The Ghost of Grotteskew Read online

  Table of Contents

  A BALLAD

  PROLOGUE

  THE FIRST CHAPTER

  STITCH HEAD PLAYS DEAD

  THE SECOND CHAPTER

  SOMETHING IN THE SHADOWS

  THE THIRD CHAPTER

  MADDER THAN EVER

  THE FOURTH CHAPTER

  FACE TO FACE

  THE FIFTH CHAPTER

  HAUNTED

  THE SIXTH CHAPTER

  THE RETURN OF MAWLEY CRACKBONE

  THE SEVENTH CHAPTER

  THE HEART OF THE MATTER

  THE EIGHTH CHAPTER

  THE TRUTH ABOUT MAWLEY CRACKBONE

  THE NINTH CHAPTER

  GATHERING CLOUDS

  THE TENTH CHAPTER

  THE SECRET

  THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER

  THE PROFESSOR'S FIRST CREATION

  THE TWELFTH CHAPTER

  CONFRONTING THE PROFESSOR

  THE THIRTEEN CHAPTER

  THE RISE OF MAWLEY CRACKBONE

  THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER

  THE PLAY

  THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER

  THE MONSTER VS. EVERYONE!

  THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER

  THE BURNING OF CASTLE GROTTESKEW

  THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER

  SAVING GRUBBERS NUBBIN

  THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

  ATOP THE MONSTER

  THE NINTEENTH CHAPTER

  LIGHTNING STRIKES

  THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER

  STITCH HEAD FIGHTS BACK

  THE TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER

  RETURN TO THE CASTLE

  THE TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER

  BACK TO ALMOST-LIFE

  THE TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER

  MASTER, MEET CREATION

  THE TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER

  PROFESSORS PLURAL

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  His feet like thunder o’er the hill,

  His fists for hammerin’ pegs —

  With a look of his eye, you’re surely to die,

  He’ll make you wet your legs.

  Lo! He comes! Beware, begone!

  The monster, Mawley Crackbone.

  His head’s a rock for mashin’ chops,

  His breath like Brussels sprouts —

  He’ll put out your eyes for pigeon pies,

  Or kill you with a clout.

  Lo! He comes! Beware, begone!

  The monster, Mawley Crackbone.

  His coat’s a bear’s, an’ round his neck

  A rattlin’ ribbon o’ bones.

  He comes to town with a fart an’ a frown,

  And whatever he sees, he owns.

  Lo! He comes! Beware, begone!

  The monster, Mawley Crackbone.

  The full moon loomed over Grubbers Nubbin on the night that Mawley Crackbone met his timely end.

  The townsfolk gathered around the body in a tight circle. They couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

  “Is . . . is he really dead?”

  “That’s hard to determine.”

  “He isn’t moving. Poke him to be sure.”

  “You poke him.”

  “No way! I . . . I don’t have a poking stick.”

  “Here — you can borrow mine.”

  “If you have a stick, why aren’t you poking him?”

  “I . . . I’ve been poking stuff all day! My poking arm is tired.”

  “No one’s poking anyone,” hissed a voice. The townsfolk parted to reveal a tall, lanky man in a long white coat. He slithered into the center of the circle and stood over the body of Mawley Crackbone.

  “You townsfolk and I made a deal,” the man said, pointing at the crowd. “Mr. Crackbone is no longer a problem for the people of Grubbers Nubbin — thanks to my particularly potent poison. But now I’m here to collect what is mine . . .”

  The townsfolk nervously inched away from the body. The mayor of Grubbers Nubbin straightened his tie and stepped forward.

  “Of — of course, good sir,” the mayor said. “He’s all yours. But what do you intend to do with his, um, body?”

  The man’s reptilian eyes glimmered in the moonlight.

  “That’s my business,” the man said. “A deal’s a deal — no questions asked.”

