Krankenstein's Crazy House of Horror

by Jeremy Strong

  This is The Stitcher and her sidekick, Grumpfart. She has an evil plan to take revenge on the world!

  Can Charlie and Ben survive the House of Horror and stop her?

  Jeremy Strong once worked in a bakery, putting the jam into three thousand doughnuts every night. Now he puts the jam in stories instead, which he finds much more exciting. At the age of three, he fell out of a first-floor bedroom window and landed on his head. His mother says that this damaged him for the rest of his life and refuses to take any responsibility. He loves writing stories because he says it is ‘the only time you alone have complete control and can make anything happen’. His ambition is to make you laugh (or at least snuffle). Jeremy Strong lives near Bath with his wife, Gillie, four cats and a flying cow.

  Are you feeling silly enough to read more?

  THE BATTLE FOR CHRISTMAS

  (A Cosmic Pyjamas Adventure)

  THE BEAK SPEAKS

  BEWARE! KILLER TOMATOES

  CHICKEN SCHOOL

  DINOSAUR POX

  GIANT JIM AND THE HURRICANE

  THE HUNDRED-MILE-AN-HOUR DOG

  KRAZY COW SAVES THE WORLD – WELL, ALMOST

  LOST! THE HUNDRED-MILE-AN-HOUR DOG

  MY BROTHER’S FAMOUS BOTTOM

  MY BROTHER’S HOT CROSS BOTTOM

  THERE’S A PHARAOH IN OUR BATH!

  JEREMY STRONG’S LAUGH-YOUR-SOCKS-OFF

  JOKE BOOK

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  puffinbooks.com

  First published 2009

  Text copyright © Jeremy Strong, 2009

  Illustrations copyright © Rowan Clifford, 2009

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of

  trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent

  in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition

  including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN: 978-0-14-191012-3

  Thanks to all my family for the laughter,

  the meals, the advice (even if I didn’t want any!)

  and their great company over many years.

  You have given me everything The Stitcher never had.

  Contents

  1. A Bit Before the Beginning

  2. The Stitcher and a Volcano on Legs

  3. Back to the Soup Bowl…

  4. The Grub Tub

  5. The Freak in the Fridge

  6. The Monster Munch

  7. Rescued?

  8. I Spy, With My Little Eye, The Stitcher’s Spy

  9. Pizza-Face Loses His Head

  10. The Rebellion Begins

  11. Explosions, Fanfares and, Finally – KRANKENSTEIN!

  12. The Stitcher Gets Cooking

  12 and a bit. The Stitcher Gets Cooking

  1 A Bit Before the Beginning

  ‘Crumblebag lives in a cave,’ sniggered Charlie, but his great pal Ben shook his head.

  ‘No, in a wheelie bin,’ he declared. ‘It’s all dark and wet and smelly inside and she eats worms and earwiggy things that hide in the slime and she makes her clothes out of rotten cabbage leaves. That’s why she stinks of cabbage.’

  It was a good thing that Mrs Rumble (commonly known in school as Crumblebag) couldn’t hear the two boys, because Mrs Rumble was their teacher. She certainly didn’t live in a cave or a wheelie bin and she didn’t eat worms and grubs either. However, she did smell of cabbage, which was unfortunate but true.

  Ben was staying with Charlie for the weekend. He liked Charlie’s house because it was a bit manic. This was probably because Charlie had three sisters, all younger than him. Between them, the three sisters produced the same kind of energy you might find at an explosion in a firework factory. Ben was a bit manic himself so he fitted into the general pattern pretty well.

  It was Charlie who was different. He preferred a quiet life, without surprises. Beneath a frantic nest of unruly black hair he had large, startled eyes. Charlie was startled by many things. A bird flying past in the distance might well cause a sharp exclamation – ‘Ooh!’ – as if he’d just escaped being carried off by a blackbird and being fed to her young. (In Charlie’s imagination blackbirds were obviously the size of aircraft.)

