by Guy Bass
About three quarters of the way to the top was Fulbert Freakfinder, clinging on for dear life.
Far below him, an assortment of other humans were doing their best to stop the ladder from toppling over.
“Hold fast for another few seconds, you troop of talentless twits! I’m almost at the top of — AAAH! You again!” he shrieked, catching sight of the strange, stitch-faced creature above him.
Freakfinder gripped the ladder even tighter and tried to regain his composure. “I mean, AHA! Great to see you again, my boy! I was just — uh, passin’! Yeah, that’s it! I was just passin’ and thought I’d pop in and say hello!”
“I — I wasn’t sure you were coming,” began Stitch Head, the winter wind whipping around the castle towers. “Uh, I mean, no visitors.”
“Hear me out!” cried Freakfinder, his knuckles white with fear. “All right, so you caught me! I was tryin’ to sneak me way into the castle. Breakin’ and enterin’ is an awful crime, I know that — what can I say? Old habits die hard! But you’ve saved me a trip — after all, it’s you I was looking for!”
“It — it is? Really?” said Stitch Head, trying to hide his excitement.
“Of course! Who else? The fact is . . . I just needed to get a good look at you — proper-like, all out and in the open. I’m even gladder I’m riskin’ my life to talk to you! Why, you’re hideous! Gloriously, wonderfully hideous!”
“I am?” said Stitch Head, running a finger over his stitches. “Is — is that good?”
“Good? It’s wondrous! Why, folks would come from miles around to get a glimpse of . . .” began Freakfinder. “Well, what d’you know? I never even asked your name. What do they call you, my boy?”
“I . . . he called me Stitch Head,” replied Stitch Head quietly.
“Stitch Head? Why, that’s perfect!” cried Freakfinder, grinning with glee (and trying very hard not to look down). “I can see it now — Stitch Head, the man-made boy! Dare you witness the unknowable horror of a mad professor’s unnatural experimentation? Who is brave enough to stare into the stitches of the creature whose head is held together with twine? Behold . . . The Unforgettable Stitch Head!”
“The Unforgettable Stitch Head . . .” repeated Stitch Head.
“Now look, I didn’t climb this ladder just to pay you compliments, Stitch Head,” continued Freakfinder. “I’m here to offer you a new life — a life beyond this castle! Why, I can make you a sensation. I can make you a star!”
“Me? But . . .” Stitch Head whispered. He looked out over Grubbers Nubbin, and beyond, to the big, wide world. “I’m — I’m sorry, but I can’t. My master . . . I promised.”
“What, you mean that nutty old professor? Lugs and mumbles, what’s he done for you lately? He shouldn’t keep you cooped up in here, hidden away from the world! I’m talkin’ about givin’ you a chance to shine on the global stage!”
“I’m sorry, I really am,” said Stitch Head. “But no visitors.”
“You know I’m right — you’ve got a bright future ahead of you, my boy! You’re destined for great — Wait!” Freakfinder looked on in horror as Stitch Head reached over the wall and grasped the top of the ladder. “Hang on a minute! Let’s talk about this! I could make you rich! I could make you famous! I could make you—”
Stitch Head pushed . . . and the giant ladder swung backward.
“UnforgettabaAAAAAAAAAH!”
It was twelve minutes before Doctor Contortion, Madame Moustache and the Topsy-Turvy Twins found Fulbert Freakfinder upside down in the branches of a tree.
“Boss! You all right, boss?” cried Madame Moustache.
“What . . . kind . . . of . . . stupid . . . question . . . is that?” groaned Freakfinder, spitting out a tooth.
“Hang on! We’ll get you down!” cried the Topsy-Turvy Twins in unison.
“We need a ladder! Where are we going to find one at this hour?” asked Doctor Contortion.
“Sometimes . . . I wonder . . . why I keep . . . you around,” grunted Freakfinder.
“Now get . . . me . . . down! I ain’t givin’ up . . . without a . . . fight. Somebody . . . find me . . . a hot-air balloon!”
