by Sam Hay
He handed me a book. Brown and damp. And well thumbed. Frederick Funnel’s Book of Fantastic Phantasms. It didn’t look promising.
I turned a few pages and wrinkled my nose. It smelt awful. Like a wet dog. Or a dead dog. Or a wet, dead dog.
‘I know it’s in a bit of a state,’ said Ernie, reversing carefully out of the car park. ‘But it’s got a paragraph or two on the Spoon.’
And just as Ernie said the word ‘spoon’, the book fell open at the appropriate page.
I’m not superstitious. Not in the slightest. I don’t generally cower at black cats, and I’m happy to walk under, over, up, down or any which way you like, around a ladder. But even I felt a slight shiver sprint up my spine. I glanced at the page.
The Spoon of Doom was never meant to feed the needy, but to serve up grief to the mean and greedy.
‘Let me see,’ said Mandy, peering over my shoulder. But I shrugged her off.
The spoon is believed to have belonged to Meg Muldoon, a witch who was burned at the stake in Shrewsbury in 1649.
I momentarily lost my place, as a sleek black sports car pulled out in front of us and Ernie slammed on the brakes.
‘Snoodle,’ snapped Ernie. ‘Curse that man!’
I read on…
The spoon was said to be possessed by evil spirits and was used by Meg to mix up her foul potions.
Before she was burned, Meg cursed those who condemned her and said that anyone who used the spoon would be smothered alive.
Her curse came true. After the burning, when the sticks on her pyre were still smouldering and spitting, a ‘calamitous commotion’ ensued in the White Swan public house in Shrewsbury Square, whereby several people drowned in a fast-flowing barrel of ale.
I gasped. So the Spoon of Doom was a witch’s spoon…
Reports thereafter are sketchy, but years later the spoon reappeared. It was referred to in an account of the sinking of a cargo ship the Sally Ann, which sunk off Shutter’s Reef, Lundy, with all hands lost in 1724. One passenger, a trader named Ling, survived to bring word of the wreck. And he talked of a hellish spoon that had flooded the ship’s galley and caused the ship to flounder.
‘Anyone for fish and chips?’ said Ernie cheerfully. ‘We could stop off on the way home.’
I nodded, but carried on reading…
The spoon appears to have been recovered; it is mentioned again in the journals of Samuel Boden, a merchant who travelled in Russia in the nineteenth century. In a letter to his sister, he writes of visiting a ruined village in the Urals, which had been swallowed up by a foul swamp of rotten oatmeal that locals blamed on a cursed spoon.
Could that have been the village Uncle Percy’s man had visited?
‘Peas or beans, Albert?’
We’d stopped outside the Fry & Buy (the town chippy).
‘Pickled onions for me,’ chirped Mandy.
‘Anything,’ I said.
(Anything as long as it wasn’t served with a spoon.)
Mum was home by the time they dropped me off. She was out watering Dad’s bugs (soft bellies like it soggy). She smiled when she saw me.
‘Dad’s going to be fine,’ she beamed. ‘He’s got a bit of a headache and needs to stay in overnight so they can keep an eye on him. But he’s definitely on the mend.’
It was good news. And suddenly I felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. It didn’t matter about the spoon, or Snoodle, so long as Dad was going to be OK.
Then Mum ruined it all.
‘But your dad and I have been talking, Albert, and we both think we should sell Piddler’s to Mr Snoodle.’
What?
‘But you can’t,’ I gasped.
I suddenly thought of Ernie and the porridgers, and Snoodle’s plans to flatten the factory so he could build his own super-sized noodle plant.
Mum plonked a pile of lettuce on the ground for the slugs, and shrugged.
‘I know it seems a bit hasty…’
A bit?
‘And in some ways I’d like to keep the factory. But your dad’s just not comfortable there.’
I grimaced. After everything Dad had been through with his uncle and the spoon, I could sort of understand his feelings. But still…
‘Anyway,’ said Mum, tossing more lettuce on the ground, ‘we’re not business people. The factory needs an expert in charge.’
‘But I could run it,’ I yelped.
(OK, I couldn’t. But maybe Ernie could?)
