by Guy Bass
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
FOREWORD
PROLOGUE
THE FIRST CHAPTER
THE SECOND CHAPTER
THE THIRD CHAPTER
THE FOURTH CHAPTER
THE FIFTH CHAPTER
THE SIXTH CHAPTER
THE SEVENTH CHAPTER
THE EIGHTH CHAPTER
THE NINTH CHAPTER
THE TENTH CHAPTER
THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER
THE TWELFTH CHAPTER
THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER
THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER
THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER
THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER
THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER
THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER
THE NINETEENTH CHAPTER
THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER
THE TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER
THE TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER
THE TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER
THE TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER
THE TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
OTHER BOOKS IN THE SERIES
In the darkness, Little Albert spotted Grotteskew,
The castle stood upon a hill; ’twas evil through and through.
So Little Albert climbed the hill to see if it was true
That monsters lurked within its walls
(I wouldn’t have – would you?)
What did he spot? What did he see? It seems we’ll never know.
For Little Albert vanished, and the town was full of woe.
Behold! The uncertain pleasure of Grubbers Nubbin at night! With the lamp lights extinguished, it was as dark as bad dreams, bone-achingly cold and, more often than not, almost too quiet. Who knew what creatures lurked in the dark? Who could say what pant-wettingly terrifying monstrosities waited in the shadows, eager to rain chaos and terror upon the townsfolk? The horrors! The horrors!
But to be honest, hardly anything ever actually happened. It was usually less eventful than a sneeze. The most excitement you could expect was a spot of stargazing.
“What d’you see, Arabella?” asked the old woman, pointing her walking stick to the sky.
“Stars?” replied Arabella. She was an untidy girl of three years old, with an unwashed face and hair like a bird’s nest. She glanced down at her brand-new pair of well polished boots. “Kick the stars!”
“Now, now, we don’t kick stars, Arabella … but only ’cause we can’t reach ’em!” the old woman cackled. She peered up into the sky, her expression suddenly distant and strange. “It’s like my own nan used to say – stars are for gazing at.”
“Gazing’s bore-ding,” groaned Arabella, running in circles and flapping her arms like a bird.
“Yep! Ain’t nothin’ duller except watching paint dry,” agreed Arabella’s nan. “But that’s ’ow life is – my old nan taught me gazing, now I’m teachin’ you. So let’s get started, before we freeze our nostrils off.” She waved her stick at the sky. “The idea’s to find consternations – shapes ’n’ such made out o’ the stars. See that big bunch up there? That’s called the Old Sock … that lot over there’s the Clod of Mud … there’s the Half a Turnip…”
“Mud is boring, turnips is boring, stars is boring,” huffed Arabella. “Grubbadubbin is boring.”
“Oi! Don’t knock boring, you mucky rotten goat – life is better when it’s boring,” chided Arabella’s nan. “Right, now you try. What do you see?”
Arabella huffed and then peered up into the sky, squinting to make out shapes. For the longest time the stars just looked like stars. But then, slowly, a shape began to emerge within the distant clusters.
“I see … I see…” Arabella said. “A monster!”
“A what? Crusty bloomers! Hush your mouth!” shrieked her nan.
“Monster! Monster! Monster!” cried Arabella, pointing up at the sky. “The sky’s full of monsters!”
“Hush, I say!” hissed Arabella’s nan. “Where did you get such an imagination? Not from me, that’s for certain! No good can come from thinking such thoughts or saying such words!”
“But I like monsters,” replied Arabella defiantly. Then she thought for a moment and added, “Nan, are monsters real?”
Arabella’s nan turned and glanced up to the top of a nearby hill. There loomed Castle Grotteskew. The castle was the home of Mad Professor Erasmus, the maddest mad professor of all. The townsfolk of Grubbers Nubbin lived in constant fear of the castle. Some claimed to have heard roars and screams coming from inside … others to have seen strange things atop the castle walls … not-human things. Rumour had it that Professor Erasmus made monsters.
But everyone agreed that the castle was to be avoided at all costs.