That night, as Stitch Head lay in bed, something happened that had never happened before.
He slept.
Stitch Head had never really needed sleep, but it made him feel more almost-alive to pretend. At night, he would lie in bed with an ear to his wall of trumpets, and listen to the chatter, clank and kerfuffle of the creatures in the castle.
But something had changed. Stitch Head no longer felt the need to listen. He no longer felt bound to the castle . . . or even to his promise to the professor. He felt free.
For the first time, Stitch Head fell into a deep sleep, and as he slept, he dreamed . . . about Fulbert Freakfinder’s Carnival of Unnatural Wonders.
“Roll up! Roll up and draw near, you brave souls of Chuggers Nubbin! Witness the most mind-blowin’, stomach-churnin’, trouser-messin’ show on Earth!” cried Freakfinder. “Behold — The Unforgettable Stitch Head!”
Stitch Head found himself atop a great carriage, drawn by ten golden horses, but with glowing candles protruding from their heads like unicorns’ horns. With each tiny wave of his hand, the gathered crowds screamed in appreciative horror.
“Oh my! He’s SO hideous!”
“I’ve never seen anything so spectacularly horrible!”
“What a monster! He’s so awful! So remarkable! So memorable!”
“My eyes! My eyes!”
“The horror! The horror!”
“He’s a super freak! Super freak!”
Stitch Head giggled with glee as dozens of passers-by fainted in his wake. He looked over to Fulbert Freakfinder (who, in his dream, had the head of a goat) and gave a thumbs-up. The Fulbert-goat gave a hoofs-up, and bleated happily as he counted his money. Stitch Head cast his eyes across the crowd. They held up signs saying things like:
. . . And chanted “Stitch Head! Stitch Head!” as the carriage rode past.
Stitch Head had never felt so important. It was just like Freakfinder promised — a life beyond the castle. He was free . . . and what’s more, he was remembered!
He looked back and saw Castle Grotteskew on the horizon. He thought of the professor, alone and unprotected against his own creations, but the sound of the chanting became so loud that it blew away the distant castle like dry leaves. The same sound seemed to lift Stitch Head into the air. He started to fly! He soared over patchwork fields and lamplit towns, waving at passers-by, who screamed and cheered at the same time:
“HOORAYAAAAAAH!”
Soon, he was joined in the sky by the Creature, who flew alongside him waving a banner, which, for some reason, just said, “DINGLE DANGLE.” As he swooped higher into the sky, Stitch Head spotted a cloud that looked like the professor. He flew toward it, but as he did, the cloud shifted in the wind, until it looked very much like Fulbert Freakfinder.
“I could make you unforgettable,” said the cloud-Freakfinder, followed by KRONG!
“Krong?” said Stitch Head, waking up.
KRONG! KRONG!
Stitch Head sat up, trying to work out which trumpet the sound was coming from. But after a moment, he realized it wasn’t coming from the trumpets at all — it was a knocking at the dungeon door! His door! Nobody had ever knocked at his door. Had the castle been invaded in his sleep? He raced over and opened it just a crack.
There was no one there. Nothing at all, in fact, except for a piece of paper lying on the floor. Stitch Head picked it up and unfolded it.
It could only have come from the Creature. He hadn’t seen it in almost a month. He felt a sudden pang of guilt, and wondered if it was happy with its new almost-life in the castle.
He rubbed his eyes, the dream still barrelling around his brain. He had so many questions. Could he f
ind an almost-life beyond the castle? Would the people really clap and cheer and scream? Could he really be “The Unforgettable Stitch Head”?
And what on earth was a Dingle Dangle?
If you’re stuck or in a tangle,
Have yourself a Dingle Dangle!
Stitch Head grabbed his bag of potions (just in case the Creature was suffering from some other monstrous affliction) and set out through the castle to look for it.
