Once they had recovered themselves enough to look around, they all began to congratulate Mrs. Tibblekins on her good instincts, for what a marvel awaited them! It was a store of ancient treasures. There were great cylindrical statues, as tall as their heads and inlaid with gold and jewels. There was a large, heavy chest which, when they heaved the lid open, proved to contain a massive bar of Ivory. And at the back of the cave, they found a great glass vial, full to the brim with small, jewel-colored spheres that gave off a sweet and heady fragrance. When Mrs. Tibblekins accidentally dropped one into a puddle of water, it dissolved into an array of iridescent bubbles.
Though Mr. Whittaker urged caution, the spheres smelled so delicious that Sheldon popped one into his mouth. To his great delight, he found it contained an elixir that immediately satisfied all his hunger. Detecting no ill effects, Mr. Whittaker and Mrs. Tibblekins soon followed suit and sampled the spheres, and they found them to be delicious and wholesome.
“What a stroke of luck!” declared Mr. Whittaker as they sat rubbing their full stomachs. “If we take the rest of these back with us, we can live on them for years!”
Mrs. Tibblekins poked at one of the spheres sadly, and it rolled across the stony floor of the cave. “Yes,” she said, “only—Our Queen cannot eat these.”
Mr. Whittaker sobered instantly. “Yes, that is true,” he said. “Her Royal Digestion is far too delicate for such things. But at least, if we eat them, we can leave all the granola bars for Her Majesty.”
Cheered by this realization, they hoisted the heavy vial and, securing it with thick vines, lowered it to the ground. With much effort, they dragged it back to the Bucket.
However, when at last it was settled aboard the ship, and they were ready to set sail for home, Sheldon the Pig hung back.
“What’s this, Sheldon?” asked Mr. Whittaker. “If we hurry, we can return to Our Queen in another day or two.” You see, by that point they had sailed so far around the world that it was quicker to get back by going forward.
“Ahem, well,” said Sheldon, eyeing the still water. “I believe I’ve had enough of Seafaring. There’s plenty of food left here.” (Because, actually, Sheldon had discovered the jeweled statues were full of another, equally healthful elixir.) “I think I might just stay and become an Islander.”
Though Mrs. Tibblekins and Mr. Whittaker argued and pleaded, they could do nothing to persuade him. At last, with many tears and embraces, they parted, and Mrs. Tibblekins and Mr. Whittaker set sail with their precious burden.
***
Back in the Land of Rain and Slush, Our Queen waited patiently, enthroned in her marble hall and wrapped in her long green robe. Though she knew she might never see the Bold Adventurers again, still she maintained an inspiring hope and faith.
As she was contemplating which medals she would bestow upon the heroes, should they by some miracle make it home alive, she noticed something moving in the yard outside the window. Its skin was gray of hue and it walked in a clumsy, shambling way. After a moment, Our Queen realized it was the Queen Father. She waved to draw his attention, but he appeared to be preoccupied—though with what, she could not be sure, as he was walking in an irregular circle through the wet fallen leaves in the grass.
Our Queen, disappointed, opened her mouth to call out to him, but just then she remembered she had promised to be Very Quiet at All Costs, so instead she only whispered, “Daddy.” He went on walking in circles. Then he stopped in front of the maple tree and broke off a largish branch, which he regarded with interest before sticking the end of it in his mouth. After a little while, he wandered out of view.
***
The H.M.S. Bucket made its homeward voyage in a mood of contentment, sparing not a thought for the trials Our Queen might be suffering in their absence. But it was all right, of course, because actually everything was going according to plan. Our Queen was obeying her orders from On High, and the Queen Father was coming back for her very soon. He would know what to do; he always did. Like when the Queen Mother had come home with her neck all chewed up by a mean dog and the Queen Father had taken her away to a nice place in the country where she could get better.
The Queen Father was only staying away to protect Our Queen, of course, and actually of course he was only chewing on branches as part of a covert mission to fit in among the Zombies, so he could take them by surprise, and also branches had nutritional value. Our Queen knew all this, and so she felt perfectly at ease.
