Contents
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
About the Author
By the Same Author
Dedication
Copyright
High on the windswept moor lies a farmhouse. It occupies a desolate spot, surrounded by stark heather-covered hills as far as the eye can see. The farmhouse belongs to two elderly humans, who open it in the summer as a bed and breakfast for passing tourists. In the winter the humans hole themselves up in the farmhouse against the cold and the farmyard is bleak and empty. The sheep are left to roam the moor. The cows are tucked up snugly in the barn. And, apart from a generous daily ration of grain delivered by the humans each morning at dawn to their sheds, the chickens of Fogsham Farm are left to their own devices.
On this particular evening in the depths of a biting January, Ichabod Comb, a muscular but battle-scarred rooster, was closing up one of the chicken sheds for the night. The shed went by the name of The Bloodless Hen amongst the chickens of Fogsham Farm. The Bloodless Hen was a chicken-style juice-bar where they all congregated in the evenings to chat over a worm juice and a bag of grub scratchings. It was Ichabod Comb’s job to look after the place. Ichabod yawned. It was past nine o’clock and he was tired. It had been a busy evening what with the quiz and no one else behind the bar to help him. He glanced at the mess. The upturned wooden crates, which served as tables, were strewn with plastic cups, not to mention screwed-up bits of paper and crayon butts. Ichabod Comb cursed softly.
‘See you later, Ichabod,’ the last chicken said as the others straggled out. ‘We’ll leave the door of the sleeping coop unlatched for you.’ The chickens usually slept together in another one of the sheds to keep warm.
Ichabod Comb shook his head. ‘I think I’ll just stay here tonight, Rossiter, and get the clearing up done,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to be up early in the morning to start crowing, otherwise the humans will be late with the grain.’
‘Are you sure?’ his friend asked.
‘Yes,’ Ichabod Comb said firmly. ‘Thanks anyway.’
Rossiter Brown hesitated. ‘Well, watch how you go, Ichabod,’ he said eventually. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow.’ He scuttled off across the farmyard after the others.
Ichabod Comb peered after him into the mist. He shivered. Fogsham Farm was creepy in winter. There were five chicken sheds in total: the juice shed, the shop, the school, the leisure centre and the cosy sleeping coop where the chickens went at night to roost and lay the occasional egg. The sheds were next to the barn, where the cows were kept. Behind them was the dry stone wall that ran round the perimeter of the farmyard. Beyond that a footpath led across the hillside to a ruined stone church, and from there to Bloodsucker Hall.
Bloodsucker Hall was tucked away behind crumbling brick walls and rusty spiked gates in the lee of the hill. You could barely see it from the farmyard, even on a nice day. And, as far as Ichabod Comb was concerned, you didn’t want to.
He had been to Bloodsucker Hall once: just once – when he first arrived and heard about the curse of Fogsham Farm. The farm chickens had been eager to fill him in on the legend surrounding the hall’s last occupant – a ferocious mink known as Countess Stella von Fangula. They told him how the mink sucked the blood of her victims; how she had become a vampire; how she had been sent to her grave by a pheasants’ revolt; and how she had sworn that she would rise again if she ever caught the whiff of fresh rooster blood in her nostrils …
Ichabod Comb wasn’t a bird who spooked easily. He’d been in some tough spots in his life – including a tour of Afghanistan with the Yorkshire Rooster Regiment. He wasn’t afraid of some stupid legend about a vampire mink. On his next day off he had climbed through a hole in the dry stone wall and taken the path across the moor to check the place out. He had ducked through the rusty gates of the hall and scuttled through the abandoned garden. It was when he was climbing the dilapidated steps to the front door that he had trodden on a broken slate which had fallen from the crumbling roof.
He had felt a sharp pain in his foot and glanced down to see a drop of blood oozing from a cut. The rooster’s courage had failed him. What if the curse was true? What if the Countess von Fangula really was a vampire? What if she smelled his blood and rose from her grave? Ichabod Comb had raced away from the hall. Ignoring the pain in his foot he had dodged through the jungle of bushes back to the path across the moor. He had hurried past the ruined church, squeezed through the hole in the dry stone wall and scuttled back across the farmyard to the sleeping coop to join his friends.