  Ben, on the other hand, was always dashing around as if his pants were on fire, which did actually happen to him once, but that’s another story. He was always getting in and, sometimes, out of trouble. If Charlie’s sisters were like a firework explosion then Ben was the biggest banger among them. His mother liked it when Ben went to stay at Charlie’s because it gave her with some peace and quiet for a change.

  Now the two boys were spending the weekend together and they were facing a big problem. Mrs Rumble had set some homework for the whole class.

  ‘I want you all to write a story,’ she had told her disgruntled brood of ten-year-olds. ‘We’ve written made-up stories and now I want you to write a true story, about yourselves.’

  Charlie had gone home with the grumps. That was a bad thing, considering it was Friday and he had the whole weekend ahead, so he should have been as happy as a cheetah with rollerblades. But by the time they were getting ready for bed Charlie had worked himself into a real blue mood.

  ‘I’ve got nothing to write about,’ he complained to Ben. ‘Nothing interesting ever happens.’

  Ben began leaping up and down on Charlie’s bed, trying to make his head touch the ceiling. ‘Why not write a story about child slaves in Victorian times? You know, like Mrs Crumble was telling us in assembly the other day. And Charles Dickens could come along and save them all, like Superman, only with a top hat and a big beard.’

  Charlie rolled his eyes. ‘Charles Dickens was not a superhero, he was just a Victorian writer.’

  ‘Yeah, but he still went and helped stop child slavery,’ insisted Ben.

  ‘He didn’t wear his underpants on top of his trousers and whizz through the air, did he?’ Charlie argued.

  ‘Didn’t say he did,’ Ben answered. ‘I said he was like Superman. Didn’t say he was.’

  Charlie shook his head and refused to cheer up. ‘It wouldn’t be a true story, though, would it?’

  ‘Well, it would, sort of. Ow!’ Ben had finally hit the ceiling. He sat down heavily on Charlie’s bed.

  ‘Anyhow,’ Charlie grumbled, ‘Crumblebag said it had to be a true story about me. I’m not an ancient Victorian
. I’m just me in the twenty-first century and, like I said, nothing interesting ever happens to me.’

  Ben grinned. ‘Crumblebag didn’t say it had to be interesting.’

  ‘What’s the point of writing a story if it’s not interesting?’ Charlie moaned.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ insisted his friend. ‘She just said true. Just write something you did.’

  ‘Great. So I’ll put this then: One day I went home from school. Then I had some tea. It was fish and chips. Then I watched some television. Then I went upstairs. I got into bed. Then I went to sleep. The End.’

  Ben grinned. ‘Exactly. It’s a true story. But you missed out what happened after that.’

  ‘What do you mean? Nothing happened afterwards,’ Charlie grumbled.

  ‘Of course it did. You showed Crumblebag your story and she told you off for being boring and starting sentences with “then”.’ Ben grinned at Charlie.

  ‘Ha ha, very funny. You know what I mean, it’s not a story. Nothing happens. Things happen in proper stories.’

  Ben shrugged and said that he had plenty to write about. ‘Things are always happening to me,’ he claimed.

  Charlie ignored him. That didn’t help at all. He struggled into the new pyjamas his mother had bought him.

  ‘Whoa!’ cried Ben, who was now attempting a complete mid-air somersault on Charlie’s bed. He came crashing down on his back. ‘What are you WEARING? They are WEIRD!’

  ‘No they’re not, they’re cool,’ said Charlie defensively.

  ‘Yeah, AND weird! What are all those pictures meant to be?’

  Charlie answered with a shrug and together they peered at all the little pictures that covered the pyjamas from top to toe.

  ‘Where did you get them?’ asked Ben. ‘I want a pair. They’re great. I LOVE those pics!’

  ‘Mum got them from a charity shop. She says they’re Cosmic Pyjamas. That’s what the label inside reckons.’

