The Creakers

by Tom Fletcher

  Please, Guff, Lucy hoped.

  Please, Scratch and Sniff, Lucy wished.

  She didn’t dare take her eyes off the shadows. She just stared at the blackness. The darkness. The nothing.

  Nothing…

  Lucy sat bolt upright. Her mind was racing, her heart pounding. Somehow, while staring at the shadowy nothing, she’d drifted off to sleep.

  It was still dark. Stars twinkled overhead as she looked around Camp Whiffington and saw that everyone had done the same. Everyone was peacefully snoozing away.

  Old Man Carvey was wrapped up in his fluffy robe. Paige Turner had fallen asleep with her nose in a book.

  Mayor Noying was snoring into his megaphone.

  All was peaceful.

  Lucy sighed as she glanced down at her sleeping parents. Although her plan hadn’t worked, she had succeeded in one thing—bringing her parents back. Not just back from the Woleb but back together. She looked at their happy, sleeping faces, and even though their eyes were tightly shut, she knew there was love in them.

  But that wasn’t all Lucy saw.

  She leaned in close for a better look at her mom’s and dad’s eyes.

  Her heart leapt!

  In the corners were the unmistakable little crumbly drops of…DOZY DUST!

  She quickly glanced around at everyone else. They all had Dozy Dust in their eyes too!

  Slowly she raised her hand up to her own face and wiped the corners of her eyes. As she lowered it, her heart began beating so hard that she was sure it would wake everyone up. There, on the tips of her fingers, were little nuggets of golden Dozy Dust.

  She looked toward the whopping great bed, and a huge smile crept across her face.

  While they were all asleep, the enormous pile of Whiffington garbage had mysteriously disappeared in the night. Just like magic. Just as Lucy had planned.

  “It worked!” Lucy whispered to herself, grinning from ear to ear.

  Her smile was suddenly greeted by the warmth of the rising sun. It peeked over the tops of the four trees acting as giant bedposts, and began chasing away the shadows.

  Lucy glanced around at the townspeople as they lay snoozing, blissfully unaware that her plan had worked; that Lucy, the kid, had found a way for them all to live together in harmony; that despite their differences, it was possible for human and Creaker to coexist.

  As the sunlight melted the night, replacing shadows with the warm orange glow of morning, Lucy looked at the last remaining spot of darkness beneath the giant bed—where four pairs of twinkling black eyes quickly disappeared into the world below.

  THE END

  OK, so that’s it. Story over. I hope you enjoyed it. What do you mean, “What happened next?” I’ve already written THE END. I don’t think I’m allowed to write anything else after that. It’s the rule.

  …Oh, all right. Maybe just a little bit.

  Grunt, Guff, Scratch, and Sniff creaked back into the Woleb, dragging with them bags and bags of glorious Whiffington trash.

  “Looks at all this mucky mess we gots!” cheered Guff.

  “More than we’ve never snatched before!” yelled Scratch.

  “And we didn’t ’ave to do ’ardly any creakin’!” added Grunt, sounding quite amazed.

  “All this ’sgusting garbage, just sittin’ there for us to snatch, just likes that!” croaked Guff with rotten delight.

  “All thanks to the kidderling!” said Sniff happily.

  Grunt stopped suddenly, causing the other Creakers to bump into him. He turned and stared at Sniff, looking deep into his round black eyes. No Creaker had ever said a nice word about a kidderling before. They were so used to hiding from kidderlings in the shadows beneath their beds, sneaking into their rooms, and creaking around their houses. Being nice about a kidderling was something new. Something strange.

  “His brain must be rotted,” laughed Scratch nervously, worried that Grunt was angry at Sniff. “He just needs a good slop at the tavern.”

  “No…” Grunt whispered. “Sniff be right! If it weren’t for the kidderling, this place would be all sunburned, and we’d all be dusted. She saved us.” He gazed with astonishment at Sniff. “And Sniff saved the girl. That means…Sniff saved us!”

  Sniff kicked the ground with embarrassment, not knowing where to look. Guff and Scratch were stumped. Things were changing in the Woleb—changing for the better.