Ichabod Comb never returned to Bloodsucker Hall. He stayed at the chicken sheds. Mostly he went from the sleeping coop to the juice shed and back again. Occasionally he visited the shop. On his days off he went to the leisure centre with Rossiter, but he never did any exercise because of his injured foot.
Gradually, the memory of Bloodsucker Hall faded.
But sometimes, like tonight, the fear returned.
Telling himself not to be so silly, Ichabod Comb stepped back inside the juice shed and closed the door firmly behind him.
It was then that he saw that one customer still remained – a hunched figure in the corner wearing a black hooded cloak. It didn’t look like any of his regulars. Perhaps it was one of the pheasants from the moor.
‘We’re closed,’ he said.
‘Reaalllly, darling?’ The stranger was female. She had a low, sultry voice. ‘That’s a shame.’
Ichabod Comb couldn’t place the voice. It was pleasant, rich and melodic, like beautiful music. For some reason it made him feel drowsy.
‘Can’t I just have one little drink?’ the cloaked figure whispered. ‘It’s such a cold night. And there’s no heating in the house.’
‘You should get that fixed,’ the innkeeper suggested.
‘Yes, darling, I should,’ the stranger agreed. ‘And the roof. The slates keep falling off.’ She sighed. ‘Such a nuisance! It’s just that I’ve been away for a long time. I haven’t got round to it yet.’
Ichabod Comb yawned. He could barely keep his eyes open. ‘All right,’ he said sleepily. ‘I’ll get you a drink. What would you like?’
‘A Bloody Mary.’ The cloaked figure got up and slunk towards the bar. ‘Make it nice and bloody.’
Ichabod Comb looked about for a clean cup. There were none: the chickens had used them all up. He reached instead for the single china thimble that sat on the shelf behind the bar. One of the chickens had found it in the rubbish. Ichabod Comb didn’t usually use it because it had a small chip in it: you could cut yourself if you weren’t careful.
Clumsily he poured a shot of worm juice into the thimble and mixed it with a squashed tomato. He felt as if he were in a trance. ‘Here you are.’ He went to place the thimble on the bar but he missed. The thimble dropped onto the wooden floor of the chicken shed and shattered at his feet.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. The innkeeper bent down and started to pick up the pieces of china. ‘Ouch!’ One of the sharp shards cut his wing. A drop of blood glistened on his feathers. He stood up groggily and felt for a tea towel to dab it with.
‘How clever of you, darling!’ The hooded figure had reached the bar. She leaned towards him, the cloak still wrap
ped closely around her.
‘Clever?’ Ichabod Comb repeated thickly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘To know that I prefer real blood, darling!’ The stranger laughed. ‘But of course you remember that from the time you visited me at Bloodsucker Hall and woke me up, don’t you?’
A paw shot out from under the cloak and gripped Ichabod Comb by the neck. The stranger drew the terrified bird towards her. She took a deep, satisfied sniff. ‘Rooster blood,’ she breathed. ‘About time.’
At Chicken HQ, Amy Cluckbucket sat on a garden stool playing Chicken World Wrestling 3 on the laptop. Wrestling was Amy’s number one favourite sport. She was actually pretty good at it herself.
Pictures of the competitors lined up on the screen. They were all based on real-life chicken wrestling champions. Amy chose one and clicked on the mouse.
‘Rocky Terminegger!’ the computer confirmed her selection.
Amy had a massive crush on Rocky Terminegger. Her greatest wish was to meet him one day and get his clawtograph. She waited to see who Rocky’s opponent would be.
‘Granny Wishbone!’ shouted the computer.
Amy groaned. Granny Wishbone was the dirtiest fighter in the game and a dreadful cheat. She somersaulted into the ring with her Zimmer frame.
Amy watched her shrewdly.
The Zimmer frame was similar to a four-legged stool without the seat; the idea being that Granny Wishbone could lean on it if she needed to because she was very old. In fact, as Amy well knew, Granny Wishbone just used it to bash the other wrestlers with when the referee wasn’t looking.
The bell sounded. ‘Round one!’ said the referee.
