Stitch Head

  Table of Contents

  FOREWORD

  PROLOGUE

  THE FIRST CHAPTER

  LIFE IN CASTLE GROTTESKEW

  THE SECOND CHAPTER

  WEREWOLF EXTRACT

  THE THIRD CHAPTER

  THE WHOLE INSANE MONSTROUS RAMPAGE THING

  THE FOURTH CHAPTER

  A TOUR OF THE CASTLE

  THE FIFTH CHAPTER

  AT HOME WITH STITCH HEAD

  THE SIXTH CHAPTER

  VISITORS

  THE SEVENTH CHAPTER

  CREATURE COMFORTS

  THE EIGHTH CHAPTER

  CLIMBING THE WALLS

  THE NINTH CHAPTER

  FREAK LIKE ME

  THE TENTH CHAPTER

  DINGLE DANGLE

  THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER

  STITCH HEAD'S DECISION

  THE TWELFTH CHAPTER

  ARABELLA

  THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER

  PLANS AND POTIONS

  THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER

  AWAKENINGS AND INTRODUCTIONS

  THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER

  THE SIEGE OF CASTLE GROTTESKEW

  THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER

  SAVING THE PROFESSOR

  EPILOGUE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  Tommy Toot, upon a hill,

  Tooted a smell that made him ill.

  Did his best to find a loo

  Within the walls of Grotteskew.

  In went Tommy through the gate,

  And there he met his awful fate.

  So if you feel a toot a-comin’,

  Run back home to Grubbers Nubbin!

  It was the night that everything changed. The circus had come to Grubbers Nubbin. Or rather —

  — had come to Grubbers Nubbin.

  “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! Fresh from our . . . sell-out world tour!” cried fat Fulbert Freakfinder, atop his colorfully daubed horse-drawn carriage. He was handing out posters for his show to anyone who passed by. Three more curtain-covered carriages followed behind, trundle-clopping along the lamplit cobbles of the main street.

  “Dare you gaze upon the impossible creatures lurkin’ behind these drapes? You’ll need all your nerve to behold these monsters! You’ll scream! You’ll gasp! You’ll wet your undergarments! Behold . . . and be horrified!”

  As a crowd gathered around the carriages, Freakfinder leaped down onto the cobbled street. He was distractingly short and round, with legs so stick-thin they looked as if they might buckle under his weight. He wore a battered top hat and tailcoat, which, a long time ago, might have been rather splendid. He grinned as he pulled back the curtain on the first carriage. The carriage was a cage, and inside . . .

  “Preeeesenting . . . Doctor Contortion, the Human Knot! Watch in disbelief as he bends his body in impossible ways!” cried Freakfinder, pointing at a tall, stiff man trying desperately to get his foot behind his head.

  “Stupid leg . . . bend!” mumbled Doctor Contortion to his leg. “Everyone’s . . . looking!”

  “Moving along . . .” grunted Freakfinder, shaking his head. “Brace your breeches for Madame Moustache, the woman with the well-combed face!” Freakfinder pulled back the second curtain. Inside was a burly old woman with a horse’s tail glued to her chin.

  “It pays the bills,” said Madame Moustache.

  “And prepare to have your world turned upside down by the Topsy-Turvy Twins!” In the third cage were two tiny, wizened men, struggling to do handstands.

  “Here come the cramps!” said the men in unison, and immediately toppled over.

  “Oh, cruel, cruel nature! Come closer, if your constitution can stand it! But try not to be sick on my shoes. Just sixpence a stare!” cried Freakfinder.

  No one came closer.

  Nor was there any screaming. Or gasping. In fact, no one so much as batted an eyelid. After a moment, the crowd carried on about their business.

  Except for one untidy, wide-eyed girl . . . who started to giggle.

  “Your freaks ain’t scary,” she chuckled. “Why, they ain’t even freaks!”