  ‘Cosmic Pyjamas,’ Ben repeated softly, examining the pictures more closely. ‘Weird. There are planets and little people, houses, castles, animals and kings, forests and pyramids and mountains and everything.’

  ‘I know,’ nodded Charlie, and he quietly added that looking at the pictures sometimes made his spine tingle.

  ‘Tingle?’ Ben glanced at his friend. ‘That’s –’

  ‘Weird!’ they chorused, setting about each other with Charlie’s pillows, until Charlie suddenly clutched Ben’s arm.

  ‘Stop! Look!’

  ‘What?’

  Charlie pointed at his left leg. His eyes were almost popping out of his head. The colour had drained from his face and he was as white as a pickled egg.

  ‘The picture moved,’ he croaked.

  ‘What picture?’ asked Ben.

  ‘That one. The dark house.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. Pictures don’t move.’ Ben pushed his friend jokily but Charlie didn’t smile.

  ‘It moved, Ben. I saw it. Definitely.’

  The two boys bent over the pyjamas, staring at the picture. Ben knew that Charlie was easily panicked and he gently teased him.

  ‘It looks like a haunted house to me,’ he said casually, giving Charlie a nudge. ‘It’s a creepy heapy full of sneaky beakies!’

  ‘I’m not listening,’ Charlie said. ‘You’re just trying to wind me up.’

  Ben sat up straight. ‘It’s only a picture on your pyjamas, Charlie. It’s cool.’

  But Charlie didn’t think it was cool at all. He didn’t like haunted houses, and he certainly didn’t like having pictures that moved on his pyjamas.

  ‘So what did it do that was so scary?’ asked Ben.

  ‘It sort of wriggled, like it was shivering.’

  Ben grinned and studied the house once more. He wiggled his fingers and dropped his voice as low as possible. ‘It’s the Haunted House of Jelly, and it’s Terribly Jellibly Smelly,’ he murmured and then, as he finished – Fwissssssss! A tiny bolt of lightning briefly lit the dark clouds behind the house.

  Ben leaped back as if he’d been bitten. ‘Wow! Did you see that?’

  Charlie nodded. His heart was pounding and his throat so dry he couldn’t speak. This was getting way too creepy. But Ben was fascinated. He bent over the pyjamas once more. Another flash of lightning slammed between the clouds, lighting up the mysterious mansion.

  ‘It did it again!’ cried Ben. ‘There was a flash of lightning right there!’ he yelled, stabbing a finger at Charlie’s leg.

  BANGG! KERRANNGGG!!

  PHWOOOOOSSHHH!!!

  The moment he touched the picture the world disappeared – at least that’s what it seemed like to the boys. In an instant they found themselves tumbling through space, with giant lightning bolts of sizzling colour shooting around them as they clung to each other, screaming with fear. On and on they went, falling, spinning, arms and legs flailing until suddenly –

  WHUMMPPP! OUCH!!

  KER-SPLOSSHHH!!!

  Charlie went sprawling across a slippery floor, while Ben found himself plunging head first into a giant basin full of tomato soup.

  2 The Stitcher and a Volcano on Legs

  An old woman sat hunched and silent at a large desk. She was as old as a mummified octopus, so old her skin was wrinkled and crinkled from top to toe. Only a few scrags of cobwebbed hair remained on her ancient skull. Her nose was small and flat and her crabby mouth had almost no teeth, just a sprinkling of wobbly, mottled brown stumps. Everything about her seemed to have been made from secrets and shadows, cobwebs and dust.

  The old woman was sitting in a motorized wheelchair. She had built it herself, adapting an old tea-trolley. She sat on the top tray, like some strange, large cake, with legs dangling over the front. An electric motor took up most of the bottom tray. Arranged around her were all sorts of controls.