Amy tapped at the keys.
KAPOW! Rocky threw Granny Wishbone over his shoulder.
WHACK! Granny Wishbone fought back with her Zimmer frame.
THONK! Rocky got her in a headlock.
CLATTER! Granny Wishbone’s teeth fell out.
PUNCH! Granny Wishbone pinned Rocky with her Zimmer frame and elbowed him sharply in the neck.
‘Fowl!’ Amy protested.
‘End of round one,’ the referee yelled.
‘Phew!’ Amy stretched her wings. ‘That old bird puts up a peck of a fight. Does anyone else want a go?’ she called. (She didn’t really want to give anyone else a turn but when she lived at Perrin’s Farm with her parents, her mother had told her it was polite to ask.)
‘No thanks, Amy,’ said Ruth. Her voice sounded muffled. ‘I’ve got to change the tube on the mite blaster.’
Amy glanced up. Chicken HQ consisted of three potting sheds, each with its own green door, which had all been joined together inside to make a huge space. The laptop was in the middle on an upturned crate. At one end was a cupboard full of cool chicken gadgets. It was from here that Ruth’s voice came.
‘Then I’m going to work on my latest invention.’ Ruth emerged from the cupboard with the mite blaster. She was a white chicken with looping black tail feathers, a grey scarf and spectacles, which kept falling down. She pushed them back up her beak and started to unscrew the tube carefully.
‘What is your latest invention?’ Amy enquired.
‘I don’t know, I haven’t invented it yet,’ Ruth said.
‘What about you, Boo?’ Amy asked. ‘Do you want a turn?’
‘Maybe later,’ Boo said, ‘after my bath.’ From the other end of the sheds came the sound of running water.
Amy turned her head towards the chickens’ sleeping quarters. Each chicken had a straw pallet that folded up into the wall at the press of a button. Beside their beds stood a birdbath with a hosepipe which fed into it from the garden tap.
Boo held up a packet of Bird Bright and read the instructions out loud.
‘Add one measure to make your feathers shine! Two to make them sparkle!’
Boo tipped in three measures. ‘Shall I save the water for you?’ she asked Amy. Boo was a beautiful chicken with glossy, honey-coloured feathers and gorgeous feathery boots, which she was very proud of. She was also brilliant at gymnastics.
‘Er, no thanks,’ Amy said quickly. She wasn’t very keen on baths; at least not ones that involved water. She preferred to rub her feathers in dust.
‘Okay,’ said Boo. ‘Give me a shout if you change your mind.’ She climbed into the bubbles.
Amy got up from her stool with a deep sigh of satisfaction. She loved being part of an elite chicken combat squat. Boo and Ruth were her best friends. And Chicken HQ was a really cool place to live. Their boss, Professor Rooster, had thought of everything. The only problem was that, since they had defeated Thaddeus E. Fox and his MOST WANTED Club of villains, things at Chicken HQ had been a bit quiet. Amy couldn’t wait for their next mission.
She bustled over to the mini-fridge to get an apple core. Amy was shorter than the other two chickens. She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach the shelf. In fact, Amy wasn’t just short, she was small all over except for her tummy, which had puffs of dark and light grey feathers around it and made her look plump. She also had very red cheeks, which glowed when she was excited or cross.
‘Time for round two.’ Amy finished the apple core and returned to the laptop.
Just then the screen fizzed into life. Amy felt a little shiver of excitement.
‘It’s Professor Rooster!’ she cried.
‘Maybe he’s got another mission for us!’ exclaimed Ruth. She put down the mite blaster.
‘Wait for me!’ Boo shook her gleaming feathers dry and raced over.
The three chickens crowded round the laptop.
A very stern-looking cockerel appeared on the screen. His face was grave.
‘Looks like it’s something serious,’ Ruth whispered.
‘You don’t think Thaddeus E. Fox and his MOST WANTED Club are back, do you?’ Boo hissed.
Amy didn’t say anything. She was too excited to speak.
‘It’s not Fox,’ Professor Rooster said shortly. (It was a two-way monitor so the professor could see and hear the chickens as well.) ‘It’s worse.’
Worse?! Amy blinked. What could be worse than Thaddeus E. Fox and his gang?
