Gustav Gloom and the Castle of Fear

by Adam-Troy Castro

  Aware that there might be any number of spies planted among the thousands of other shadows trapped in this dungeon, Pearlie lowered her voice. “Then what were you doing among the refugees fleeing the Dark Country? Why did you go with us when Gustav asked that mob for help?”

  Anemone lowered her voice, too, and leaned closer to Pearlie and Mr. What. “Two reasons, dear. First, your unfortunate arrival in the Dark Country interrupted another very important mission of mine, one so vital it could change the entire course of the war: helping my friend Caliban here sneak past enemy lines and into Lord Obsidian’s castle, to complete an urgent mission of his own.”

  Pearlie’s shadow gave the mysterious Caliban, whose face was still lost in the blackness under his hood, an impressed look. “You must be pretty important.”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m not. It’s defeating Obsidian that’s important.”

  Anemone patted his wrist. “You are important, dear. If the fight against Lord Obsidian means anything, it’s that everybody’s important, and not just the beings who seize power and declare their wants and needs more important than anybody else’s.

  “In any event,” she continued, “getting Caliban into the castle was considered so crucial that when Cousin Cyrus contacted me to say that the two of you had fallen into the Pit and were on your way to the Dark Country, I couldn’t spare the time to go and rescue you myself; I had to invoke one of Cyrus’s many debts to me and pledge him to rush to your side instead.”

  “He was unpleasant about it,” Pearlie admitted, “but he did do everything he could to help.”

  “Cousin Cyrus is always unpleasant about paying his debts,” Anemone said, “but he can be trusted to pay them, as you would know very well if you ever worked out a way for him to owe you something.”

  Pearlie, who had indeed worked out a way for Cousin Cyrus to owe her something, and had made brilliant use of that debt, said only, “I know.”

  “A while later I got another message from the world of light, this one sent by the house’s terrible butler, Hives. According to him, Gustav and Fernie had found the Cryptic Carousel and had embarked on a journey to rescue you two. I wasn’t happy to hear that. I would have preferred for Gustav and Fernie to stay out of danger. But as long as they were on their way, I hoped to reunite them with you, Pearlie, and send all of you back home on the carousel, after a stern talking-to.”

  Pearlie said, “But Dad had been captured by then. Sending us away would have meant making us run away before we could even try to rescue him.”

  “That,” Mr. What said, “would have been perfectly all right with me.”

  “But not with me,” Pearlie said. “And not with Fernie and not with Gustav, who had his own dad to think of.”

  “I’ve never met Gustav’s dad,” Mr. What told her, sadly, “but I think I can speak for him and for all dads when I assure you he would have been okay with all of you running away, too. That’s the way being a dad works, honey.”

  There was a moment of silence as Pearlie considered arguing with this, felt just as strongly that it had been right to attempt a rescue, and understood that what her father had said was correct, too. It wasn’t an argument worth having. She looked at Anemone and said, “But you didn’t catch up with us in time, did you?”

  “No,” Anemone said. “Caliban and I ran into some trouble on our way out of the Dark Country, and didn’t catch up with any of you until Gustav had already sent the Cryptic Carousel away. After that, the only hope of saving any of you from a lifetime of imprisonment in this lightless world was to follow you . . . and do what we could to make sure that you got to meet up with the carousel again. That included making sure that Cousin Cyrus didn’t quit on you in all that time. When we were together, on our way to Shadow’s Inn, he always knew who I really was, and that I was watching him for any sign of betrayal.”

  “You still pretended you didn’t know us,” Pearlie said accusingly. “You still pretended you weren’t interested in helping us.”

  Anemone nodded. “That’s because, as much as I couldn’t help worrying about you, I still had my other mission to think of. I still had Caliban with me, and still had to get him into Lord Obsidian’s castle undetected. I didn’t dare confide in you, because the shadow who then called himself Olaf was with us, and I didn’t trust him at all. I didn’t know he was Nebuchadnezzar, but I still suspected he was up to no good. It wouldn’t have been smart to let somebody I suspected of being a spy know who I really was and why I was there.”