Everyone except Arabella.
“Castle Grotty-skoo!” she squealed, following her nan’s gaze up to the castle. “Monsters!”
“Now, you listen to me, Arabella Guff,” said Nan, taking Arabella by the shoulders. “Monsters ain’t to be liked or to be looked for, not ever. Monsters ain’t nothing but trouble.”
“But I like trouble, too,” said Arabella.
“I’m serious!” snapped her nan. “I want you to promise me, no more talk about monsters. No more even thinking about monsters. And certainly no seeing ’em in the blinkin’ stars!”
“But—”
“Promise me,” said Arabella’s nan again.
Arabella sighed. “I promise,” she grumbled, scuffing the ground with her feet.
“Good girl.” Arabella’s nan pointed her stick up into the air. “Now try again, what do you see?”
Arabella looked up at the sky, and shrugged. “Old sock?” she said.
“That’s more like it!” Her nan breathed a long sigh of relief, as a grin f lashed across Arabella’s face.
“And monsters,” she whispered to herself.
“GRR…”
A great, clawed hand reached around the dungeon door, pushing it open with a rusty creeeaak. A monstrous thing of implausible proportions stepped inside. The beastly Creature’s three arms stretched out, tail and tentacles writhing, its single glaring eye probing the darkness.
“GRRoOoWRR…” it whispered.
It loomed over a tiny, makeshift bed on the floor, upon which lay an even tinier, almost-human shape, covered from head to toe in a blanket. The Creature bared a mouthful of jagged teeth. It extended its largest, most-clawed arm and dragged the blanket from the bed, with a blood-curdling roar.
The bed was empty but for a pile of rags.
“Boo,” whispered Stitch Head, hopping out from behind a crate.
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeee—!” the Creature squealed in surprise. The sound was so high-pitched and shrill that even the tiniest mouse would have considered it feeble. The Creature flung its arms and tentacles in every direction as it dived in horror behind a pile of boxes.
“Don’t HURT me, monster!” howled the Creature. “I’m too YOUNG and CREATIVE to die!”
“It’s all right, Creature, it’s me! It’s Stitch Head!” cried Stitch Head.
As the first creation of Mad Professor Erasmus, Stitch Head was also his least monstrous. He was small, slight and barely taller than a toddler, with a patchwork of stitches covering his ashen face.
“Stitch Head? I KNEW that!” the Creature lied, clambering out from behind the boxes and trying to look casual. The Creature was one of the professor’s more-recent creations. In stark contrast to Stitch Head, it was a massive, menacingly monstrous mishmash, with three arms, numerous tentacles and a single, cyclopean eye in the centre of its face. But since Stitch Head had cured it of a nasty case of werewolfism, it was as gentle as a kitten’s lick.
“NICE idea, making a FAKE you out of RAGS,” the Creature added, inspecting the b
ed. “I NEARLY lost my ICE-cool COMPOSURE…”
“I-I didn’t mean to scare you,” said Stitch Head. “I learned that trick while I was escaping from my master’s last creation. Of course, she was trying to pull my arms off…”
“GOOD old ANTOINETTE. How IS she?” the Creature asked.
“Much better for a dose of Psycho Path to Enlightenment potion,” said Stitch Head. “She prefers sewing to savagery now.”
“GREAT! She can join my KNIT WITS and SEW-AND-SEWS Crochet Club!” boomed the Creature excitedly.
Stitch Head smiled. It made a nice change to have only the odd rampaging creation to worry about. He had spent his almost-life keeping the professor and Castle Grotteskew safe, even though his master had all but forgotten he existed. But after the events of recent months (attempted kidnappings, angry mobs, ghostly hauntings and the castle almost burning down, not to mention an entirely chaotic visit from a hundred human orphans) it finally seemed as though almost-life was returning to normal – or as normal as it could be.
“There you are,” said a voice. Stitch Head and the Creature turned to see Arabella standing in the doorway. She was a determinedly scruffy girl of nearly eleven, with a thick, tangled mess of bird’s-nest hair. Only her polished boots were vaguely presentable. “What are you playing? I’m bored out of my brain!” she added.
