The Creeps: A Samuel Johnson Tale

by John Connolly

  And so, with Dan in tow, the dwarfs set off to find Father Christmas and set him straight on the difference between “stealing” and “borrowing with no real intention of giving back.”

  • • •

  The stone house that served as Santa’s Grotto sat silent and dark on the top floor of Wreckit & Sons. The trees of the forest seemed to stretch out their branches like arms toward the house. Ivy decorated their trunks, and frost sparkled on the bark. From a distance, it looked almost real. Up close, it became apparent that it was real. The trees had rooted themselves in the floor, breaking through the boards and anchoring themselves on the metal supports. A peculiar-smelling sap oozed from the bark, forming sticky yellow clumps that glowed with an inner light. The ivy was growing at a remarkable rate, twisting and coiling as it wound around the trunks of the trees, and extending itself across the floor to form a carpet of green.

  And it was cold up there, so very cold. Had there been anyone in the vicinity to exhale, they would have seen their breath form thick white clouds that froze in the air and dropped to the ground with the faintest of tinkles as the crystals shattered. The walls began to disappear as the darkness nibbled away at them, and the little fairy lights in the ceiling started to blink out one by one, and were replaced by strange constellations from another universe.

  Slowly, a faint humming arose. It came from everywhere and nowhere, as though an unseen hand had set the strings of this universe vibrating. It was a foul, unsettling noise, a melody composed of pain sculpted into notes: if great evil had a theme tune, that is how it would have sounded.36

  From inside the grotto, a white glow appeared. Tendrils of shadow forced themselves like smoke between the gaps in the stones. In one of the windows the shape of a man became visible and a voice that had, until now, spoken only from the walls found an almost human form.

  “Bring them,” it said. “Bring them to us.”

  * * *

  33. Dozy could do one or the other, but not both at the same time. This is not an uncommon flaw in those who tend to speak before they know what’s going to come out of their mouths, and then look a bit surprised at what they hear. Before speaking, it’s a very good idea to consider if what you’re about to say is better than silence. If it isn’t, then perhaps you shouldn’t say anything at all.

  34. Angry had once stolen one of his own shoes.

  35. The question of why men grow mustaches is one that has troubled philosophers for centuries. At best, a mustache looks like someone has decided to transport caterpillars on his upper lip; at worst, it looks like a bird has flown up his nose. It is also a fact that a great many bad sorts have been wearers of bad mustaches, as can be seen from the lineup below of Stalin of Russia, Hitler of Germany, and Vlad the Impaler of Wallachia:

  Now I am not trying to suggest that all those who grow mustaches are secretly demented dictators or bloodthirsty tyrants. That would just be silly. But, as our study shows, having a bad mustache is a clear sign that you might be one.

  36. And it wasn’t BoyStarz, who at that moment were being bribed to stop singing after the crowd had taken up a collection.

  XVIII

  In Which Maria Explains Things to the Scientists

  PROFESSORS STEFAN AND HILBERT eyed Maria’s map, then eyed each other. To their right, Dorothy was eyeing them both. She was still wearing her false beard. It struck Professor Stefan that she was growing disturbingly fond of it, and had taken to wearing it even when there was no danger of her being seen by strangers. She also seemed to be wearing a man’s suit today, along with a shirt and tie. He made a mental note to have a serious conversation with her, while there was still a “her” to have a conversation with.

  Professor Hilbert, meanwhile, was regretting calling Maria “little girl,” even if he had done so only in his head. She had spotted something that he had missed entirely. It could have been a coincidence, but Professor Hilbert was a scientist and took the view that although coincidences were sometimes just that and nothing more, there were times when coincidences were actually patterns that you had previously failed to spot.

  What they were looking at was clearly an inverted pentagram formed by five buildings, all of which had been designed by the mysterious Hilary Mould. It wasn’t a perfect pentagram: the crematorium, which occupied the top left point of the star, was slightly too far to the right, but if you included the cemetery next to the Church of St. Timidus then it was closer to the mark. Similarly, the Biddlecombe Visitor Centre and Battlefield Museum was slightly too far to the right, but again, if you allowed for the battlefield itself, it was spot-on.37 Throw in the old lunatic asylum, the abandoned prison, and Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s Sweete Factorye and, hey presto, there was your pentagram.