  As for the desk, it was piled high with scissors and knives, reels of thread, needles, pins and rolls of sticky tape. Mixed in with all this was a jumble of electrics – small motors, TV tuners, wiring, hard-drives and umpteen other nerdy bits from cannibalized computers.

  And then sticking out from among this ragbag of bits and bobs were –

  WARNING!

  If you’re squeamish,

  don’t read this bit!

  – BODY PARTS. Urrggh! Arms, legs, feet, hands, fingers, toes, heads, ears, noses, eyeballs – the whole lot.

  Every so often the old hag would start muttering and rummage through the pile, scattering junk in her wild search. With a half-mad, crow-like cry, she would pounce on an eyeball or maybe a big toe, hold it up, squint at it and settle to work with needle and thread.

  What was she doing? She was MAKING MONSTERS! (It was a bit like Lego, but with very different results.)

  She was sewing them together, bit by bit – an arm here, a leg there.

  Who was she? THE STITCHER!

  This dark, dingy dungeon was her home, a cavernous ruin full of creaks and groans, hidden corners, uncountable rooms and endless, crumbling corridors. For years she had sat there, making more and more monsters, while her eyesight grew worse and worse.

  It was a shame about her eyes. She had done so much close work she could no longer see properly and she often made mistakes. Her stitching was pretty useless too.

  In fact, SHE SIMPLY WASN’T MUCH GOOD AT MAKING MONSTERS.

  One monster had both legs on back to front and couldn’t see where he was going. Another had one leg facing frontwards and the other facing backwards and could only shuffle round in a small circle. There was an ogre that had a wiggly hand where an ear should have been.

  And then there was that shoddy stitching. It was always coming undone. The monsters were falling apart at the seams. Every so often someone’s head would fall off and roll across the floor, or maybe it would be their nose, a hand, or a leg – in which case they’d probably topple over. Or perhaps an eyeball would pop out at breakfast and land in someone’s cereal.

  They would have to drag themselves back to The Sti
tcher and she would sew them up again, until the next time they fell apart.

  The Stitcher turned to her trusty helper, Grumpfart. Poor Grumpfart – her smell was worse than the most ancient lavatory. Her insides were constantly bubbling and boiling. Every so often there would be an enormous eruption and a volcanic burp would explode from one end, usually accompanied by a stinking gas blast from the other. The Stitcher was the only person who could put up with her, possibly because The Stitcher had lost her sense of smell. (And a good thing that was too, because The Stitcher’s body odour was not exactly like a flower meadow.)

  Now Grumpfart sidled up to her mistress, enveloped as usual in a cloud of poisonous stench. She stood there, a quivering volcano shuddering with mini explosions, belches and hiccups.

  ‘What shall I –’ HICC! – ‘do?’ SPPPPPPPRRRRRRR!

  ‘Turn on the particle-synthesizer. It is time to bring this one to life,’ rasped The Stitcher. She gazed down at the lifeless creation lying across her lap and smiled. ‘There, I only have to fit your new brain and then you’ll be ready. Hmmmm. And maybe this time I’ll have succeeded in removing the Scare Reactor.’

  Grumpfart went across to the synthesizer, fizzing and steaming with every step. The big machine was plugged in and powered up. A red light on top began to flash. ‘The particle-synthe–’ SPPRRRGH! – ‘synthe–’ SPPRRRGH! – ‘synthe–’ SPPRRRGH! – ‘synthesizer is weady, mistwess.’

  The old crone rummaged through the pile on her desk until she found a large saucepan which she connected to the wires on the synthesizer. This would keep the electrical charge circulating in the monster’s body. She propped up the monster in her chair and rammed the pan down on the monster’s head.

  The Stitcher smiled. ‘Hmmm. It’s time for you to awake, my sweet!’ she crooned, and flicked the switch. Blue sparks zizzed from the plug. The machine began to hum and whirr, getting louder and higher until it was almost screaming. The Stitcher pressed the big red flashing button on top of the synthesizer and at the same moment flung herself beneath her desk.