But the H.M.S. Bucket was not so fortunate. One moment, the water was still—the next, the ship was surrounded by strange, undulating shapes that writhed just beneath the surface of the ocean.
“Dear God,” cried Mrs. Tibblekins, clutching at Mr. Whittaker’s furry arm. “Washcloths! Terrors of the Deep! Oh, Mr. Whittaker, I had always thought they were only a legend!”
The air filled with the ominous humming of the Washcloths, and they began to batter themselves at the sides of the ship.
“They will drag us down into the Depths of the Sea!” cried Mrs. Tibblekins. She looked as though she might fall into another Swoon, but her travels had strengthened her spirit, and she remained upright.
“I believe it is even worse than we feared,” said Mr. Whittaker, noting the sickly gray color of their assailants. “They are Zombie Washcloths.”
Mrs. Tibblekins covered her mouth with both her dainty hands. “Then we are lost.”
The Zombie Washcloths, which actually did not say, “Zombie, zombie,” but just swam around mindlessly eating everything in their path, wrapped themselves around the ship and began to pull at it from both sides. It creaked alarmingly, and the glass vial rolled from side to side. Soon, to their horror, Mr. Whittaker and Mrs. Tibblekins saw a crack form in the starboard side of the ship and begin to spread. Water rushed in.
Mr. Whittaker turned to Mrs. Tibblekins and took her hands in his paws.
“Mrs. Tibblekins,” he cried, “my only regret is that I was never able to tell you what I feel for you.”
Mrs. Tibblekins gazed deep into his mismatched eyes. “Oh, Mr. Whittaker,” she whispered, “I have always known.” She blinked back tears. “It was only the memory of Eric the Perpetual Baby that kept me from returning those feelings. But now I see that I held to my grief too long. Kiss me, Mr. Whittaker!”
As the ship began to descend into the waves, Mr. Whittaker and Mrs. Tibblekins fell into a passionate embrace.
“Ho there!” cried a voice, suddenly, from somewhere out in the ocean. It was Sheldon, perched atop a small raft constructed from a Brush Tree, its long trunk bobbing out behind him. He batted at the Zombie Washcloths with an oar made from a comb.
“Sheldon!” cried Mr. Whittaker.
“Changed my mind about staying behind,” called Sheldon gruffly. “Looks like I made the right decision. Hurry up and jump aboard!” He brought his Brush Raft up to the side of the Bucket. “And bring that vial, or this will be all for nothing.”
Quickly, Mr. Whittaker and Mrs. Tibblekins lifted the jar of spheres and lowered it to Sheldon, who steadied it between his forelegs and edged out onto the trunk of the Brush Tree to make room. Then Mrs. Tibblekins jumped down to land beside him. The Zombie Washcloths strained to reach her, but Sheldon valiantly pushed them away with his comb.
Mr. Whittaker stood perched on the lip of the Bucket, which was now almost level with the surface of the water. But he hesitated.
“Sheldon,” he said, “there won’t be room for all three of us, and the spheres, too.”
Sheldon got to his feet. “I know.” Then, dropping his oar, he dove nobly over the side of the raft. Mrs. Tibblekins gasped and reached for him, but he floated away. “I’m an old Pig,” he called. “You two are young! Go back to Our Queen! Be happy together!” Mr. Whittaker, stunned and helpless to assist, leapt to the Brush Raft just as the water closed over the Bucket completely.
The humming of the Zombie Washcloths increased in volume as they swooped toward their prey.
“Don’t
worry,” said Sheldon as he bobbed, “I’m not afraid. The water’s actually quite comfortable.” Then undulating Washcloth appendages wrapped around him and he sank, burbling, beneath the waves.
The Zombie Washcloths ceased their circling and drifted back into the deep. Mrs. Tibblekins buried her face against Mr. Whittaker’s nubby brown chest and wept.
***
Mrs. Tibblekins and Mr. Whittaker returned home with heavy hearts to find that the news of Sheldon the Pig’s death had preceded them, for his waterlogged body had washed ashore the day before they arrived. Yet, as Our Queen assured them, Sheldon’s sacrifice had not been in vain. Whatever lay ahead of them, the spheres of elixir would feed them for as long as they needed.