  “Hilary Mould owned all of the land on which the buildings were constructed,” explained Maria. “He came from a very wealthy family; at one point, the Moulds collected rent from half of Biddlecombe. Mould then offered to design the buildings and contributed half of the cost of construction himself. Biddlecombe didn’t really need a prison or a lunatic asylum, or even a visitor center—it didn’t have very many prisoners, only a couple of people who qualified as even slightly odder than usual, and hardly anybody ever came to visit—but getting some new buildings at a bargain price seemed like a good idea to everyone. And then, when the final stone was laid, Hilary Mould simply vanished.”

  Professor Stefan shook his head in bemusement.

  “But why bother?” he said. “I mean, what’s the point of creating some kind of notional star in the town of Biddlecombe?”

  Behind him, Dorothy coughed. It was a very deep cough. It sounded like a gorilla had just stepped into the room and politely wanted to be noticed.

  “I might be wrong,” said Dorothy, “but it looks like he was building a vast occult generator. You know, a kind of supernatural power station.”

  “But powered by what?” asked Professor Hilbert, annoyed that he had been upstaged by a female for the second time that day.

  “Death and suffering,” said Dorothy. “You have a battlefield, a prison, an asylum, a crematorium, and Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s Sweete Factorye or, more particularly, Uncle Dabney’s line in unpleasant eating experiences.”

  “It would explain a lot,” said Maria, who was impressed by Dorothy’s insights, and regarded them as another blow struck for feminism. “Like how Biddlecombe became the focus for the invasion from Hell. It couldn’t simply have been the Abernathys and their friends messing about in a cellar with things that they didn’t understand.38 They weren’t powerful enough, and it made no sense that what was happening at CERN in Switzerland should have found an outlet in Biddlecombe.39 It was because of Mould and his buildings.”

  “But Mould couldn’t have known that, more than a century in the future, someone would construct the Large Hadron Collider and turn it on,” said Professor Stefan. “He couldn’t even have imagined people would own watches that didn’t need winding, or shoes with wheels in the heels.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t, but something else did,” said Maria. “Something much older, something that had been watching humanity for a long, long time, something with a lot of patience and a lot of anger. It guided Mould in the creation of the pentagram, and then added one more building for luck.”

  She was about to place her finger at the heart of the pentagram, but Dorothy beat her to it.

  “Wreckit & Sons,” said Dorothy.

  They all remained silent for a few moments. They might have remained silent for a good deal longer had the quiet not been broken by the sound of a scream and a tea boy’s feet running very, very fast.

  “What is wrong with that boy now?” said Professor Stefan. “Honestly, he’ll be jumping at the sight of his own shadow next.”

  • • •

  Interestingly for Brian—although “terrifyingly for Brian” might have been more apt—he was in the process of doing just that as Professor Stefan spoke. To begin with, he’d been relieved to find that the not-ghost i
n the red robe wasn’t chasing him. He’d taken a couple of glances over his shoulder as he ran, and there was no sign of pursuit. There was just his shadow extending behind him, the way a shadow should.

  Unfortunately, his shadow quickly began catching up with him before passing him entirely and finally separating itself from his shoes and assuming a “this far and no farther” position in front of him. It stretched as he watched, growing both wider and taller, until it entirely blocked his way. It also had more substance than a shadow should. Brian thought that, if he poked it with his finger, it would feel like a big, dirty marshmallow, and his finger would be returned to him stained with black, if it was returned at all.