  There was nothing Pearlie could say to that.

  Anemone continued. “The mission was why we also had those three nameless shadows with us. You’ve probably forgotten them by now, as they didn’t do or say much while we were all together on that long walk to Shadow’s Inn. But they were my messengers, with orders to run back and alert the resistance if we ever ran into trouble, got ourselves captured, or for that matter, succeeded in our mission.

  “I had to order two of them back to headquarters when you found yourselves facing a hungry gnarfle, because Caliban and I couldn’t stay out of that fight; we were duty-bound to help you. But the third one would have stayed behind and watched from a distance to confirm that the raiders from the zippalin took us. No doubt he brought back word of that, as well.

  “Now,” she concluded at last, “everybody on our side of the war knows that we’ve made it to Lord Obsidian’s castle. They’ll all be awaiting word that Caliban’s completed his mission. But when they do, they’ll launch a full-scale attack.”

  Not-Roger’s shadow whistled. “That must be some mission.”

  “Of a sort,” said Anemone. “You must realize that this is a war like any other. Even if this is one of those exceptionally rare uncomplicated wars where there’s a side that’s pretty much good and another that’s pretty much bad, people everywhere tend to fight harder when there’s something to believe in, some flag they can rally behind. In this case, most of the shadows of the Dark Country have spent so much time being beaten into thinking that Lord Obsidian is this great big unbeatable monster who nobody could ever possibly oppose and survive, that they’ve lost hope. They need reminding of the one man who Lord Obsidian ever regarded with fear.”

  Pearlie, Pearlie’s shadow, Not-Roger, and Not-Roger’s shadow all spoke the name in unison. “Hans Gloom.”

  They were all looking at one another in wonder and amazement when Mr. What, who’d been listening to Anemone’s story with the air of a man who wasn’t successfully following much of it, said, “You mean, Gustav’s father?”

  “The very man,” Caliban confirmed.

  “But if he’s been a prisoner for so many years . . . then he’s already been defeated. Even if he’s alive, he’s got to be a wreck by now! There’s no guarantee that he’s still the man he was!”

  “He is,” Caliban said. “I know.”

  The hooded shadow put so much weight on the word, so much faith, that there was clearly no point in further arguing. Clearly, the plan, vague as it was, would either be enough, or not. Either way, Pearlie realized, it had to be tried. The alternative was just continuing to sit around and wait, hoping for a rescue that might never come.

  It was Mr. What who stood first. “Okay, then. If that’s the way it has to be, then point me at the person I have to fight and tell me how I have to fight him.”

  Pearlie could hardly believe she’d heard that from the man so obsessed with safety that he’d once advocated Bubble-Wrap wallpaper to prevent people from accidentally hurting themselves in small rooms, but there he was, making fists, looking fierce, and demanding an enemy to face.

  She got up and stood beside him. “Yeah,” she said, and taking a deep breath, spoke the words that she suddenly knew would from now on be remembered as the family battle cry: “We’ll show ’em what’s What.”

  Gulping, Not-Roger rose to his feet, as well, and nervously took his own po
sition beside the father and daughter, wearing the expression of a man who had done without a cause to fight for longer than most people even get to live. His size and heft should have made him more fearsome than any of the other flesh-and-blood folk around him, but they really didn’t. He looked like a fellow who had joined the army because the army had formed around him and the only alternative was allowing it to leave him behind. But he did his best, looking a little reassured when his shadow rushed to his side and grew large to make him look extra fierce.

  As Pearlie’s shadow and Mr. What’s shadow also joined their respective people, Anemone and Caliban rose to face them, and the beautiful young shadow woman offered the most dazzling smile that Pearlie had ever seen on her. It was a smile very much like the indulgent one Pearlie remembered seeing on the face of the shadow Anemone really was, the much older-looking woman Pearlie knew as Great-Aunt Mellifluous . . . and it was just as warm, just as comforting.