“I have nothing but empty granola bar wrappers with which to reward your bravery,” declared Our Queen at the celebratory Tea Party in honor of the heroes. “But I can offer you a less tangible symbol of my gratitude. Mr. Whittaker, please kneel.”
Mr. Whittaker knelt obediently. Our Queen touched both of his shoulders with the sacred Sword of Toothbrush, which had been passed down through her royal line for generations. “Rise, Sir Whittaker, Knight of the Realm.”
When she had finished, Our Queen knighted Mrs. Tibblekins as well, and she rose as Sir Tibblekins.
The festivities went on late into the evening. Much tea was drunk and many speeches were made in honor of Sheldon, their Fallen Comrade, who lay In State in the middle of the floor.
“For truly,” said Mrs. Tibblekins, raising her paper cup, “he was the best of us all.”
Someone was scratching at the door. Mr. Whittaker eyed it uneasily. The Queen Father had given Our Queen very explicit instructions that the door should not be opened under Any Circumstances. But the Queen Father was now Zombie the Queen Father, and it seemed likely his advice was no longer reliable.
And indeed, Mr. Whittaker’s fears were in vain. It was only Actual Cat, who must have slipped out the open window at some point and come around the long way. Our Queen, exercising Sensible Caution, cracked the door just wide enough to let him inside, then shut the door again and latched it.
Actual Cat seemed in an irritable mood at having missed all the excitement. When Mrs. Tibblekins offered him tea, he was so rude as to swipe at her lacy petticoat and snag it with his claws. One claw made a faint bloodless scratch just below her dainty bloomers. Then he flopped lazily on his side and lay there drooling, his paws still entangled in the cloth. When Our Queen tried to pull him away, he nipped her finger with his teeth. This was a very serious breach of decorum, perhaps even High Treason. She dropped Actual Cat, who streaked away to hide in the corner behind the toilet with his fur puffed out.
The sun was going down. Outside the window, the sky had a yellow tinge to it, like olive oil, and the maple tree was a black silhouette with too many arms. The shadows of the toilet and the sink grew longer. It was growing chilly, as well. Mrs. Tibblekins wondered if perhaps they should close the window, but she was afraid Actual Cat might be offended, as he had been so touchy of late. She started towards him to ask for his permission.
But Mr. Whittaker was beginning to suspect that Actual Cat was now Zombie Actual Cat. “Come away from him, my dear Mrs. Tibblekins,” he said.
“Very well,” said Mrs. Tibblekins. She eyed Mr. Whittaker with an oddly glassy look. Then she put her lace fan in her mouth and chewed on it. Mr. Whittaker’s heart sank.
“Mrs. Tibblekins,” he said tentatively, “may I ask you a question?”
“Certainly, my darling,” said Mrs. Tibblekins, around the fan.
“Are you Zombie Mrs. Tibblekins now?”
Mrs. Tibblekins considered. “Why, yes, I believe I am,” she said.
Mr. Whittaker sighed sadly. “What does it feel like?”
“It doesn’t feel any different, really,” said Zombie Mrs. Tibblekins. “Except that now I would like to eat some brains. May I have yours?”
“Very well,” said Mr. Whittaker, who was always a Perfect Gentlemen. He pulled his head off and took out some of his brains (which were white and fluffy, as Bear Brains always are) and handed them to Zombie Mrs. Tibblekins.
“Thank you kindly,” said Zombie Mrs. Tibblekins.
“Not at all,” said Zombie Mr. Whittaker. “Really, it’s no bother.”
Our Queen looked around the kingdom of Bathroom and realized that all sorts of things had been changing without her noticing. The bathtub was a Zombie Bathtub now. The sink was a Zombie Sink. Even the brave Snow Giants (what was left of them) had become Zombie Snow Giants.
She was queen of a Zombie Kingdom now, and though no one had ever given her instructions on how to rule such a place, she was not concerned. After all, a Queen is never afraid. She was hungry, and so she would venture forth to find what food would best suit her Queenly Digestion. Her royal instincts informed her that the time for hiding was at an end. With new resolve, she opened the door that had kept her Exiled for so long and went out to join her father.