  “Oh, you like to laugh at a fellow down on his luck, do you? Go on, clear off, you little snot, before I set the twins on you!” snapped Freakfinder. “Oh, blow it all to smithereens! What’s the point? It’s the same in every town — not so much as a trickle of nervous wee from anyone. What does it take to put a peculiar fear into folks these days? I’ll tell you what — I need to find me a better class of freak.”

  “Sorry, boss,” said Doctor Contortion, now trying to get his foot to touch his chin. “We’re doing our best.”

  “Your best has yet to be anythin’ but a disappointment, Maurice,” grumbled Freakfinder. “The fact is people just aren’t so easy to scare any more. Well, I’m not givin’ up! I’ve been in the horror-show business my whole life, and I’m not about to chuck it all in!”

  “You were never going to scare us, anyway,” said the girl, who hadn’t cleared off in the slightest. “This is Grubbers Nubbin. Folks around here have got plenty to be scared of already.”

  “Is that right? And what, pray tell, are they so afraid of?” asked Freakfinder.

  Suddenly, a hideous, blood-freezing, gut-churning,

  filled the air. The townsfolk shrieked and scattered in all directions, running into their houses and bolting the doors.

  “That,” said the girl, pointing up into the darkness. There was a clap of thunder, and a streak of lightning lit up the night sky. In the distance was a huge, dark castle atop a hill. Freakfinder felt a shiver run down to his toes and back up again as another heart-stopping roar came from the castle.

  “Lugs and mumbles, what — what is that?” asked Freakfinder.

  “Monsters,” whispered the girl, her dark eyes glistening like beads in the moonlight.

  “Monsters? What monsters? What are you blitherin’ about?” asked Freakfinder.

  “Folks say the castle’s full of them. We hear roaring and screaming . . . and some reckon they’ve seen things atop the castle walls. Not-human things,” replied the girl. “The whole town’s petrified . . . but not me. I ain’t scared of nothing.”

  “Arabella! Come inside this instant!” screamed an old lady, darting out of a nearby house and grabbing the girl.

  “Wait! Little snot! I mean, little girl! What is that place? Who lives there?” cried Freakfinder.

  “That’s Castle Grotteskew! Home of Mad Professor Erasmus!” shouted the girl, as she was dragged inside. “He makes monsters! Creatures! Crazy things!”

  “Does he now?” muttered Freakfinder . . . and an evil grin spread across his face like a disease.

  Lucy, Lucy, good and true,

  Went to Castle Grotteskew.

  Thought she’d see what lurked inside,

  But for her troubles, Lucy died.

  Before she perished, she did say,

  “Monsters! Creatures! Go away!”

  Around eighteen minutes before Fulbert Freakfinder’s Traveling Carnival of Unnatural Wonders trundled into Grubbers Nubbin, Mad Professor Erasmus was in his laboratory, working very hard on his latest experiment.

  According to popular opinion, Mad Professor Erasmus was the maddest mad professor of all. He spent day and night in his laboratory, breathing life (or something like it) into any number of brain-meltingly strange creatures: steam-powered skulls, dog-faced cats, headless horses, flesh-eating chairs, frog-children — that sort of thing.

  “Live . . . Live! Ah-ha-HA-HA! You shall be my greatest creation ever! And I really mea
n it this time!”

  The professor always thought that his newest creation was bound to be his greatest ever. That is, until the next one came along.

  As soon as he brought almost-life to a new creature, he immediately lost interest and moved on to his next peculiar project.

  “More power! Live, I say!” he cried, pulling levers and administering potions.

  High up in the rafters, hidden in the shadows, a tiny figure watched as the professor created almost-life for the umpteenth time.

  His name was Stitch Head.

  Stitch Head was the professor’s very first creation. He was a strange-looking something or other — more or less human-shaped, but no bigger than a medium-sized monkey, and made up of bits, pieces, and spare parts that the professor had managed to find. His bald, round head was a patchwork of stitches, and his eyes were different colors. While the left was a small, black bead, the right was large, bright, and ice blue.