  “Of course,” said the mayor, retreating into the crowd. “And thank you for your help . . . Professor.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” the professor said as he struggled to drag the body up the hill toward Castle Grotteskew. “You haven’t seen the last of Mawley Crackbone. HAHAHAHAHA!”

  “HAHAHAHAHA!”

  Stitch Head opened his eyes as Professor Erasmus’s laugh echoed through the dank, dark corridors of Castle Grotteskew.

  The castle had cast its sinister shadow over the town of Grubbers Nubbin for longer than anyone could remember. The castle was home to Mad Professor Erasmus, considered by most of the townsfolk to be the maddest professor of all. He had spent a lifetime creating crazy creations — and each new one was crazier than the last. Although none of the creations had left the castle, the sound of the professor’s laugh often echoed far beyond to Grubbers Nubbin, the town below, striking fear into the hearts of its citizens.

  “It’s Professor Erasmus,” Stitch Head said, sitting up. “He’s getting close.”

  Stitch Head wasn’t scared, though. Not yet, anyway. He knew the professor’s laugh better than anyone. He had heard it the moment he was brought to almost-life, when he was his master’s first and only creation. Stitch Head had never been happier than he was in the early days, but that was hundreds of creations — and years — ago.

  Not long now, Stitch Head thought, before his newest creation is complete . . .

  “Stitch Head, you’re supposed to be DEAD!” called a voice from behind.

  Stitch Head turned to see the Creature striding toward him. It was a massively monstrous creation, a colossal combination of mismatched muscles and the odd terrifying tentacle. The Creature was one of the professor’s most recent experiments. It, like most of the professor’s creations, had been quite menacingly monstrous until Stitch Head had cured it with one of his creation-calming concoctions.

  “We’ve TALKED about this,” continued the Creature. “I want you looking DEADER than a bag of DOORNAILS.”

  “Sorry, Creature,” said Stitch Head.

  “If you’re going to be in the CASTLE GROTTESKEW CREATIVE CREATIONS COLLECTIVE AMATEUR DRAMATICS SOCIETY,” the Creature said as it flamboyantly flicked its new director’s scarf over its shoulder, “you need to UNDERSTAND the rules of THEATER.”

  Stitch Head sighed. He didn’t want to be in the Creative Creations Collective Amateur Dramatics Society. The thought of being in a society, particularly a dramatic one, disturbed him. True, he was tired of hiding deep in the inky bowels of his dungeon home, and he was eager to see what else almost-life had to offer him. But starring in a play in front of all the other creations was more attention that he ever wanted.

  The Creature, however, had made up its mind. “It’s time to step OUT of the SHADOWS! It’s time to MINGLE!”

  So that was how Stitch Head found himself in one of the castle’s largest, brightest halls, on a ramshackle set of tables and chairs. He was surrounded by an odd assortment of the professor’s crazy creations — and, of course, the Creature.

  “Now REMEMBER, Stitch Head,” the Creature said. “In this SCENE, you — I mean, your CHARACTER — is DEAD, so don’t move an inch, okay?”

  Stitch Head sighed. “But I’m dead in every scene,” he said as the other creations busied themselves with props and took their positions. “I sit here for the whole play. I feel so . . . exposed.”

  “But you’ve got the BESTEST part! After ALL, you can’t have a MURDER MYSTERY without a DEAD body! In a way, YOU are the STAR of our show!”

  “Quite so!” said a three-eyed brain spider. “I dare say you’ll be reviewed favorably in the Grotteskew Gazette . . . as long as you can stay absolutely still for three and a half hours.”

  “The reviews!” cried a hulking hair ball with coiled claws. “Oh, Magnilda, don’t remind me — I have butterflies in all three of my stomachs already.”

  Stitch Head lay back down. He closed his eyes and thought of the professor, slowly bringing yet another creation to almost-life . . .

  “What was that?” Stitch Head said. He sat up again. The voice was loud and close — too close, as if it were whispering right into his ear.

  “STITCH Head, sit still!” said the Creature. “You’re MOVING again! Now you look LESS dead than EVER!”