CONNECT WITH THE EDITOR:
Kenneth W. Cain first got the itch for storytelling during his formative years in the suburbs of Chicago, where he got to listen to his grandfather spin tales by the glow of a barrel fire. But it was a reading of Baba Yaga that grew his desire for dark fiction. Shows like The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits,Alfred Hitchcock Presents, and One Step Beyond furthered that sense of wonder for the unknown, and he’s been writing ever since.
Cain is the author of The Saga of I trilogy, United States of the Dead, the short story collections These Old Tales and Fresh Cut Tales, and Embers. Writing, reading, fine art, graphic design, and Cardinals baseball are but a few of his passions. Cain now resides in Chester County, Pennsylvania with his wife and two children.
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EDITOR’S PLEA:
Greetings, Reader. You’ve reached the end of my book, and I hope that means you enjoyed it. Whether or not you did, I would like to thank you for giving me your valuable time to attempt to entertain you. I am truly blessed to have such a fulfilling job, but I only have that job because of people like you; those kind enough to give my books a chance and spend their hard-earned money buying them. For that I am eternally grateful, my friend.
If you would like to find out more about my other books then please visit my website for full details. You can find it at: kennethwcain.com. There you’ll find a link to sign up for my newsletter. Or you can email me. You’ll also find my social media links, which you can use to follow or contact me. I would love to hear from you.
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THE END?
Not quite . . .
Dive into more Tales from the Darkest Depths:
Novels:
The Mourner’s Cradle: A Widow’s Journey by Tommy B. Smith
House of Sighs (with sequel novella) by Aaron Dries
Beyond Night by Eric S. Brown and Steven L. Shrewsbury
The Third Twin: A Dark Psychological Thriller by Darren Speegle
Aletheia: A Supernatural Thriller by J.S. Breukelaar
Beatrice Beecham’s Cryptic Crypt: A Supernatural Adventure/Mystery Novel by Dave Jeffery
Where the Dead Go to Die by Mark Allan Gunnells and Aaron Dries
Sarah Killian: Serial Killer (For Hire!) by Mark Sheldon
The F
inal Cut by Jasper Bark
Blackwater Val by William Gorman
Pretty Little Dead Girls: A Novel of Murder and Whimsy by Mercedes M. Yardley
Nameless: The Darkness Comes by Mercedes M. Yardley
Novellas:
A Season in Hell by Kenneth W. Cain
Quiet Places: A Novella of Cosmic Folk Horror by Jasper Bark
The Final Reconciliation by Todd Keisling
Run to Ground by Jasper Bark
Devourer of Souls by Kevin Lucia
Apocalyptic Montessa and Nuclear Lulu: A Tale of Atomic Love by Mercedes M. Yardley
Wind Chill by Patrick Rutigliano
Little Dead Red by Mercedes M. Yardley
Sleeper(s) by Paul Kane
Stuck On You by Jasper Bark
Anthologies:
Welcome to The Show, edited by Doug Murano
Lost Highways: Dark Fictions From the Road, edited by D. Alexander Ward
C.H.U.D. Lives! – A Tribute Anthology
Tales from The Lake Vol.4: The Horror Anthology, edited by Ben Eads
Behold! Oddities, Curiosities and Undefinable Wonders, edited by Doug Murano
Twice Upon an Apocalypse: Lovecraftian Fairy Tales, edited by Rachel Kenley and Scott T. Goudsward
Tales from The Lake Vol.3, edited by Monique Snyman
Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories, edited by Doug Murano and D. Alexander Ward
Tales from The Lake Vol.2, edited by Joe Mynhardt, Emma Audsley, and RJ Cavender
Children of the Grave
The Outsiders
Tales from The Lake Vol.1, edited by Joe Mynhardt
Fear the Reaper, edited by Joe Mynhardt
For the Night is Dark, edited by Ross Warren
Short story collections:
Dead Reckoning and Other Stories by Dino Parenti
Things You Need by Kevin Lucia
Frozen Shadows and Other Chilling Stories by Gene O’Neill
Varying Distances by Darren Speegle
The Ghost Club: Newly Found Tales of Victorian Terror by William Meikle
Tales from The Lake 5 Page 26