  This eye was a sight to behold. It almost seemed to glow in the castle’s dimly lit corners.

  “Yes, yes! Now we’re cooking! More power! More! Now a little less . . . now more! More! MORE! Live!” cried the professor again.

  Over the years, Stitch Head had witnessed the “birth” of dozens of the professor’s creations. And with each one, he was reminded how, once, he was the most important creation in the professor’s life . . . that he and the professor had promised to be friends for the rest of their days.

  But that was an almost-lifetime ago. Now, Stitch Head was long forgotten. He sighed as he watched this new monster open its giant, single eye for the first time.

  “I have done it! I have created almost-life! Again! You are my GREATEST CREATION EVER! YAH-AHAHA-HAHAHA!” cackled the professor.

  Stitch Head had to admit, the Creature was an impressive sight — far bigger and more imposing than anything the professor had created before. What’s more, it had a near perfect balance of disgustingness and monstrousness. It flexed its two huge arms, pulling at the thick leather straps that held it in place — and wiggled a third, small arm protruding from its chest, as its master shrieked with victorious glee.

  Stitch Head looked down at his tiny, mismatched hands, and felt sadder and more forgotten than ever.

  Stitch Head watched as the Creature began thrashing about, its mighty arms straining against its bonds.

  “What’s happening . . . ?” he whispered, staring in horror as the Creature began to grow. Within seconds, it had all but doubled in size. It sprouted thick fur and its huge body grew ever larger, until, with a roar, it tore itself free and leaped from the operating table.

  “Oh no,” gasped Stitch Head, tightening the straps on a small bag slung over his shoulder.

  He looked up to the laboratory’s great domed skylight — the moon was shining full and round in the midnight sky. “No! The moon!”

  boomed the Creature. It swung its arms wildly, smashing the operating table to pieces and knocking the professor into a cabinet of spare brains.

  “Master!” whispered Stitch Head as the cabinet collapsed on top of the professor. The Creature lumbered toward the laboratory’s thick wooden door. With a single almighty lunge, it crashed through locks, bolts, and four inches of solid oak. Then it roared again and disappeared into the labyrinth of hallways.

  “What a creation! My best work ever! Ah-HAHAHA!” came a cry from underneath the cabinet of brains. Stitch Head breathed a sigh of relief as the professor emerged. He dusted himself off and picked a few bits of brain out of his hair.

  “Creature? Creature! Return to your master. I command it!” called the professor.

  It didn’t.

  “I have to stop it from leaving the castle,” muttered Stitch Head, his eyes unblinking with fear. He clambered silently, nimbly along the rafters, and then through a large wooden door and down a flight of winding stairs.

  “Oh well — easy come, easy go!” said the professor, sifting through the brains on the floor. He held one up and gave it a good sniff. “Ah-HAHA! Perfect for my next experiment!”

  Stitch Head raced through the castle, panic stretching his stitches to breaking point. There was no doubt about it — the professor had been using Werewolf Extract in his experiments again. The full moon had made the Creature mad.

  It’s looking for a way out. . . . he thought. If it makes it to the town . . .

  With every desperate step, Stitch Head imagined the professor’s creation tearing through Grubbers Nubbin, trampling or squashing or eating its way through as many humans as its three stomachs could bear.

  And if that were to happen, it would only be a matter of time before the townsfolk cried out for revenge. Not just on the Creature — but on the professor.

  The humans would come for them. They would destroy the castle, and everything inside . . . including his master. For as long as Stitch Head could remember, it was this thought that scared the almost-life out of him.

  He delved into his bag and rooted around. After a moment, he pulled out a small green bottle.

  He wiped the dust from the bottle’s label.

  Hope it’s enough . . . thought Stitch Head as he followed the Creature’s roars along a dozen dark, cobwebbed corridors, the fate of the professor once again in his tiny, trembling hands. How many times had he chased after one of his master’s mad monsters? Dozens? Hundreds? He had lost count years ago.