  Anemone reached beneath the folds of her gown and brought out a glowing object, so beautiful in its welcome familiarity that Pearlie almost cried out in joy.

  It was a key.

  Anemone even said, “There’s a secret passage out of this dungeon . . .”

  It would have been absolutely terrific had she been given the chance to finish what she was saying.

  But Anemone didn’t get to describe what no doubt would have been a brilliant plan.

  She didn’t even get to speak another word before the ceiling opened up directly over their heads and the shadow guard known as Krawg, leading a platoon of Lord Obsidian’s minions, announced, “Well, it certainly is helpful to see you all in the same place. It saves us the trouble of collecting you individually . . .”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Fernie Loses Her Mind

  Between them, the What girls had been taken prisoner an awful lot this summer vacation.

  Fernie didn’t know exactly how her sister felt about it, but speaking just for herself, it was getting old.

  The guards had leashed Fernie and Mr. Gloom, and stuffed Penny’s shadow into a glass jar, but these precautions were unimportant. The fact was, there were more than twenty guards, and the chances of pulling off a successful escape from them was just about zero, so all she could do was march along looking angry. This she did very well. If irate facial expressions could be bottled as ultimate weapons, the one she wore—as Gnulbotz and his platoon escorted her, Penny’s shadow, and Hans Gloom through the halls of Obsidian’s castle—would have laid waste to entire countries.

  The corridors they marched through now were narrow, reeking places, more like sewers than dungeons, though there were cells even here. Forlorn faces, some human, some shadow, and some far stranger things, peered through the barred windows of the iron doors, looking like they now had no purpose in their lives other than standing at those windows and looking like they had no other purpose in their lives. Things that looked like torches burned in the narrow section of wall between each set of doors—but what they burned with was not fire, only a form of darkness a little less impenetrable than the darkness all around them.

  Fernie managed to glance back at Hans Gloom and noted that he wore no facial expression at all; he just stumbled along with his mouth hanging open, a thin layer of drool escaping from his slack lips. She didn’t understand why he was doing that until Gnulbotz chuckled, and said, “See, girl? I told you, earlier today. Nobody can spend any amount of time in the Screaming Room without losing his mind. This poor rotter’s head doesn’t even have a pair of marbles to rattle together. He’s nothing but an empty sack now, and that’s the truth. What do you think of that?”

  Fernie understood then that Hans was wearing the expression the guards expected of a man who had been confined to the Screaming Room for so long, because he wanted to hide just how much he really was his old self. It struck her as something she should try herself. So she retorted, “You think you’re so smart? Well, elephants.”

  Gnulbotz’s eyebrows knit together. “Excuse me?”

  “You can imprison my body, but you’ll never coffee pot geranium.”

  Gnulbotz grimaced, leaving one of the little maggots who lived in his teeth protruding between his upper and lower lips. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re getting at, little lady.”

  Fernie thrust out her lower jaw and declared, “As long as there’s even one person willing to stand up and fight for our freedom, you’ll never platypus toilet bowl reverberating golf ball. Never ever EVER, you vibrating nose faucet.”

  Gnulbotz looked as if he was about to protest that Fernie still wasn’t making any sense, when an explanation occurred to him and he glanced at Mr. Gloom with something approaching awe. “Less than an hour,” he marveled. “It’s like I warned you, nobody’s mind survives the Screaming Room for long.”

  “Cuticle mystery,” Fernie declared, with special angry emphasis.

  Gnulbotz didn’t try to talk to her much after that, but instead chuckled to himself every once in a while, whenever Fernie twitched and spat out a “Liquid screwdriver” or “Elementary penguin,” just to keep up the illusion. She took Hans Gloom’s lead and let her mouth hang open so she could drool and murmur to herself and continue to look as thoroughly demented as possible.