  “But you said my — I mean, someone said my name . . . didn’t they?” Stitch Head said, looking around. The other creations stared at him in confusion, and the ones that had heads shook them and shrugged.

  “Let’s take it from the part where Stitch Head is DEAD,” said the Creature, wafting its scarf dramatically. Stitch Head lay back down on the ground. He could have sworn he heard someone say his —

  “Who said that?” said Stitch Head, scrambling to his feet. The voice was even louder than before.

  “I’m confused,” Creature said. “Who said WHAT?”

  “That! I mean, my name,” said Stitch Head. “I mean, I could have sworn I heard someone say it.”

  “NOBODY said ANYTHING. Are you all RIGHT, Stitch Head?” the Creature asked gently. “Maybe you sh
ould take a BREAK. The PRESSURE of the performance seems to be GETTING to you.”

  “But you really didn’t hear anything?” asked Stitch Head.

  The Creature shook its head and patted Stitch Head on the shoulder. “Don’t worry,” it said. “I’m not going to RECAST my BESTEST friend! We can use an old CHAIR to stand in for you for now.”

  “Um, okay . . . then I’ll just go for a walk,” mumbled Stitch Head. He shuffled past the other creations to the end of the theater and shuffled through the door.

  As he emerged into the hallway, Stitch Head heard the rumble of thunder. A storm was brewing in the distance. Through a nearby window, he saw the dark clouds closing in, obscuring the bright morning sky.

  The voice! It was closer than ever — so loud that it made his ears ring.

  Stitch Head peered into the gloomy corridor. At its far end, he could just make out a large, lumbering shape — a something — moving slowly toward him. Stitch Head would normally have thought nothing of it. The castle was filled with the professor’s strange creations, after all. But something about this something made Stitch Head’s borrowed blood run cold.

  Stitch Head froze as a strange shiver of fear ran down his spine. Is it the professor’s newest creation? he thought. He couldn’t have completed it already . . . and even if he did, how could it possibly know my name?

  The owner of the voice was moving closer. Stitch Head heard the rattle of dry bones. “Who — who’s there?” he replied. “Give what back?”

  All at once, something rushed toward Stitch Head with an almighty roar! Stitch Head screamed and turned on his heels to flee. He raced back into the theater as fast as his bony legs could carry him. Stitch Head slammed the door behind him.

  “You’re BACK! That’s GREAT!” cried the Creature. “Ready to be DEAD again? All right then! Let’s get rid of the chair — its acting is a bit WOODEN, anyway!” The Creature fanned itself with its scarf.

  “There’s . . . there’s something . . .” Stitch Head stammered, his heart pumping wildly. “There’s something out there!”

  The Creature saw fear in Stitch Head’s eyes. “Is it the professor’s newest CREATION on a MAD rampage?” it asked. “Shall I fetch your calming POTIONS?”

  “I don’t know,” said Stitch Head. He felt like a huge, cold hand was squeezing his heart in its iron grip.

  “Don’t WORRY, Stitch Head, WE’LL protect you!” boomed the Creature. He stomped toward the door. “WHATEVER kind of monstrous thing is coming won’t stand a chance against a ROOM full of ACTORS!”

  “Creature, don’t open that door!” cried Stitch Head just as the Creature swung open the door.

  “AAAAAAHHHHHH!” screamed the Creature. It turned back to face Stitch Head with a look of horror on its face.

  “What? What is it?” shrieked Stitch Head.

  “I just REMEMBERED — we haven’t REHEARSED the scene in the DRAWING ROOM yet!” it cried. “Oh, and it’s a very important scene . . .”

  “What?” Stitch Head said. He peered around the portly Creature to see nothing but an empty hallway. There wasn’t a soul in sight, living or otherwise.

  “But I saw it,” Stitch Head said quietly. “I heard it. It spoke to me. It told me to give something back.”

  “I wouldn’t fret, dear — this castle is full of the most curious creations,” said the brain spider. “I’m sure it was just one of the creatures you haven’t met before.”

