring, non-understanding ears. As he struggled to breathe, No See Norman felt hands around his throat. Strong, determined hands that tightened like a vice, choking the very life from him.

  “Why?” he managed to force out through his constricted vocal cords. “Why?”

  She squeezed tighter and tighter until eventually, when her strength was all but spent; she felt the body go limp. She relaxed her grip and allowed the lifeless, blue-tinged head to fall to the floor.

  Angry, red finger marks stared at her as if in admonishment, and the dead thing's eyes, although glazed over and still, seemed to mock her, blaming and chastising her for what she had done.

  She rose slowly, surveying the aftermath of her outburst. Unbidden, a tear broke free and trickled down her face as a torrent of emotion threatened to sweep her away. Suddenly, she bolted for the door, crashing through it and into the harsh, uncaring night-time world of the forest.

  “NOOOOOOOOO” she cried, the enormity of what she had done hitting her straight between her misty, bleary eyes. Hands clasped to her temples, she shook her head back and forth, whimpering, as if the action would shake free the images plaguing her, releasing her from the shackles of responsibility.

  Oboe took off at full speed into the welcoming blackness that the woods afforded, aiming to put as much distance between herself and her foul deed as possible.

  As she ran, she cried.

  * * *

  “Did you hear that?” said Mandrake, waving at the others to stop. “I've never heard anything like it. Sounded awful.”

  “Was Oboe,” said Flug. “She sad.”

  “Do you really think it was her?” said Ollie to no one in particular. He was listening out in case the sound came again.

  “I suppose it could have been,” said Stitches, trying to ascertain where it had come from. “But there are a lot of weird things out here, especially at this time of night. It could be anything from mating swamp toads to a pissed off ghost.”

  “Well, whatever it was,” said Mandrake, “it came from that direction.”

  “Okay, well we definitely need to check it out,” said Ollie. “It might be nothing, but you never know. If Oboe's in trouble we should get there as quick as we can.”

  “Tis, Oboe,” said Flug adamantly, striding forth into the trees. “She sad. Me goin' to help her.”

  A good (or bad depending on your point of view) fifteen minutes later, Flug stumbled down an incline and landed boots first in a freezing cold stream.

  “It cold,” he said, tramping through to the other bank. Once there he stamped his feet causing a minor landslide and releasing about four gallons of water from his comedy sized footwear. “Noise comin' from dis way,” he continued, pointing determinedly.

  “He seems pretty sure,” said Ollie, tiptoeing through the water like a ballet dancer. “Good grief that's freezing.” (Only full blood vampires have a problem with water. It makes them bubble and squirm and go all squidgy, and leaves them rather melty looking. It was similar to putting a frog in a kettle. Ollie's human DNA, though, allowed him the luxury of being able to enjoy all of the wonders that H2O had to offer, the highlight of which was a bubble bath every Friday night. His favourite at the moment was Jasmine, infused with a hint of Asian Lily).

  “I reckon he's right,” said Mandrake. “That's certainly where I thought the noise came from.” He was next to immerse his lower portions into the frigid stream. “Bloody Hell! I think that's the coldest thing I've ever felt. And I'm married.”

  Stitches reached the other side of the stream, not a single drop of water on his feet.

  “Losers,” he mocked. “You should have used the stepping stones.” He started to laugh. Unfortunately, his merriment distracted him and he didn't see the large branch lying on the floor directly in his path. As he stepped on its leading edge it shot upright and clunked him on the head with a resounding THWACK. He stumbled backwards, arms spinning like a windmill in a hurricane, legs going up and down like a crazy sprinter, and mouth going like the world swearing champion.

  SPLASH!

  “Well, I think that's six point two for execution, three for difficultly, but only point seven for presentation. You should have worn your rubber ring,” said Ollie.

  A very wet and soggy zombie clambered onto the bank. He didn't look his usual self. In fact he looked twice his usual self.

  “Oh no,” he wailed, as his clothes expanded and threatened to burst at the seams. “I've soaked it all up.”

  He tried to walk but only managed a couple of heavy steps before he fell forward in a bloated, squishy heap.

  “I suppose you think this is funny?” his muffled voice said.