  She almost dropped the ploy when the dark corridor they traveled joined another, and Gnulbotz’s platoon of guards met another led by a hulking shadow with a pair of the smelliest feet Fernie had ever encountered. Other guards carried shadow prisoners in glass jars, and led human prisoners on leashes, and while Fernie could not tell who the shadow prisoners were because they didn’t look like anything more than swirling clouds of darkness on their side of the glass, she had no trouble recognizing Not-Roger, her sister, and her father.

  As much as Fernie’s heart soared at the sight, and as much as she wanted to weep with happiness while crying out their names, she forced herself to maintain her blank-eyed, slack-jawed expression. “Why, who are these other neon centipedes?”

  Mr. What struggled to break free of his leash. “Fernie! What’s wrong with you? Don’t you recognize us?”

  Gnulbotz showed his nasty teeth, filled with little squirming creatures. “Don’t waste your time, fool. Her mind’s been completely destroyed by the Screaming Room.”

  “No!” Mr. What cried. “I refuse to believe it! Speak to me, Fernie! Tell me that’s still you in there!”

  Gnulbotz cackled. “I tell you, you should save yourselves the effort. She doesn’t remember any part of her previous life.”

  Fernie rolled her eyes at her father, managing a wink she could only hope he noticed, as she steered her insane gibberish toward references her father and sister might recognize. “Fluorescent Salmon house. Safety expert father. Famous adventurer mother. Frankenstein monster-head slippers. Harrington’s noogums.”

  In the silence that followed, Gnulbotz beamed with contentment. “See? I told you. Not one word of that made any sense at all.”

  “And furthermore,” Fernie said, “safety railings.”

  Pearlie got it first. She bit back what threatened to become one of the widest grins of her young life, and managed to plaster a grief-stricken grimace on her face instead.

  Then Mr. What figured it out, too. He cried, “Oh, my poor daughter!” He had never been a particularly good actor, and his attempt at a display of grief was a fine explanation for his failure to get cast in any of the community theater productions for which he’d ever auditioned. But none of the guards seemed to notice.

  Fernie went on mumbling nonsense and rolling her head insanely as the shadow guards led her family up a flight of stairs, outside, and onto walkways very much like the castle walls she and her fellow prisoners had been forced to walk earlier. As before, some of the courtyards below remained crowded with prisoners both human and shadow, penned into spaces too small for them. Another was now the cage of a gnarfle, happily munching away
as one screaming shadow after another slid into its pen on a chute. Yet another looked like a pool of filthy water, except that shadow faces kept rising through the murk and crying for release before tentacles from below wrapped around them and pulled them back down. Fernie ached to ask questions about these and some of the other things she saw, but asking a question that made sense would have ruined her current disguise as a crazy person, so she refrained, hoping Pearlie or her dad would ask those questions for her. Unfortunately, neither one of them seemed to be in the mood to ask questions.

  Then she spotted their apparent destination, a vast platform the size of a football field, balanced on what appeared to be the outermost wall of the castle, upon which a large number of faceless shadows and human servants of Lord Obsidian stood together. The dozens of humans were scarred and lumpy folks of the sort who looked like they were held together by their collection of dirt. They were all equipped with swords, though their smiles made it clear that the same could not be said of teeth. There were just as many shadows, all figures like Krawg and Gnulbotz, beings who seemed to take being disgusting as a matter of personal pride.

  One being taller than all the rest, by about the height of a house, stood in their center, and Fernie’s heart skipped a beat when she recognized the face in the center of the crescent-shaped head as a version of the one that had once belonged to a man named Howard Philip October. He made his way through the crowd, idly brushing one of his long misshapen hands on the shoulder of one of his human guards on the way, and that human shuddered and withered and fell to the ground as a dry husk, in the course of less than a second.

  Fernie wanted to cry out in horror, as her father and sister were, but that would have revealed that her mind was still working, so she simply flashed a goofy grin and exclaimed, “Moo cows!”

  Hans Gloom said nothing about what they had witnessed, but instead murmured something just as insane.