‘No, you can’t, Albert. You’ve got school… Hey! Watch out,’ she squeaked, leaping forward to retrieve a small snail that was a wiggle away from my left foot. She put down the snail in a safer part of the swamp and headed for the worms.
I chased after her, trying not to squish any more squashy stuff.
‘But, Mum,’ I said desperately, ‘Snoodle just wants to knock Piddler’s down to build a bigger noodle factory.’
‘You don’t know that,’ said Mum firmly. Then she softened and sighed. ‘Look, I know you’re excited about Piddler’s, but kids change their minds. Next week you might be more interested in brain surgery … or being a bin man … or you might grow to love bugs like us.’
Never. No way. Not Ever.
‘Oh, look,’ she said, suddenly pointing at a scuttling bug. ‘It’s a tortoise beetle.’
I rolled my eyes and gritted my teeth. It’s useless trying to have a serious conversation with anyone the slightest bit interested in bugs. They’re just so easily distracted. Instead, I slunk off to my bedroom. I’d intended to read more of that book, but as soon as my head hit the pillow, I crashed out.
And that’s how I stayed until the bullet hit my window.
The assassin was small and pink. And exceedingly moany.
‘Albert! Albert Grub! Get up. I need you.’
What? I sat up, as another bullet chipped the glass.
‘Grub,’ shrieked the voice again. ‘Come on!’
It felt like one of those nightmares that are so real you can touch them. And then I realised it wasn’t bullets hitting my window, it was stones. (Actually it was snail shells. That’s all Mandy could find. But empty ones, of course.)
‘What do you want?’ I growled, as I thrust my head out the window. (Honestly, why don’t people ever knock on doors in times of trouble?)
‘There’s something happening at Piddler’s,’ she shrieked in a sort of high-pitched stage whisper, which I reckoned the whole street could hear. ‘Grandad’s gone up there. And I think he might be in trouble.’
I didn’t have time to dress. I just pulled on my coat over my PJs and found my shoes. Of course, what I should have done is wake Mum and get her to drive us. But if there was a problem at Piddler’s, I didn’t want her to know about it. (I didn’t want to give her any more excuses to flog our inheritance.)
In five minutes I was on my bike, trying to keep up with Mandy.
‘Grandad phoned my parents,’ she yelled, pedalling manically in front. ‘He saw smoke coming from Piddler’s chimney, and he’s gone to check it out.’
‘Why didn’t he call us?’ I puffed. After all, we were legally in charge now.
‘He didn’t want to worry your mum – what with your dad taking a tumble and all… Can’t you pedal any faster, Albert?’
No, I couldn’t. I am not a born cyclist. Mandy, on the other hand, looked like she was in the Tour de France. I think she secretly has a pair of porridger’s legs, rather than the usual forearms.
It was all uphill, but eventually we arrived at the front gate of the factory. In the darkness it looked terrifying. People say old houses are scary at night. They might be. But this was something else. The dark bulk of the building loomed over us. And I’m ashamed to say that I nearly turned tail and cycled home. I realised then that I am not brave. Not at all. And I was just about to suggest to Mandy that we’d be better off coming back in the morning, when I suddenly spotted a light.
‘What’s that?’ I whispered.
Mandy peered into the darkness. ‘Th
at’s the porridge room,’ she said.
At the far end of the factory, in the part that overlooked the town, there was definitely something going on inside. Then…
‘Listen,’ Mandy said.
I gasped. ‘Old Bertha?’
She nodded.
We could hear the heavy drone of Piddler’s generator, and a strange sensation gripped my knees. I felt cold and hot at the same time.
‘I think someone’s using the spoon,’ I said quietly.
Mandy frowned and then, without another word, she threw down her bike and began climbing over the gate.
‘Come on, Albert,’ she bellowed. ‘My grandad’s in there.’
Reluctantly, I followed. By the time I’d got one leg over the top of the gate, Mandy was already bounding up the path, heading for the doors.
‘Grandad!’ she shouted, rattling them madly. ‘GRANDAD!’
I caught up with her, panting and breathless. My heart was racing. My hands felt sweaty. Something or someone bad was inside the factory. I could feel it.