  “It — it couldn’t have been a creation,” Stitch Head said. Thunder boomed in the distance. “It looked . . . human.”

  The Creature told its actors to “TAKE FIVE!” in its most flamboyant voice, then it and Stitch Head headed to check whether the professor had somehow completed his new creation sooner than expected.

  They made their way to the rafters above Professor Erasmus’s laboratory. It was from this very spot where Stitch Head had witnessed the birth of so many of the professor’s monstrous creations.

  “Can you SEE him?” whispered the Creature in a voice that was not at all a whisper.

  “Shh . . .” whispered Stitch Head. Carefully, he inched himself onto one of the rafters and peered down into the laboratory below. He could see the professor’s bald head gleaming in the moonlight.

  “AH-HAHAHA!” cried the professor. He was standing over a creating table three times bigger than any one that Stitch Head had seen before. On the table was a huge, monstrous shape covered in four or five sewn-together blankets. Stitch Head could see several tails spilling out from underneath.

  “His creation isn’t complete,” whispered Stitch Head. “And that isn’t what I saw in the hallway.”

  “HAHAHA! Is it even possible that I’ve outdone myself yet again?” cried the professor. “Could it be that my creations just keep getting better and better? After my newest creation is brought to almost-life, I’ll be the maddest mad professor of them all! Take that, Father! HAHAHA. AHHHHHAHAHA!”

  “So if that human-looking something wasn’t one of my master’s creations, then what was it?” Stitch Head said. “And what did it want back? I don’t have anything to give . . .”

  “What are you TALKING about?” The Creature didn’t whisper. You have SO much to give! You have a BEAUTIFUL singing voice for one thing, and you’re GREAT at squeezing into NOOKS and CRANNIES! Oh, and you can MIX a monster potion like NOBODY’S business!”

  “That’s not exactly what I meant,” said Stitch Head.

  “HOW can you be SURE you SAW what you SAY you’re SURE you SAY you SAW?” said the Creature. “I mean, there aren’t any HUMANS in Grotteskew. The only things even SLIGHTLY human around here are YOU and the PROFESSOR.”

  The Creature peered down at the professor, who was frantically trying to pry open a jar of eyeballs with his teeth.

  “And I’m not so SURE about HIM,” the Creature added.

  “But I heard it speak,” said Stitch Head. He peered over the edge of the high rafters. “It said —”

  Stitch Head’s eyes grew wide. He turned to face the Creature. “Please tell me you heard that,” he whispered.

  “Heard WHAT?” the Creature boomed.

  “Shhh!” Stitch Head said. He glanced across the rafters.

  Stitch Head heard a bony rattle and felt fear gnaw at his flesh. “It’s here . . .” he said. He could feel the shape of . . . of something coming closer . . .

  . . . from behind him!

  Stitch Head clenched his fists and spun around to face his fear . . .

  But nothing was there. No shape, and certainly no human-looking something — just ceiling. Plain, boring old ceiling.

  “But I could have sworn . . .” said Stitch Head. “What’s wrong with me? Maybe you’re right, Creature — maybe I’m imagining things. Maybe it’s all in my head.”

  Stitch Head peered over the edge of the rafters.

  A face peered back at him.

  A human face.

  “GIVE IT BACK!” it cried.

  “YAAAHHH!” screamed Stitch Head. He took a step back, lost his footing on the rafter, and fell.

  “Stitch Head!” cried the Creature. Stitch Head plummeted toward the ground headfirst. He barely had time to flail in terror before he landed right on top of the professor’s almost-complete creation.

  “Ow,” groaned Stitch Head. He rolled helplessly down the creation’s back until he fell face-first onto the cold, hard ground of the laboratory.

  “Ow,” Stitch Head muttered again. He slowly ran his fingers along his head to check for torn stitches. Everything was in place. He looked up at the rafters to see the Creature staring down in panic. But there was no sign of the human-looking stranger.

  “It was right there!” Stitch Head said to himself. “Where did it go?”