“Only the GREATEST game EVER!” declared the Creature. “It’s called Let’s Pretend We’re MONSTERS.”
“Let’s pretend we’re…?” began Arabella. “But you are monsters.”
“No, but REAL monsters,” said the Creature. “MONSTROUS monsters, like the ones the PROFESSOR makes! I mean, before Stitch Head CURES them.”
“That sounds like the stupidest idea for a game I ever heard,” chuckled Arabella. “Can I play?”
“Of course! IVO is still HIDING around here SOMEWHERE, waiting to TERRIFY our HEADS off,” boomed the Creature. “SO, do you want to be a MONSTER or an unsuspecting VICTIM … or BOTH?”
“Monster! Obviously,” Arabella replied.
“You can take my place,” said a relieved Stitch Head. He collected his shoulder bag and carefully began filling it with potion bottles. “I should check on the professor’s newest creation. It’s only a day or so off being awakened…”
“Stitch Head, have you ever thought it might be a bit more exciting if you didn’t make all the prof’s monsters un-monstrous?” said Arabella. “I mean, it’s so blinkin’ boring around here.”
“But – but I like boring,” said Stitch Head, imagining the havoc his master’s creations might cause if he didn’t create potions to relieve their rage. He slung the potion bag over his shoulder. “Boring means no one is running for their lives.”
“You sound like my ol’ nan – she loved boring. Come on, I’ll show you,” said Arabella. With that, she ducked under the Creature’s legs and up the dungeon steps.
“What? Where are we going?” asked Stitch Head, hurrying after her.
“WAIT, what about our GAME?” the Creature called after them. “We STILL haven’t FOUND—”
“Boo!”
The oval head of Ivo suddenly popped out from the Creature’s coat pocket. Despite his tiny, doll-like stature and cloak of rags, the sight was too much for the Creature to take.
“Eeeeeeeeeeeee—!”
Stitch Head followed Arabella up a series of steep, winding staircases until they reached the castle ramparts.
“W-what are we doing out here?” asked Stitch Head, who generally preferred a ceiling over his head to an endless expanse of sky.
“You like boring? Well, stargazing has boring coming out of its ears,” said Arabella. “I used to gaze with my ol’ nan, back in the day. It’s as dull as counting cobbles.”
Stitch Head peered upwards. It was a clear spring night and the stars looked as bright as he had ever seen them. “What do I have to do?” he asked.
“Just look up and then pretend like the stars make shapes,” replied Arabella. “You see that big blob of ’em over there? That’s the Picked Nose. And that run of ’em there? That’s the Gob o’ Spit. Now you try…”
“Uh, OK…” said Stitch Head, still confused as to how the “game” worked. He looked up. “I see, uh … the cluster of stars?”
“Cluster of—Stargazing ain’t that boring!” laughed Arabella. “You have to make somethin’ out of nothin’. Go on, have another go…”
Stitch Head stared upwards again, searching for a discernible shape among the constellations. He peered at the stars for what seemed like forever, the wind whistling around the ramparts, the distant sound of his master’s mad cackles echoing from deep within the castle.
“Wait, I think I see something,” he muttered at last. “I see … an egg? A giant … flying … egg?”
“Now you’re getting it!” chuckled Arabella.
“No, I mean I can really see it,” added Stitch Head, pointing upwards. “Look! A giant flying egg!”
Arabella squinted. A huge, white oval shape was soaring through the sky towards them, looming ever larger. It looked for all the world like a giant flying egg.
“Blimey, that must be some chicken!” said Arabella.
“It’s – it’s coming this way…” muttered Stitch Head.
As the shape drew closer, it became clear that the egg was in fact some sort of oddly shaped balloon made from taut white fabric. Beneath it, suspended by four wires was a strange wooden contraption like a tiny horse cart. Four metal wings protruded from its sides, flapping creakily up and down, down and up, while at its back, propellers whirred noisily, spluttering and spitting. The flying machine banked in the air – left then right – before heading straight towards them.