Chapter Fourteen
The doors were locked.
‘Is there another way in?’ I said, trying to sound keen. Really, I’d have preferred to scarper while we still had the chance.
Mandy shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. One of the canteen windows, maybe…’
I followed her round the side of the factory.
She peered up. ‘That one,’ she said, pointing out a particularly puny-looking window. ‘It’s got a rotten frame.’
I wasn’t quite sure what she had in mind.
‘Come on, Albert. Stick a brick through it!’
What? Who did she think I was?
‘Just wrap your coat round your hand and you won’t cut yourself.’
How did she know how to break a window?
Mandy frowned. ‘Don’t you watch telly?’
I didn’t think now was the time to tell her about our telly – the fuzzy picture makes it difficult to see anything most of the time. Instead, I grabbed the brick, closed my eyes and went for it.
Of course it worked.
‘I’ll go through,’ said Mandy, shoving me aside. ‘I’m smaller than you.’
I’m glad she did – the edges were razor sharp, but somehow Mandy wriggled through without so much as snagging her perfect pink tights.
‘I’m in,’ she said dropping to the ground. ‘I’ll open the kitchen door for you.’
Piddler’s really was a disgrace. No security system. No security guards. Not even any decent windows. Mind you – who’d want to steal a pile of porridge?
‘Come on, Albert,’ said Mandy, as I followed her inside. ‘We’ve got to find Grandad.’
I didn’t think that would be a problem. I knew exactly where he’d be.
‘The porridge room,’ I said quietly.
Mandy froze. ‘You’re not saying Grandad’s involved in all of this?’
Of course I wasn’t. Well, not really. But someone had the spoon, I was sure of it. And by now I reckoned poor old Ernie Moon was probably up to his neck in Piddler’s Pride.
It’s a good job Mandy knew her way round. I wouldn’t have had a clue how to find the porridge room. We tiptoed down the dark corridors until we reached the place with the overalls. And then, with a deep breath and a pounding heart, we pushed open the doors.
I blinked at the light. White light, burning bright. And then the smell hit me like a wall. I struggled to breathe.
The factory was running at full pelt. Thousands of tins were thundering along the conveyor belt, each fighting for their turn under the enormous porridge pot. Through the steam, I could vaguely see Ernie, running wildly around the room, his arms full of tins. He was struggling to keep up, and puddles of porridge covered the conveyor belt.
Then I looked up to the gantry, and my heart missed a beat. Because there, standing stirring the enormous porridge pot, was the skeletal ghost of Percival Piddler himself.
My mouth turned dry and I swallowed a scream. I wanted to run away, but my legs wouldn’t work. And then his black eyes locked onto mine.
‘But you’re dead!’ I gasped.
The ghost grinned and gave a horrible cackle.
I shuddered. It had no teeth. (Mind you, dead men don’t need a good set of gnashers.)
‘Get out of here!’ shouted Ernie, from the other side of the floor. ‘Get out, while you still can.’
But my legs wouldn’t work.
Mandy’s did. But she didn’t escape. Instead, she scrambled over to Ernie and started loading tins.
It wasn’t enough. Hot porridge was pouring onto the floor; a steaming carpet of bubbling breakfast gunk. And still I couldn’t take my eyes off the phantom porridger. Then suddenly I came to my senses. Dead men don’t make porridge. This was no ghost. This was Percy Piddler himself.
A current of crossness crackled through my bones. ‘It was all a lie!’ I shouted at him. (Extra loud in case he was hard of hearing.) ‘You tricked us all – just to get your hands on that stupid spoon.’
He didn’t deny it. He just grinned back at me.
And then I was off. I hurled myself across the factory floor, slipping and skidding on the porridge, which was lapping against the walls, and still rising. I took the steps two at a time, and suddenly I was standing before him on the gantry. He didn’t look scary any more. He was just a super-skinny old man. (With a spoon.)
Cross as I was, I couldn’t help but peer into the porridge pot next to him. I gasped. I had to admit it was amazing. Not to look at, of course. Nope. It looked just like any other bog-standard wooden spoon you’d pick up for a pound in a bargain basement. But amazingly it was stirring the pot all by itself. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Round and round. Faster and faster. And the quicker it stirred, the more porridge it made.