Professor Rooster looked straight at them. ‘Chickens,’ he said, ‘we’ve got a vampire problem.’
There was a shocked silence. Amy wished Boo or Ruth would say something, but they didn’t. Eventually she picked up the courage to speak. She gave a nervous giggle. ‘A vampire problem!’ she echoed. ‘Are you joking, Professor?’
‘No, Amy, I am not joking,’ Professor Rooster said sharply. ‘I never joke when chickens’ lives are at stake. You should know that by now.’
‘Sorry,’ Amy mumbled. She felt silly. For a moment she’d forgotten that Thaddeus E. Fox had been responsible for the deaths of Professor Rooster’s wife and chicks. That’s why the professor had brought Boo, Ruth and Amy together – to protect other chickens from evil predators.
‘It’s time to introduce you to the most MOST WANTED criminal known to chickens,’ Professor Rooster continued grimly.
‘But I thought that was Thaddeus E. Fox!’ Amy squawked.
‘So did I,’ Professor Rooster said, ‘until I heard about the curse of Fogsham Farm.’
Amy gulped. A curse? She didn’t like the sound of that one little bit.
‘Where’s Fogsham Farm?’ Ruth had found her voice.
‘Fogsham Farm is situated in the small hamlet of Bleakley Fogsham,’ said the professor. ‘It’s about twenty miles away from here as the crow flies …’ he paused. ‘… on the moor.’
The moor! Amy had heard of the moor but the chickens had never been there. Chicken HQ was in the grounds of Dudley Manor, in the old walled vegetable garden. Dudley Manor itself was a grand park with a big stately home in the middle of it, with a river and green fields to one side and the Deep Dark Woods, where Thaddeus E. Fox had his burrow, to the other. The moor was somewhere to the north. Amy knew little about it, except it wasn’t the sort of place a chicken would go to, especially in January.
‘As you can see,
it’s a desolate spot,’ Professor Rooster said.
A gloomy picture of a stone farmhouse flashed up on the screen. Next to it stood a barn and five chicken sheds. The buildings were surrounded by a dry stone wall. That was it. Amy felt sorry for the chickens of Fogsham Farm; it looked like a miserable place to live.
‘Apart from the farm, there’s a ruined church …’ the professor paused, ‘… beyond that is Bloodsucker Hall.’
The next picture was of a huge building tucked away behind crumbling brick walls and rusty spiked metal gates.
Amy shivered. The house looked seriously spooky.
‘Two hundred years ago Bloodsucker Hall was home to a notorious predator: a mink named Countess Stella von Fangula,’ the professor continued. ‘She spread terror amongst the birds of the moor, including the chickens of Fogsham Farm. Her favourite drink was rooster blood.’
Amy blinked. Rooster blood! This was getting really freaky.
‘Let me tell you something about mink,’ Professor Rooster said. ‘A mink is an animal that can climb trees and swim to depths of thirty metres. It can run as fast as a deer and squeeze unseen through tiny gaps, like a spider. It has razor sharp claws and fangs like a crocodile. It can kill any bird with one swipe of its paw. Worst of all, it has a lust for blood. It will murder every bird it sees … but it won’t eat it. All a mink wants to do is to suck the blood of its poultry prey,’ he paused, ‘like a vampire.’
Ruth put her wing up. ‘But minks aren’t really vampires, Professor,’ she reasoned. ‘They’re just animals.’
‘You’re right, Ruth, of course,’ Professor Rooster acknowledged. ‘As a general rule, minks are not true vampires even thought they behave like them.’ He allowed himself a grim smile. ‘Fortunately for us chickens, they do not usually live forever.’
Amy felt relieved. She had almost thought Professor Rooster was talking about a real vampire for a minute!
‘HOWEVER,’ the professor went on in a voice that made Amy’s heart sink, ‘it seems that the Countess Stella von Fangula may be an exception to the general rule.’ He waved a yellowing book at the camera. ‘According to this, the countess loved the taste of bird blood so much she concocted a potion to give her eternal life.’ Professor Rooster adjusted his specs and began to read.
The Curse of Fogsham Farm Page 1