  “And looks!” went on Grunt. “We’s got enuff rotten mess in one night to last us a whole week!” He pointed at the huge pile of smelly prizes they were hauling behind them.

  “We’s not be needin’ to creak up there every night like we used to,” agreed Sniff. “We’s be able to—”

  “Spend more time with our Creakerlings!” Grunt interrupted Sniff, which took Sniff by surprise, as it was usually him that did all the butting-in.

  “P’raps kidderlings be not so bads after all,” Sniff suggested.

  They dragged the heavy load of Whiffington garbage deep down into the depths of the Woleb, clawing out rotten gifts to Creakers they passed on the way.

  They gave Mrs. Blister boxes and boxes of broken egg-shells to rebuild the Creaker school that had crumbled to pieces in the Wolebquake. “No thank you!” she cried as she accepted them excitedly.

  Sergeant Gurgle and Major Curd, two Woleb police officers, siphoned all the curdled milk to use as fuel for the Woleb police cars.

  Claggy Maggot and Maggie Clog, owners of Maggot & Clog’s Grossery Store, collected all the banana peels, moldy vegetables, and fish bones to sell in a week or so, once they’d matured a bit.

  Eventually Grunt, Guff, Scratch, and Sniff had delivered all the rotten delights to the hardworking Creakers of the Woleb below Whiffington as they rebuilt their weird home. There were boos and hisses as the four Creakers passed through. It was a real heroes’ welcome.

  Grunt had been deep in thought, his mind turning something over as they creaked through the town. Suddenly he leapt up to the top of a heap of rot and motioned for the crowd that had gathered to quiet down.

  “Fellow Creakers!” he bellowed, and the hundreds of slimy creatures hushed and listened. “We be startin’ a new time. We be rebuildin’ ourselfs a new Woleb.” The crowd booed in agreement. Grunt continued. “And this new Woleb needs a new king!”

  Silence fell. Grunt stood atop the pile, looking as powerful as a Creaker could look.

  “GRUNT FOR KING! GRUNT FOR KING!” the crowd began chanting.

  Grunt held up his hand, and silence fell again like magic.

  “I would be honored to be your king,” he croaked, and the crowd booed in celebration.

  “BUT!” added Grunt.

  The booing was instantly replaced by confused whispers.

  “But I thinks this new Woleb needs a king with new ideas. A king with a new way of thinkin’,” Grunt boomed, staring into the eyes of his fellow Creakers. “Someone who’s not ’fraid to be different. To stands up for whats he believes to be right.” He turned and suddenly pointed his claw at a Creaker behind him.

  “Someone like Sniff!”

  Gasps erupted from the crowd as all eyes turned to the small boil-covered Creaker standing in Grunt’s shadow.

  “Sniff dared to trust the kidderling when no one else did. He dared to be different. It was Sniff what saved you!” cried Grunt as he dropped to his knee and bowed his bald head to Sniff.

  There was a pause as hundreds of Creakers stared at this teensy Creaker. Then, one by one, they dropped to their knees and bowed in respect to their new leader. He was the one who had helped to save the Woleb.

  Sniff stared out at his disgusting kingdom and let out a little excited squeak.

  Grunt announced, “All hail His Rottenness, King—”

  “SNIFF!” Sniff blurted out, interrupting Grunt in utter disbelief.

  The C
reakers had a new king.

  * * *

  —

  “Well, that be it,” said Grunt, handing out the final scraps from the bottom of the last trash bag to Guff, Scratch, and King Sniff. “Takes whatever’s left home for yer families.”

  “See you tomorra?” Guff said, his bottom releasing a little parp.

  “No, not tomorra. I thinks we’s be all right takin’ a little time off from creakin’.” Grunt smiled. “That’s if the king approves?”

  “Oh…erm—yeah!” Sniff stuttered, trying to get used to the whole King of the Creakers thing.

  With that, Grunt gave the three of them a little salute and left them standing in the twisted Woleb tunnel. He creaked all the way along the winding spider leg and didn’t stop until he was standing outside a dark crack in the wall of the Woleb, the entrance to his home.

  The foul stench of stewing sprouts filled the air, and he took a deep sniff of his wife’s awful cooking.