  A crack opened in the shadow’s head. It might have been mistaken for a smile, but only the kind of smile that a cannibal might wear before tucking into dinner. Teeth appeared in the mouth; they were sharp but wispy, as though the smoke from a series of recently blown-out candles had solidified. A clawed hand reached for Brian, and he ducked just in time to avoid having it close upon his skull. Since he was now heading in the direction of the floor, Brian decided simply to keep going. He dived through the shadow’s legs, somersaulted to his feet behind it, surprising himself almost as much as the creature, and recommenced running and screaming. Meanwhile the creature, clearly deciding that two massive arms ending in jagged claws weren’t enough for the job, began sprouting a third and a fourth, and grew another head while it was about it, since you never knew when a second head might come in useful. Then, seemingly content with these improvements, it returned to the task of trying to consume Brian.

  It was at this point that Professor Stefan opened the door to the main laboratory with every intention of giving Brian a stern talking-to about the importance of not mewling and squealing at the slightest sign of Multiversal activity. He got as far as saying “Now look here—” before he took in the sight of a terrified Brian being pursued by a giant, multiarmed and dual-headed shadow monster.

  “Never mind,” said Professor Stefan.

  He held the door open for Brian and, as soon as the tea boy was safely inside, slammed it shut.

  “Wibble,” said Brian. “Wibble, wibble wibble.”

  He then promptly fainted as wisps of dark matter began seeping through the keyhole.

  * * *

  37. Biddlecombe had been the site of a famous encounter in A.D. 817 between Vikings led by Bolverk the Wary, and Saxons led by Oswald the Uncertain. It took quite some time for the battle to get started, and fighting was believed to have commenced only after both sides backed into each other in the dark.

  38. In The Gates, Samuel discovered the Abernathys and their friends trying to summon up demons in the cellar of a house. I really should be charging you extra for this.

  39. Take that, critics. You thought I was just making all this stuff up as I went along, but there was a plan, I tell you, a plan! (Cue maniacal laughter, and a gibbering henchman calling me “Master!” in an admiring way.)

  XIX

  In Which Wreckit & Sons Reopens, and There Is Much Joy and Good Cheer. (Part of This Chapter Heading May Be a Lie.)

  AT PRECISELY 6:55 P.M., thousands of lights exploded into Christmas cheer on the front of Wreckit & Sons, bathing the crowd gathered below in green and white and gold. There was a collective “Ooooh!” of appreciation, which rose in volume as a grinning Father Christmas formed by red bulbs appeared at the heart of the display, the arrangement of the lights changing as the crowd watched, so that Father Christmas’s lips seemed to move, although no sound emerged from them, not yet. In truth, he didn’t look like a very jolly Father Christmas. His face was a bit too pinched and thin for that, and his eyes were little more than narrow slits. As the lights continued to make his lips move, he looked as though he were threatening a child with something considerably worse than an absence of gifts on Christmas morning. He also, it had to be said, bore more than a passing resemblance to the statue of Hilary Mould.

  But any doubts about Father Christmas were overwhelmed by the spectacle unfolding on Biddlecombe High Street. The dark cloths that had so far masked the windows fell away to reveal the most wondrous displays. Polar bears carried gifts on their backs across fields of pure white snow. There were scenes from fairy tales being enacted by mannequins: Snow White accepted a poisoned apple from her wicked stepmother disguised as an unspeakably ugly witch; a huge wolf in a nightdress towered above Red Riding Hood; a troll threatened three billy goats; and another wolf was proving that 66 percent of little pigs were not very good at building houses. They weren’t exactly cheerful moments from the history of fairy tales, and there was more blood and gore than was strictly necessary: it was clear that Red Riding Hood’s grandmother had already met a nasty end, for the wolf was holding her severed head in one of its paws; the troll wore a necklace of billy-goat skulls; and one of the three little pigs was missing most of its lower body, the rest having been reduced to a pile of bacon by a large, steam-powered bacon slicer. But they were very well done, even if it would have been nice had someone taken the time to give proper faces to the human characters. Instead, the dummies appeared to be made from a form of black material, some of which had been used to create the eyes for the other characters, for even the billy goats and the little pigs had eyes like deep, dark pools.

  Hang on: weren’t there three billy goats in the window just a moment ago? And why is that troll licking its lips? It’s very lifelike. Perhaps a bit too lifelike . . .

