Wuthering Frights

By Tony Lewis

What happened to Grendle The Shopkeeper?

Narrowly missing a splat of ectoplasm - or Bernard, as he was more commonly known - Ronnie entered the shop to the clanging of the little silver bell.

His brow furrowed as he absently scratched his cheek. Grendle the shopkeeper always came out after the tolling of the first bell. Always.

Later on, the local press interviews the Skullenian residents after an incident at the fountain: a happy young couple has discovered a cadaver while taking a moonlit stroll through the cemetery.

What links the strange events? Is anything else going to happen? Can I write any more of this nonsense without giving the game away?

Someone's going to have find out what's going on, and in Skullenia that can only mean one thing: Ollie and the boys have another puzzle to solve.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Dec 11, 2021
• ISBN: 4824116201

Book preview

Wuthering Frights

Skullenia Book 3

Tony Lewis

Copyright (C) 2017 Tony Lewis

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

For Mum and Dad who let me read horror stories when I was seven

Wuthering Frights

Flug was tired. Extremely tired. In fact, he was so tired that the three or four viable brain cells that he had left in his spacious dome had gathered straw and provisions, gone into hibernation, and wouldn't be likely to return to active duty much before the next millennium. Or any other gargantuan time span you'd cared to mention for that matter. Flug functioned on a time scale that made geological epochs seem a bit hasty you see, and the fact that he'd been standing on the office roof with his arms in the air for about five hours now, meant that he'd pretty much had enough when all things were considered (not that he considered many things of course. If asked to chew and walk at the same time he'd probably have a stroke and then have to pick the food off the bottom of his shoes whilst wondering why he had gravel in his mouth).

Stitches, he said, managing to instil a pleading tone into his deep, bass voice. Can me stop now?

The zombie looked down from the chair that he was standing on and pulled a face. Not his actual face of course because that would have come off in his hand. So would his hand.

Just give it a little while longer, big fellah. I nearly had it then.

The zombie reached up and carefully adjusted the coat hanger that he'd attached to the bolt in Flug's forehead. This, in turn, was connected via a length of wire to a small black and white television that was sat on the floor next to Flug's feet. At that precise moment, the ancient visual device was displaying nothing except a violent snowstorm, although there were probably adverts still being shown for really useful things like food (who'd have thought we needed that?), expensive cars that only a footballer could afford (and drive if he could figure out how to get in it), and Christmas stuff (well, it is July you know).

Just hold still now, said the zombie. We're nearly there.

About a week ago Stitches had found the old TV dumped in a bin at the rear of Mrs Strudels café, and he'd come up with the brilliant idea that if Flug was capable of picking up radio waves then logically he should be able to pick up a television signal as well. Unfortunately, Stitches' grasp of electronics, visual equipment, and how to utilise them and their various applications effectively, was the equivalent of a Roman Catholic priests understanding of the basic concepts of religion. In other words, he didn't have a bloody clue. Consequently, poor old Flug had spent most of the last six days standing on the roof come rain or shine (mostly rain) like a vast meat aerial. He'd also suffered the soul crushing indignity of having various bits of metalwork stuck to his face in a vain attempt to boost his reception capabilities. Forks, spoons, screwdrivers, hammers, and any other item of kitchen or garage paraphernalia that you'd care to mention had ended up stuck to him at some point over the last week or so. The anvil had been particularly hard work, especially when it had fallen off Flug's head, rolled onto Stitches' foot and left three of his toes looking like four-day old porridge.

Despite his best efforts though it was never going to work, because what Stitches had failed to realise was the fact that Skullenia was in something of a sound and vision wave black hole. For some unknown reason signals of any description had trouble getting in or out of the village no matter how hard you, or your equipment tried. It was bad enough trying to send a text message from one side of the square to the other let alone the next village over. In fact, it would have been quicker to use a carrier bat. Even quicker if you used a live one. You might as well be trying to get a signal from the outer reaches of the solar system to be honest. Or on T Mobile, the chances were about the same.