“It’s gonna crash! Move!” Arabella cried, knocking Stitch Head to the ground as the strange object swooped over their heads, grazing the walls of the castle and skimming the ramparts. It bounced and skidded before finally careening into a tower with an almighty…
“Blimey!” shouted Arabella as the flying machine skidded to an unwieldy halt, plumes of smoke pouring from its engine. “What the blinkin’ stink…?”
“Are you all right?” said Stitch Head, scrambling to his feet. “What is that th—”
“Great thunder! The take-offs are a cinch but the landings are rougher than a rhino’s rump!”
From inside the flying machine’s wooden cockpit emerged a large, muscular figure … a human. As she planted her feet firmly on the ramparts, her fists pressed against her hips, Stitch Head saw that she was taller and more broad-shouldered than any human he had ever seen. She was dressed in a leather jacket and khaki trousers. On one hip was a holstered pistol, on the other an impressive hunting knife and she wore a coiled length of rope slung over her shoulder. Upon her head sat a large safari hat, complete with goggles, that went some way to containing her thick, loosely bound bun of bright, silver hair.
“Your mouths are justly agape, for even the curly beaked Andruvean Condor could not have executed such a graceful landing!” said the woman with a wink, her voice as deep as a chasm.
“Graceful? You near killed us, you mucky rotten goat!” shouted Arabella, as Stitch Head ducked behind her. “I ought to kick your nose off!”
“What a marvellously mad moppet!” the woman guffawed, peering admiringly at Arabella. “Why, you remind me of the Leopard Man of Lumbuktah – wild and fierce, with hair that cannot be tamed by brush alone!”
“Eh?” said Arabella, more than a little taken aback.
Stitch Head peered at the strange human. He was gripped with dread. Who was she? What did she want? And more importantly, how soon could he get rid of her? After all, Professor Erasmus had one rule and one rule only: no visitors.
“No visitors!” Stitch Head echoed his master’s instruction in an urgent whisper to Arabella.
“Keep your stitches on,” Arabella replied. “She’s just some old biddy. How much trouble can she be?”
“So, do you like my most excellent sky carriage? I built
it myself!” boomed the woman obliviously. “They said it couldn’t be done, but they are full of trumps and humbugs, don’t you think? If the mind dares to dream, there is nothing that cannot be achieved! Of course, it also helps if you have oodles of cold, hard cash.”
“N-no visitors!” said Stitch Head, this time loud enough for the woman to hear.
“Ah, but like the spotless jaguar, I am the exception that proves the rule!” the woman laughed. “I have been known by many names – the Princess of Persiana, the Queen of Kartumba, the Tigress of Tindin Singh, Dances with a Hat On … or, quite simply, Lady Dorothea Drucilla Dolores Day-Drummond-Day Dauntless! But you can call me Dotty!”
“Dotty Dauntless?” said Arabella, trying out the name.
“I was born in a thunderstorm with hair upon my head and a quest between my ears!” continued Dotty Dauntless. “I travelled here on a wing and a dream across two oceans and three continents … over deserts, mountains, jungles and lands untold! I do what I am, and I am what I seek: mystery, discovery, adventure and excitement!”
Excitement! thought Stitch Head in horror. What happened to boring?
“And now for you!” continued Dotty, glaring at Arabella. “Do not tell me your name; I shall certainly deduce it, for my mind is as sharp as the spears of the Unblunta tribe! From your manner I would say you are not used to waiting, so your name must be early in the alphabet. At the same time, you resent the name for you think it too pretty – trop belle, as the French-folk would say. But not Belle, for I am sure even ‘B’ is too long to wait… Only an ‘A’ name will do for you, so then your name must surely be – not Annabelle but – Arabella!”
“Blimey,” said Arabella. She was as speechless as Stitch Head had ever seen her.
“And what’s this? Some sort of pet?” continued Dotty Dauntless, pointing at Stitch Head. “I’ll bet my lucky hat your name is Scamp. A fine pet’s name!”
“Pet? He ain’t no pet,” said Arabella. “His name is Stitch Head and he’s the first creation of the maddest mad professor of all!”