‘You’ve got to stop it,’ shouted Ernie from down below. ‘We’ve run out of tins and we haven’t got any buckets big enough. Please, Percy – stop it.’
‘Never!’ growled Percy. ‘It’s my spoon. It’s my factory. And if I want to fill it with porridge, I will.’
See – mad. Mad as cheese. I’m never sure how to treat mad people. Is it best to go along with them? Agree with them? Make helpful suggestions? Or tell them straight? I opted for the latter.
‘But you won’t have a factory left if you don’t stop that spoon.’
Percy Piddler scowled at me. ‘I don’t care. I’m 98.’ (As if that made it OK.)
‘Well, if you won’t stop it, I will,’ I said, trying to sound manly, though I didn’t feel it.
I eyed the steaming pot nervously. I don’t know how my dad found the courage to stick his hand inside, all those years ago. From where I was standing, the spoon was spinning so fast it looked like it would chop my hands off in an instant. (See. I’m no bug man – I’m not the slightest bit brave.)
And still the porridge flowed.
Ernie was now standing in a sea of the stuff, trying to stop himself from being swept away. Mandy had climbed on top of a pallet of Piddler’s Pride and was yelling her head off. And then there was a crash, and I turned to see one of the large glass windows at the end of the factory shatter, and the porridge begin pushing outside.
‘You’ll flood the town, Percy,’ shouted Ernie. ‘Think of the people.’
‘I am thinking of them,’ growled Percy. ‘They’ll wake up with breakfast in bed!
Another window crashed, and still the pot kept pumping out porridge.
I looked at the spoon and felt my stomach twist. There was nothing else for it. Just as my dad had done, I’d have to stick my hand in that boiling pot and stop it myself.
But as I reached forward, another thought burst into my brain. I’ve no idea how. Or why. But I suddenly remembered Dad’s worm. Perhaps bug men are telepathic and Dad was somehow helping me – or more likely the porridge pong was getting to me again – but suddenly a vision of that worm popped into my head. What was it Dad had called it – a gobbler worm. A worm with as good an appetite as
him…
I felt in my coat pocket. Yep, it was still there where I’d stuffed it after I’d left Snoodle’s office. I pulled out the box and peered at the worm. It was certainly big. And horrible looking. And then a tiny spark of an idea took shape. If this worm really had an appetite, could it eat porridge? Bucket-loads of porridge… A factory full of porridge? Not on its own, of course, but maybe with a little help from some friends?
I didn’t stop to think things through. With a silent apology to the worm for its brave sacrifice, I tossed it into the porridge pot and closed my eyes.
Chapter Fifteen
‘What are you doing?’ screamed Percy.
I hardly dared look.
There was a hiss. And a thump. And a loud bang. And the spoon suddenly stopped, like someone had stuck a stick in the spokes of a wheel. For a moment I actually thought that one worm (a wonder worm perhaps) had somehow stopped the spoon. But no. After missing a beat, the spoon slowly started stirring again. Round and round. Up and down. Faster and faster…
My heart sank. I’d murdered the worm for absolutely no reason. How would I face Dad? Then suddenly there was a high-pitched squeal from down below.
‘Worms!’ screamed Mandy.
I peered over the edge of the gantry, and watched as the porridge pot started squirting out porridge again, but this porridge was different. It was still the same grey gunk, but each squirt also contained a handful of big fat gobbler worms.
The spoon was still making porridge, but it was also making worms – hundreds of worms!
Percy’s eyes were out on stalks. ‘What have you done?’ he screamed. ‘My lovely porridge.’
We both stared down at the scene below.
Ernie was now standing in a writhing, wriggling mess of porridge and worms. And still more of them blobbed out.
‘They’re gobbler worms, Ernie,’ I yelled down. ‘We won’t drown in porridge – they’ll swallow the stuff.’ (I was crossing my fingers behind my back at this point. Because to be perfectly honest, I hadn’t really been paying attention to my dad’s description of the qualities of the gobbler worm.)
‘But who’ll eat the worms?’ Ernie yelled back, ever so slightly cross sounding.