Stitches me tired. Me want sweeties now.

Just as he was about to plead with Flug for five more minutes, a crackle and a loud whoosh from above distracted the zombie, throwing his delicate coat hanger array awry.

Stitches, called Mrs. Ladle as she swooped and arced like a demented swallow. What on earth are you trying to do to that poor boy?

Isn't it obvious? replied the zombie.

To a mental patient perhaps, she said, deftly landing on the roof and dismounting. But not to any sane person.

Well that leaves…

Easy now, sunshine, said the witch. Don't you go taking advantage of my good nature there's a good chap. She made a show of checking her pockets. I know I've got one somewhere, and it wouldn't take kindly to having someone taking the mick out of it. Come to think of it I seem to remember it's on my mantle-piece next to my grandfather's eyes and my mother's sense of decorum.

She helped Flug divest himself of several bits of metal and handed him a packet of sweets.

Oooh, Fruity Flanges. My faverits. Fanks, Mrs. L.

He lumbered off cramming as many as he could get into his mouth as was inhumanly possible, which was a lot.

Now, before you start moaning and groaning like a grumpy zombie, said the witch to a disgruntled looking zombie who was just about to start moaning and groaning like a grumpy zombie, just take a moment or two to think about what you've been doing to that unfortunate lad. You've taken terrible advantage of him as you well know.

Yeah, but that's the brilliance of it, said Stitches. He hasn't got a clue about anything so if he doesn't understand what's going on how can I be accused of taking advantage of him? He only knows the sky's above him because it's a slightly different colour to the ground and has fewer buildings in it. Besides, it's a bit of compensation for having to look after him all the time.

Mrs. Ladle took a drag of the cigarette that had appeared in her hand as if by magic, which was ironic because that's exactly what had occurred. She tapped a leather booted foot on the roof and stared at the zombie with nary a blink.

Stitches could tell instantly that she was angry. He was quick on the uptake like that, plus he was more than used to it. There weren't many beings he'd met that he hadn't annoyed at some point or another, and for those that he hadn't, it was only a matter of time before he did.

He looked at the witch and gave her a smile. It didn't work. Even the stream of smoke that she exhaled looked annoyed, and when she spoke it was in a tone of voice that required nay, demanded obedience, oozed command, and left the perceptive listener under no illusion as to what might happen if the speaker was disobeyed. Stitches though, disregarded the danger signals and carried on regardless.

But surely his innocence and lack of understanding are the very reasons that you shouldn't be doing those things to him in the first place. It's got to stop. Right now. Understand.

Spose, said the zombie.

Excuse me, said the witch.

Okay. Okay. I understand, said Stitches, a little more warily than a moment ago. He couldn't be sure but he could have sworn that Mrs. Ladle's exhaled cigarette smoke had formed a noose. It was hanging in the air not two feet from his face and looked very keen to wrap itself around something. Something neck shaped and under his head.

Good. Right. I'm glad that we've reached an agreement. Now don't let me catch you being mean to Flug again or I'll turn you into something nasty.

With that she grabbed her broom and flew off leaving Stitches in her nicotine shrouded wake.

* * *

Ronnie sat at the kitchen table and drained the last of the tea from the cracked mug that, despite it's off white and slightly grubby appearance was his absolute favourite. It had character, history, and made the tea taste just right. It no doubt had trillions of deadly bacteria and malignant pathogens capable of wiping out entire civilizations in it as well, but that was just by the by as it all added to the flavour. The fact that it had a picture of a cute and fluffy teddy bear on it was neither here nor there either. That's what he told people anyway.