  “Home, sour home!” he sighed as he stepped inside and was greeted by the most wonderful sound in all the Woleb.

  “Daddy!”

  THE END

  …again

  My name sits proudly on the front of this book but the truth is, as lovely as that is for my ego, there should be a whole bundle of names splattered across the cover. It’s a real team effort, and I would like to thank them by giving them all a weird, awkward cuddle—instead, though, I’m just going to write something nice about them here…

  First I must start by thanking Shane Devries—your illustrations are the most awesome that I’ve ever seen, and I’m so honored to have my silly words brought to life by you. Fletch, I hope it goes without saying that none of this would have happened without you. Literally none of it! I’d just be a strange, unsociable blob gathering dust at my piano. Thanks for always dreaming bigger than anyone. David Spearing, if it weren’t for our weird late-night whatsapps and you literally saying the words “THE CREAKERS” to me, then this book would never have happened, and I can’t thank you enough for all your ideas and directorial wizardry on all the videos we make. Michael Gracey, thanks so much for spending time thinking about sticky monsters under the bed while making The Greatest Showman. As always, your ideas were so inspiring and took the Creakers to the next level of disgusting! Stephanie Thwaites, you’re a brilliant agent for originally seeing the potential in the poop that I write and believing in me from the beginning of this journey.

  Now, on to the best publishing team in the history of publishing. Natalie Doherty, I absolutely love working with you and learned so much from you on The Christmasaurus, then somehow forgot it all and learned it all over again on this one! Your ideas are always spot on. Sorry if I’m a bit of a grumpypants sometimes! Francesca Dow, I’m so honored to call Penguin Random House my publishing home—thanks for opening the door! Amanda Punter, thanks so much for believing in me and everything we do from books and beyond. Tom Weldon, I still can’t quite believe you let me write books…Please never change your mind.

  From brilliant editorial ideas to making the book look and feel so wonderful and SO much more, the following bunch of grown-ups all deserve a whole slop of thanks: Anthea Townsend, Hannah Bourne, Lauren Hyett, Rosamund Hutchinson, Andrea Bowie, Mandy Norman, Eliza Walsh, Wendy Shakespeare, Jane Tait, Sarah Roscoe, Anna Billson, Emily Smyth, Zosia Knopp, Camilla Borthwick, Maeve Banham, Susanne Evans, Nicola O’Connell, and Ceri Cooper.

  I want to apologize to a few people for being a silly sausage and completely forgetting to thank them in The Christmasaurus: Tommy J. Smith, Nikki Garner, Simon Jones, and Kaz Gill. You all do SO much for me, from basically organizing my life to creating Christmas in July at the drop of a hat. Thanks to you all for your hard work—I hope you know how much it means to me.

  That brings me to the fam. Giovanna, thanks for supporting me in all that I do, for putting up with everything about me, and for letting me sleep with a light on. I’ve been waiting to write an appropriate book to dedicate to you, but seeing as I only seem to write about pooping dinosaurs or disgusting monsters, I guess this one will have to do! I love you. To my own two Creakers, Buzz and Buddy, you are the reason for all that I do—now go to bed! To Mom and Dad, thanks for showing me scary things as a kid. It’s about time I turned the sleepless nights into something creative! Carrie, you like weird stuff and smell funny, so in many ways you’re quite similar to a Creaker. X

  Thanks to Danny, Dougie, and Harry for being equal parts of the best thing that ever happened to me, and I look forward to the day I’m standing onstage with you all again.

  Finally, thanks to all the people who have supported me from the earliest days of McFly through to now. I’ve loved sharing music, books, and bits of my life with you and can’t thank you enough for everything you do that gives me the opportunity to do everything that I do. You’re all awesome.

  This is William Trundle.

  There’s something you should know about William: William liked dinosaurs. Actually, he didn’t just like them. He loved them. In fact, he loved them so much I should probably write it in big letters like this:

  …sorry, William had dinosaur pajamas, dinosaur socks, dinosaur pants, a dinosaur-shaped toothbrush, dinosaur wallpaper, two dinosaur posters, a dinosaur lampshade, and more dinosaur toys than he could fit into a bag for life. But if there was one thing William knew for sure, it was that you could never have too many dinosaur toys!