  Before long, Stitch Head heard the

  of the Creature trying to break free.

  “It’s in the courtyard . . . it’s trying to smash open the Great Door,” muttered Stitch Head as he rounded a corner and raced through the main hall. At the far end, a Creature-shaped hole had been smashed in the wall. Stitch Head nervously edged toward it and poked his head through into the moonlit courtyard.

  Stitch Head hated being outside. Every one of the thousands of stars in the sky only reminded him how small and insignificant he was. He preferred the “comfort” of his home, deep underground in the castle’s dungeons. There, in the shadows, he could almost forget that he was forgotten.

  But this was the night that everything changed.

  “Come on, you can do this . . . you promised,” whispered Stitch Head. He took a deep breath and stepped out into the courtyard.

  There, in the moonlight, was the Creature, sending its two great arms (and one small one) crashing against the Great Door that led to the world outside.

  As Stitch Head edged closer, he realized just how huge the Creature was — it had more power in a single nostril than he had in his whole body. The Great Door was already starting to splinter under the might of its fists. Any moment now, the Creature would be free.

  Stitch Head raced through the Creature’s legs. With the bottle of Wolf-Away gripped tightly in his hand, he leaped onto the Creature’s foot and scrabbled up the thickest and hairiest of its two tree-trunk legs, then up its hunched back to its head. He grabbed one of the Creature’s long ears as tightly as he could.

  “GROOoWWaOOoO!” boomed the Creature, shaking its head like a wet dog. Stitch Head flew into the air! He reached out, grabbing one of the Creature’s tusks as it roared with madness.

  “AAaahhhAHHH! P-please, s-t-top!” he cried, clinging on for dear almost-life. He felt that his stitches might shake themselves loose, or snap outright. He quickly bit the stopper off the bottle.

  “Open w-wide,” he whispered, and threw the bottle into the Creature’s still-roaring mouth. A second later, Stitch Head lost his grip and was sent flying across the courtyard — and straight into a wall.

  INGREDIENTS FOR A TRULY MONSTROUS CREATION

  3 parts human, 2 parts “other,”

  4 gallons life-grade Cultivation Goo,

  1 quart undiluted Monstrousness, 2 pecks earth,

  1 peck wind, 2 pecks fire, 1 cup Vampire sweat,

  1 heaped teaspoon Werewolf Extract,


  4 dashes Zombie Essence, 1 sprig Deadly Nightshade,

  Herbs and spices

  (And just a pinch of Impossibility)

  After mixing, combine carefully according to instructions. Electrify until piping hot throughout.

  AWAKEN!

  Stitch Head had been “curing” the professor’s creations for years. Since his master had started using more unpredictable ingredients, Stitch Head had become adept at developing potions to reverse the more monstrous aspects of the creatures’ personalities. A calming potion or soothing tonic was just enough to stop the creations from escaping the castle and causing commotion down in Grubbers Nubbin. Stitch Head was quite used to risking his almost-life to keep the professor safe. Even if his master had forgotten his promise to remain loyal friends forever, Stitch Head hadn’t. It was all in a day’s work.

  This was, however, the first time he’d been knocked unconscious.

  “Owwwwww,” he groaned, checking that his stitches were intact. Relieved to find he was still in one piece, Stitch Head opened his eyes. The one huge eye of the Creature stared back at him.

  “AAAH!” screamed Stitch Head in terror. Was he about to be eaten?

  “AAAH!” screamed the Creature, diving behind an enormous statue of the professor. It cowered there, trembling so hard that the castle walls began to shake.

  “PLEASE don’t EAT me!” screamed the Creature, looking and sounding rather smaller and less werewolf-like than before.

  “Eat . . . you?” whispered Stitch Head. “No, I’d never . . . I wouldn’t — I couldn’t. . . .”