He swallowed his drink with relish, enjoying the burning sensation as the searing liquid flowed down his throat. Ronnie was one of those people that liked his tea ridiculously hot. In fact, the hotter the better, to the point that if you were unlucky enough to spill any of it on yourself, you would be in real danger of having to take a trip to the nearest accident and emergency centre. Stitches, reckoned that Ronnie must have asbestos in his throat, but that had been after he'd gotten some on his left forearm, an incident that had stripped the flesh from the zombie's limb in an instant and left it looking like a bread stick that had fallen on hard times. Ronnie knew different though and that it was from years of dedicated smoking. He might very well have the lung capacity of an asthmatic coal miner, but at least he could get a steaming hot brew down without wincing.

After returning the cup to the table he fished around in a coat pocket and retrieved his leather tobacco pouch because there was no better time to enjoy a nice smoke than after a lovely cup of tea (as well as after waking up, going to the toilet, before breakfast, after breakfast, during the morning, before lunch, during lunch, after lunch, all throughout the afternoon…oh, you get the idea. The only time that Ronnie didn't smoke was when he was in bed, and that was only because he hadn't yet figured out how to keep a steady stream of nicotine flowing into his system while he was asleep).

He flipped the pouch open. Bugger, he said to himself (which was just as well because there was no one else in the room). Save for a few lonely wisps of brown dust languishing at the bottom, his pouch was devoid of anything suitable for rolling. Usually Ronnie kept a spare with him at all times so that he would never run out, but seeing as he was recovering from a weekend away with a couple of friends during which he'd made a spectacularly heroic effort at drinking and smoking himself to death, it was perfectly understandable that his mind was still a little hazy. He put the bereft pouch back into his pocket, rinsed his mug and made his way to the office. When he got there he met Stitches, who was standing outside. The door was closed.

Is he in? Ronnie asked.

I'm not sure to be honest, replied the zombie, giving the door a gentle knock that wouldn't have roused a very nervous insomniac.

Well, why don't you just go on in? said Ronnie. It's not as if it's off limits.

I would but when the doors closed it usually means that he's just got up, and you know what he's like about his appearance first thing in the evening. He doesn't like to be seen in a mess does he, but because he hasn't got a reflection, he can't see what he doesn't want us to see, so he just assumes that what he can't see is bound to be something that he wouldn't want us to see, or that we would want to see.

I see, said Ronnie, ever so slightly confused.

I can hear you out there you know, came Ollie's voice from the other side of the door. And I know you're talking about me.

Stitches inclined his head and spoke to Ronnie in a hushed whisper.

When he says, 'I can hear you out there you know', that usually means that he doesn't mind us seeing…

WILL YOU GET IN HERE YOU DUSTY TW…

Tired of the verbal badinage that was threatening to turn him into a mass murderer (well, two at any rate), Ronnie flung open the door and marched in, closely followed by Stitches. Ollie was sitting behind his desk and had a 'just got up from a nap and haven't had time to sort myself out properly, you try it when you have the sleeping pattern of a two-year-old' look about him.

Nice kip? asked Stitches.

Yes thank you, replied Ollie, staring in horror at the pint of blood that had been sitting on his desk when he came in. And to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit so early in the night? And please note that that was directed at Ronnie and not you.

Well that's just charming, said Stitches, feigning offence quicker than a die hard, soap box, anti-racist who thinks it's disgusting that people of colour still have to ask for black coffee in this day and age. He glanced around the room, desperately trying to find something to talk about in order to lighten the mood. His gaze finally came to rest on the wall above the fireplace.

How long has that been there? he asked.

Only a couple of days, said Ollie, rising from his chair for a leg stretch.

It's a mirror, said Stitches.

Indeed it is, said Ollie. And congratulations on your keen powers of observation. They never cease to amaze me. What do you think of it?

Well, Stitches said, on reflection…

Forget it, snapped Ollie.

What!

I asked you a simple question. All I wanted was a simple answer. Is that too much to ask for just once?

Alright, calm down, Mister got out of the coffin on the wrong side. I was only…hang on. What the hell do you need a mirror for?