  William lived in a wonky little house on the edge of a busy town on the edge of a busier city, but even though the house was small, it never really felt that way, because only two people lived in it: William and his dad, Bob Trundle.

  Now, I bet you’re wondering why William didn’t have a mom. Well, of course he did have a mom once, but sadly she died a long time ago, when William was very young. So it had been just William and Mr. Trundle for as long as William could remember.

  As well as dinosaurs, William loved Christmas—but not half as much as his dad did.

  Mr. Trundle loved Christmas so much that whenever Christmas Day was over, he would sob uncontrollably for a whole week, sometimes until the end of January, desperately clinging to Christmas! He even had a secret Christmas tree hidden in his closet. The tree was permanently decorated, and it lit up when he opened the door to get his clothes. Each morning as Mr. Trundle got dressed, he would look at his secret tree and say to himself, “Each day we move away from last Christmas is one day closer to the next.” It was these words that got him through the year.

  On this particular morning, though, Mr. Trundle was feeling very merry indeed—because it was the first day of December.

  “Time to get ready for school, Willypoos!” Mr. Trundle called from the kitchen as he spread butter on two steaming-hot crumpets (Mr. Trundle’s favorite breakfast).

  William rolled his eyes at the silly nickname his dad used for him—Willypoos!

  “Dad, you can’t keep calling me that. I’m seven and three-quarters. It’s embarrassing!” William shouted from his bedroom as he stuffed his schoolbag full of books.

  “I thought we’d agreed that I can call you Willypoos when you’re not at school? You can’t go changing the rules willy-nilly, Willypoos!” Mr. Trundle teased as he walked into his son’s bedroom. “Happy first of December!”

  Mr. Trundle beamed as he placed a breakfast tray down on William’s desk and nodded his head excitedly at a rectangular object perched perfectly next to the plate of golden crumpets. William followed his gaze and saw that it was a chocolate-filled Advent calendar.

  “Thanks, Dad! Where’s yours?” asked William. Every year, William and Mr. Trundle would each have an Advent calendar and open a new door together every morning before school. It was a Trundle tradition.

  William thought he saw a flicker of sadness on Mr. Trundle’s face, which was quickly replaced by a smile.

  “I thought it might be fun to share one this year, Willi
am,” Mr. Trundle said. Lately they’d been sharing a lot of things, as Mr. Trundle didn’t have very much money. But William didn’t mind.

  “Oh, OK!” he said. “I’ll open the door and you can have the first chocolate, Dad.”

  “How about I open the door and you have the first chocolate, William?” Mr. Trundle suggested.

  “Thanks, Dad,” William said, grinning. He’d secretly hoped his dad would say that.

  “Say ’Cheese’!” said Mr. Trundle as he quickly snapped a photo of the two of them. “Ah, that’ll make a lovely Christmas card this year!” he said, admiring the photograph. It was another Trundle tradition to take a photograph on the first of December for the Christmas cards they would send to a long list of their distant relatives: Aunty Kim on the Isle of Wight; Great-Nana Joan, who looked like a witch; cousins Lilly and Joe; Aunty Julie; second cousin Sam; Uncle H. Trundle; Great-Grandpa Ken…. It was a long list, half of whom William had never met!

  “William, have you thought about what you’re going to ask Santa for this year? You’ll need to write your letter soon,” said Mr. Trundle as he peeled open the first door on the Advent calendar. William took out the small snowman-shaped chocolate, but suddenly he didn’t feel like eating it.

  “My dear boy, what on earth’s the matter?” asked Mr. Trundle.

  “Well…it’s…it’s just that I don’t think Santa can bring me what I want this year,” said William, staring longingly at the dinosaur poster on his wall. “I’m pretty sure the elves can’t make real dinosaurs.”

  “Make?” repeated Mr. Trundle as he took a knowing sip of his cup of tea. “The elves don’t make anything at all!”

  William looked very confused. “But I thought Santa’s elves made all the presents at the North Pole,” he said.