  “Course not,” said Mandrake, stuffing a fist into his mouth.

  “Oh, good Lord no,” said Ollie, knowing now what a fluid filled balloon would look like if it had legs.

  “Flug. Stitches need a hug before we go any further.”

  The big monster knew exactly what was required of him. He'd had to do the very same thing a couple of months ago when the zombie had annoyed Mrs. Ladle by banging on about her being `a little wide in the broom' to be flying around like a lunatic at all the hours of the day and night. The kindly witch had responded by conjuring up a storm cloud that had followed Stitches around for the next twelve hours. By the time the mini cumulo nimbus had emptied itself Stitches, was stranded in the town square unable to move and sounding like a urinal after a rock festival.

  Flug bent down and lifted Stitches off the forest floor. Even for the big guy it was a bit of a struggle. Not because of the weight but because of the awkwardness of it. It was like trying to manoeuvre a water mattress.

  Flug got him upright and moved Stitches until he had him face to face in a bear hug. Then, flexing his massive muscles, he squeezed. Hard.

  A torrent of fresh stream water pooled in the zombie's feet, swelling them to four or five times their normal size. His shoes popped off and landed near Mandrake, and his socks split and fell to the floor where they lay like deflated slugs. Then, with a loud gush, the pores in the soles of his feet expanded releasing all of the water that had soaked into his system.

  “Oh my God,” moaned Stitches, “that feels sooooo good. That's the equivalent of a giant wee. Or a giant having a wee.”

  Flug put him down again. He looked at Stitches strangely.

  “Your tummy gone funny,” he said. “Look.”

  Stitches gazed down at his midriff.

  “Oh, for goodness sake,” he moaned. His waist had been reduced to about half of what it had been thanks to being rammed into the vice that was Flug's arms. He quickly took hold of his belt to stop his trousers falling down.

  “Do you think you could have squeezed me any harder?” he said to Flug, realising that his belly button was touching his spine.

  “Can do,” said Flug making to pick up Stitches again. “You still got water?”

  “Get out of it,” said the zombie, taking a step back. “I don't want to be crushed out of existence.”

  “How long will that take to pop back to normal?” asked Ollie, convinced that Stitches' head was bigger than it had been a few moments ago.

  “Don't kno
w. I think it was a couple of hours last time.”

  “He looks like a kid's bendy toy,” said Mandrake.

  “I'm glad you're not suicidal anymore, sunshine. What would I do without you?” said Stitches, poking a new hole in his belt with one of his larger needles.

  “Come on,” said Ollie. “Let's find out where that wail came from. If it was Oboe, we might not be too far behind her.”

  They forged on through the forest, until not too far ahead they caught sight of No See Norman's ramshackle hut.

  “I'll bet that's where she is,” said Stitches. “If I was scared, lost and alone in the woods I'd try to find somewhere warm and safe.”

  “I agree,” said Mandrake. “Hello,” he called out. “Is anybody there?”

  “Hello there,” shouted Ollie as well as they approached.

  “Oboe,” bellowed Flug, loud enough to rattle the trees.

  There was no reply from inside the hut or the surrounding woodland.

  “What ho, chaps. Looks like we've all managed to follow the trail here,” announced Crumble as he, Ethan and Kilo exited the forest.

  “How did you find it?” said Ollie. “We heard a loud shout.”

  “Ethan picked up a fresh blood spoor,” said Kilo, “so it was easy, really. We just followed his nose.”

  “Well, he has got a great sense of smell for that sort of thing,” said Stitches. “He can find bones that have been buried for years.”

  “No one will find you when I'm done with you,” snarled the lycan, showing a dazzling set of gnashers.

  Ollie disregarded what they were banging on about and walked up to the front door. It was only when he got up close he noticed that the topmost hinge had been knocked out and the door itself was hanging at an angle.

  “Guys,” he said. “Something's not quite right here.”

  Ethan joined him at the entrance and unobtrusively placed himself in front of Ollie, who just as unobtrusively gave way. He wasn't a coward by any stretch of the imagination but Ethan was bigger, stronger and faster than him, so it made sense that he should venture into this particular unknown first.

  “Where, Oboe?” said Flug.