Upon reaching the east corridor, he found that the Creature had scribbled the words:
— and drawn a big arrow pointing to a flight of stairs (as well as a smiley face). Stitch Head followed the “clues” through the castle. They consisted of dozens of badly spelled messages scribbled in chalk all over the walls of the castle:
And so on. Finally, he followed a sign that read:
Up into the rafters of the professor’s laboratory.
Stitch Head held his breath, gripped his potion bag tightly, and pushed open the door.
“Stitch Head, you CAME! GREAT! Over here! SHHH!” The Creature was perched on a large wooden beam, high above the professor’s head. It was exactly the same place that Stitch Head had hidden to watch the birth of the Creature.
“What are you doing up here? You could fall on the professor!” said a panicking Stitch Head.
“I’m witnessing the creation of almost-life!” whispered the Creature. “Look!”
Stitch Head peered between the rafters to the laboratory below. The professor was about to bring life to his latest creation. It was covered in a white sheet, and looked even bigger than the Creature.
“He’s almost finished! I forgot all about his next experiment,” said Stitch Head.
“I know — isn’t it GREAT? I can’t WAIT to see the new something-or-other struggle into agonizing almost-life!” whispered the Creature. It pointed to a big X it had drawn on one of the rafters. “Still, while we’re WAITING . . . I know! Stand here, on this spot, and you can get a better look.”
“Stand there? But . . . uh, okay, but what — I mean, why?” muttered Stitch Head, edging cautiously closer to the X.
“Yes! Live . . . Ah-ha-HA-HA! Live, I say!” cried the professor, pulling levers and cackling insanely. Stitch Head suddenly felt as if nothing had changed. Here he was, watching in secret as his master tried to create almost-life. How could he have forgotten his promise always to be there — never to leave?
“By the way, REALLY sorry about, you know, UPSETTING you before,” said the Creature. “I think I got a bit over-excited ’cause I’d only been ALIVE for three hours . . .”
“No, no, I’m sorry,” replied Stitch Head. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you. And it was a really nice thought, the candles. Sort of a fire risk, but—”
“GREAT! Then we’re BESTEST friends again! What a relief!” said the Creature, and held up a small loop of rope. “Now let’s get this tied around you.”
“W-what? Tied . . . why?” asked Stitch Head.
“It’s the BESTEST game!” replied the Creature. “Have you never played DINGLE DANGLE?”
“I’ve never even heard of Dingle Dangle. What — what is it?” Stitch Head wobbled as the Creature lifted his leg and looped the rope around his foot. “Hey, what are —”
“That’s ’cause I just made it up!” cried the Creature. “You’ll thank me in the end, though! ALL RIGHT, time to DINGLE DANGLE!”
And it pushed Stitch Head off the rafters!
“WaaAAAAAAAHH!” screamed Stitch Head as he plummeted toward the ground. He was moments from a fate easily-as-bad-if-not-exactly-the-same-as-death when the rope around his ankle pulled tight. He KLINKed and KLANKed as he and his bag of bottles snapped to a sudden halt.
To his horror, Stitch Head found himself dangling helplessly just a few inches above the professor’s newest creation . . . and the professor.
“Perfect! GREAT! This is definitely the BESTEST idea I ever had,” giggled the Creature, holding the rope tightly with its two biggest arms.
“Please . . . pull me up!” Stitch Head mouthed to the Creature as he swung and swayed, but the Creature just waved in delight with its spare hand. In a blind panic, Stitch Head struggled to pull himself up the rope, but with his bag of potions weighing him down, he couldn’t even reach his ankle. He held his breath and looked down.
He was only inches above the professor. He could see his master’s spidery silver hair and his bald spot, gleaming in the lamplight. He hadn’t been this close to his creator in fifty years.
Stitch Head felt his head start to spin. He couldn’t let himself be seen. He couldn’t face his master — not after all this time.
Could he?
He looked up and saw the Creature give a thumbs-up.
Despite himself, Stitch Head began to wonder . . . what if he had been wrong? What if he wasn’t forgotten? What if he was unforgettable, as Freakfinder claimed? Perhaps there was another explanation for the professor leaving him in that room for all that time. Perhaps he had not been allowed to return, or had forgotten where his old room was, or could not find the key to the door.