  Meanwhile, what looked like hundreds of elves danced and sang as they labored happily in Santa’s workshop, although what they appeared to be producing were just more versions of themselves as more elves poured off the production line. Children pressed their noses against the windows, mouths agape. Even their parents were amazed. It was the greatest Christmas display anyone had ever seen. A bit graphic, admittedly, but very impressive.

  The main doors of the store opened, and Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley appeared. Behind him, Wreckit & Sons remained dark. Clearly another surprise was planned, and people remarked aloud that if the windows were that good, imagine what the inside must be like!

  “Welcome!” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “Welcome, all!”

  His voice boomed, even though there was no microphone visible. A hush descended on the crowd.

  “On behalf of Mr. Grimly, I’d like to say how greatly pleased we are that you could join us on this very special evening. I can assure you it is one that will not easily be forgotten.”

  A round of applause came from the crowd, although they weren’t entirely sure what they were applauding. Most of them were hoping for some free stuff, just for entering into the spirit of the thing.

  “I’m especially pleased to welcome our guest of honor for the evening: Mr. Samuel Johnson and, of course, his dog, Boswell.”

  There was another smattering of applause, but not much.

  “Why him?” someone asked. “What’s he ever done?”

  “Well, there was all that invasion-from-Hell business.”

  “Oh, but that was ages ago. What’s he done since then, eh? I mean, yes, he saved the world and all that, but he can’t expect us to go around bowing and scraping to him for the rest of our days just because of some demons. Anyway, I heard that they weren’t real. It was all made up to promote a film, or a television show, or something.”

  Samuel stepped forward, Lucy Highmore on his left arm, and Boswell’s leash held tightly in his right hand. A photographer from the local paper popped up and took a couple of pictures, although Samuel noticed that he was pointing his lens at Lucy alone, and the only part of Samuel likely to end up in any photos was his left ear.

  Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley placed a hand on Samuel’s shoulder. It felt both hard and strangely light.

  “So good of you to come,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “So very good.”

  He looked around, as though expecting someone else to appear.

  “And your, um, friends?” he inquired.

  “What fri
ends?” asked Samuel.

  “Mr. Cushing, and Mr. Lee. Won’t they be joining us?”

  “I don’t know who you mean,” lied Samuel.

  Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley seemed about to differ, then changed his mind.

  “Not to worry,” he said. “Perhaps they’re just a little delayed. They’ll join us in time: I’m certain of it.”

  He cleared his throat, and raised his hands to silence the crowd, which was getting restless.

  “We have two other gentlemen whom we would like to honor this evening. They are the sleepless guardians of the law, the men who keep us all safe at night. May I please ask Sergeant Rowan and Constable Peel to step forward?”

  Sergeant Rowan and Constable Peel looked shocked to be singled out in this way. They were simply supposed to be on crowd duty, and nobody had suggested that they would be honored with anything other than overtime. Now their names were being called out, and the same voice that, moments earlier, had been complaining about Samuel was asking why they were so special, and commenting how, at the rate things were going, everybody in town would be special except him, and what kind of world were we living in, exactly?

  The two policemen came and stood awkwardly beside Samuel and Lucy and Boswell. There was a third, generally polite burst of applause, as everybody liked to stay on the right side of the police.

  “If all four of you—and, of course, the delightful Boswell—would come into the store for a moment, we have a small presentation we’d like to make,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley.

  “And when we’re done,” he continued, addressing the crowd once more, “the main festivities will begin, and you’ll all get what’s coming to you.”

  Which was an odd way to put it, thought Sergeant Rowan as he and the others moved toward the darkened interior of the store. He glanced again at the window displays and noted that, close up, the polar bears looked less like bears than some kind of abominable snowmen; and the reindeer had very vicious horns and spiked hooves; and the workshop elves had a mean, spiteful appearance about them; and those machines were producing an awful lot of them, so many, in fact, that pretty soon the window areas wouldn’t be big enough to hold them all. They were already piling up, except that they weren’t piling up so much as lining up. But the workshop machines were just tossing them on the floor of the store, and there was nobody around to set them on their feet, so how exactly were they ending up in neat rows before the windows?