Ollie reached up and adjusted the mirror slightly. Very slightly. So slightly in fact that it was reminiscent of the type of thing that people do when they haven't got the first clue about paintings, portraits or art in general, and the only way that they can convey any artistic knowledge whatsoever is to stand in front of their latest acquisition, with a feigned knowing look on their face whilst they move it by infinitesimal fractions of an inch before spewing forth with drivel such as, 'Isn't it amazing, the eyes seem to follow you around the room', or, 'Of course the artists medium was light don't you know.' You know the sort of pretentious idiot I'm talking about don't you. Everyone has an acquaintance like it, pretending to be all erudite and interesting when they're about as engaging as a sponge. Ask them a real question about proper art like who their favourite impressionist is and just see what happens. 'Well, Jon Culshaw relies too heavily on costume but Robin Williams really nailed the voices and mannerisms.' There is a technical term for them. It starts with knob and ends with head. That's the impression they give anyway.

Ethan suggested it, explained Ollie. He reckoned it would give the office the illusion of space.

You could have used the inside of Flug's head for that, said Stitches, checking his own appearance.

Funny you should mention him, said Ollie as he returned to his chair. He walked past it the other day and thought there was an intruder in the place. Obviously, I then had to explain to him what the difference between an intruder and a reflection was and that we didn't actually have one. Then I told him what a reflection was and finally explained to him what a mirror is. He didn't get it of course and then decided that because I don't have a reflection an intruder must have gotten in and stolen it.

That sounds about right. I'm surprised he didn't attack it actually, that's what he normally does, said Stitches.

Flug did have a tendency to either attack, or flee in terror from things that he didn't understand, and they were legion. It was a long and varied list that's far too extensive to write down here. It's far far simpler, and much much quicker, to note down the things that he does understand.

List of things that Flug understands

1.

And that was as far as it went. Still, we live in hope.

Ollie relaxed into his chair and suddenly remembered that Ronnie had come into the office as well.

Sorry, mate, he said. What can I do for you?

Ronnie walked over to the desk and plonked himself heavily down onto the edge. He yawned expansively.

Dearie me. I didn't notice it before, said the half vampire with a friendly smile before Ronnie could get a word out, but you don't half look rough. Another few interesting days away with the lads I take it?

You could say that, answered Ronnie, trying to stifle another epic yawn.

So, where did you get to this time? asked Stitches from his usual place in the ancient, cracked, and desiccated leather chair opposite the desk, a chair that he was rapidly coming to resemble. Because from the looks of you I think we should have an undertaker on standby.

Tell me about it. I'm wasted, said Ronnie. He shook his head. I've really got to stop doing this to myself you know. I'm getting too old and it's taking me longer and longer to recover each time. Ollie and Stitches nodded their heads. They'd heard it all before.

Despite his well-intentioned words he didn't mean any of it and sounded as convincing as an alcoholic swearing off the demon drink just as he's opening up a new bottle (not that the actual demon drink would do him any harm. They liked a tall glass of water with a twist of lime or a refreshing pomegranate juice because all that talking in rasping, creepy growls after they've possessed a twelve-year-old girl plays hell with the vocal cords over the years. I should know. My daughter's twelve and she's an absolute monster).

Still, said Stitches, adjusting his right cheek which had dropped slightly, look on the bright side. At least when the time comes we won't have to get you embalmed. I reckon you've got enough alcohol in your system to preserve you for centuries. Years from now your perfectly uncorrupted corpse will be on display as an unsolved wonder of nature. You'll be famous.

Flammable more like, said Ollie. Anyway, what's up me ole mucker?

Mucker? said Ronnie, with a confused expression.

Yes. I thought I'd try out a few new terms of endearment for my nearest and dearest, explained Ollie. I think it'll make me appear more approachable and friendly. You know, not so scary and vampiry.

Stitches raised an eyebrow as a deafening silence descended.

Ollie, I implore you. Don't. It doesn't work and it's kind of weird if I'm honest. It'd be like Mrs. Ladle being polite or Flug saying something vaguely sensible.

Fair enough, said Ollie. "What about dude? Or maybe