What if he had longed to see his first creation all this time, but could not find him?
Perhaps it was time to be seen.
“Bah! Something is not right. . . . Why do you not live?” mused the professor, standing over the still-lifeless form of his new creation. “Something is missing! But what? By my father’s beard, what? What have I forgotten?”
It would be so easy to call out to him, just once . . . thought Stitch Head. But I can’t . . . I can’t!
“HEY! Hey, Prof! Quick, look UP! I’m DINGLE DANGLING here!” boomed the Creature in its roariest voice. “And P.S., my arms are getting TIRED!”
“What? No, please — shhh!” whispered Stitch Head, but it was too late.
The professor looked up.
Stitch Head froze. There he was, hanging just above the professor’s head. He closed his eyes, not daring to catch his master’s gaze.
“I — I don’t believe it!” cried the professor. “Ah-ha! I knew it! Oh, joy! Oh, wonder! The answer to my prayers! Ah-ha-HA! You’ve been here all along!”
Stitch Head gasped. He opened his eyes and a beaming smile spread across his face. The professor remembered him! He was staring back at him! His bony, lizard-like face was the most wonderful thing Stitch Head had ever seen!
“Of course! Ah-HA! That’s what I’ve been missing!” he cried. He reached up to Stitch Head, and Stitch Head reached out to the professor. He felt as if he was being brought to almost-life all over again, as the professor’s hand drew closer . . . and then plucked a small blue bottle from Stitch Head’s bag.
“Essence of Early Morning mixture!” he cried, reading the bottle. “Ha-HA! Just the tonic I need to wake my creation with a start! What luck to find it dangling above my head.”
Stitch Head’s tiny borrowed heart sank. The professor had looked right past him to his bag of potions. He hadn’t remembered him at all.
Stitch Head sighed the longest, saddest sigh of his almost-life, and wished more than anything that the ground would open and drag him into the darkness forever.
“Oh NO, THAT’S not good,” whispered the Creature. It pulled up the rope as quickly as it could, until Stitch Head was safely back in the rafters.
“Well, that was WEIRD!” said the Creature, trying to sound cheerful. “Talk about in a world of his OWN! Uh, I mean, I’m sure he was just . . . too BUSY to, y’know . . .”
Stitch Head said nothing. He stared at the wall, his mismatched eyes glazing over.
“You know what I think?” said the Creature quickly. “We probably just caught him at a bad TIME, or something. Yeah, THAT’S it! You know what it’s like — busy, busy! Things to do, monsters to make! SO many unnatural creations, SO little time. . . .”
Stitch Head nodded slowly, and l
ooked down at his tiny hands.
“I know! We probably just need to try AGAIN!” cried the Creature, desperate to help. “There’s always a better DINGLE DANGLE just around the corner! What if I drop you right on his HEAD? That’ll knock some sense into him — he’ll NEVER ignore you after that.”
“I’m — I’m sorry,” whispered Stitch Head finally. “I’ve got to go.”
With that, he made his way slowly back along the rafters and out the door.
“Wait! Stitch Head! What if we FIRE you at him out of a CANNON? That could work! Stitch Head, come back!” cried the Creature . . . but Stitch Head was gone.
Stitch Head wandered through the castle, not knowing where he was going. He had spent practically his entire almost-life avoiding the professor, while hoping against hope that his master might remember him and come looking. Now, with the humiliation of the Dingle Dangle behind him, he felt more alone than ever. It had all been such a waste — waiting and waiting for a moment that was never going to come.
Before long, he found himself outside on the ramparts of the castle, not thinking twice about stepping into the darkening night. A new full moon sat heavily in the sky. Stitch Head breathed deeply and looked up to the stars, feeling smaller than he had ever felt. His ice-blue eye glinted with tears.
It was then he noticed something was falling from the sky. He held out his hands.
Was it snowing?
It was! It was snowing! Except . . .
It was snowing posters.
