Stitch Head Page 2

“Really? GREAT!” squealed the Creature. It bounded out from behind the statue and stamped toward Stitch Head with ground-shaking steps. Then it bent down until the two creations were face to face. Stitch Head closed his eyes and waited for the end.

  “It’s REALLY weird,” continued the Creature, picking at the tiny Wolf-Away bottle lodged between two of its teeth. “One minute I definitely wanted to brutally kill everything I saw, and the next I was thinking, ‘What’s that funny taste in my mouth?’ And then I was thinking ‘GREAT! A CASTLE! I’ve never been in a castle before!’ And then I was thinking, ‘I don’t even remember being ANYWHERE before.’ And then I thought, ‘Are bees and wasps the same thing?’ And THEN I thought, ‘What do clouds taste like?’ And then you woke up and started screaming and I was all like, ‘AAAH! MONSTER!’”

  “Uh — I should really go,” murmured Stitch Head. He bowed his head and slowly ran his fingers across his stitches before starting to slink back into the shadows. “Please remember . . . stay out of the full moon!”

  “Full moon — got it! Hey, SORRY about that whole insane monstrous RAMPAGE thing, by the way!” boomed the Creature. “I SWEAR that has never happened to me before. At least I don’t think so. I don’t really remember anything except for the last eight minutes. Where am I? What is this place? Can fish sneeze? And why does it feel like all my bits are in the wrong order?” With two of its arms it patted the top of its head and rubbed its belly. Then it leaned down until it was nose to no-real-nose-to-speak-of with Stitch Head and let out the most almighty

  — right in Stitch Head’s face.

  Stitch Head felt himself turn slightly green as the Creature’s beastly breath stuck to him like sap.

  “Everything seems to be in working order — GREAT!” said the Creature. “SO, what are we going to do now? Let’s build a FORT! No, wait, let’s catch SNAILS. No, wait, let’s pretend we’re PIRATES!”

  “We? Oh, I’m sorry, but I . . .” began Stitch Head, edging away into the shadows again. “Please, just — forget you met me.”

  “FORGET you? How could I EVER forget you? Sure, I may only remember the last nine minutes, but I know a BESTEST friend when I see one!”

  “Bestest what?” squeaked Stitch Head.

  “Oh, totally! BESTEST friends forever! I knew we would be from the moment just after you said you weren’t going to EAT me.”

  “No, but, wait, I mean — I don’t have any . . .” began Stitch Head. He’d spent his entire almost-life avoiding the professor’s creations — not because they were mind-bendingly hideous, but because every one of them was a reminder of his master’s broken promise. The thought of being friends with this new Creature terrified him.

  “Do you know what ELSE is weird?” continued the Creature. “We’re BESTEST friends and I don’t even know what your NAME is.”

  “My . . . name?” said Stitch Head, taken aback. It was the first time anyone had ever asked. He had never even spoken his name aloud. He took a long, deep breath and said, “S-Stitch Head . . . he called me Stitch Head.”

  “He did? WHO did?”

  “My master — I mean, the professor.”

  “Well, pleased to meet you, Stitch Head!” cried the Creature. “My name’s — uh . . . it’s, um . . . that’s WEIRD. I’m sure I had a name a minute ago. Where did it go? Well, I’ll NEVER find it in the dark, anyway. Maybe I should get a new one. What’s a good name? Gordon? Graham? Gary? Gavin? Gareth? Grover? Gilbert? Gideon? Geary? Guido? Garfield?”

  “Uh, I really have to —” began Stitch Head.

  “Gibson? Gardner? Grayson? Gridley? Grimshaw? Galahad? Glenda? Gaynor? Gilda? Gwyneth? Gretchen? Glenys? Gabby? Gail? Gertrude?”

  “Umm, I should probably —” squeaked Stitch Head.

  “Gonzo? Gibbon? Girdle? Granary? Grizzly? Gremlin? Giggle? Glutton? Grindstone? Grumble? Gubbins? Goosefeather? Grapevine? Greasepaint? Gogglebox? Gumdrop? Gladrag? Gut-ache? Gravyboat? Guppy? Gobsmack?”

  “Go . . .”

  “Go?” mused the Creature. “That could work. It’s a little SHORT, though . . .”

  “No, I mean, I should — I have to go,” muttered Stitch Head.

  “Go? GREAT! Where are we going? I love going places!” shrieked the Creature in glee. “Is it like a tour? I LOVE a tour!”

  “Umm, I don’t —” began Stitch Head.

  “GREAT!” cried the Creature. “Where do we start?”

  High above

  The castle loomed,

  And while it stood

  The town was doomed.

  “I LOVE castles! I mean, I think I do,” said the Creature, following a reluctant Stitch Head into the shadowy depths of Grotteskew. “This is DEFINITELY the most exciting thing that has happened to me EVER. Even if I can only really remember the last twenty min— AAAAH!”

  The Creature froze, as a strange, inhuman shape emerged from the darkness, dragging itself into the moonlit corridor. It had a huge gray skull, with tentacles whipping out of its eye-sockets, and three metallic legs, each of which walked with a limp. It gurgled and dripped thick brown slime from its mouth as it shuffled toward them.

  “MONSTER! Run, Stitch Head, RUN!” screamed the Creature.

  Before Stitch Head could hide, the Creature scooped him into its third hand and lumbered as fast as it could down the corridor, smashing through yet another wall and leaving a huge, gaping Creature-shaped hole.

  “Well, I never! How very rude,” said the skull monster.

  “P-p-please . . . s-s-stop!” stammered Stitch Head, as the Creature ran and smashed as if its almost-life depended on it. With its two massive arms, it punched its way into a large stone hallway. It retreated as best it could into a dark corner and clutched Stitch Head under its hairy chin.

  “I totally thought that monster was going to bite off our heads and tear the flesh from our bones and EVERYTHING!” whimpered the Creature. “Do you think we lost him?”

  “You’re holding me very tightly,” choked Stitch Head, his ice-blue eye bulging out of its socket as the Creature squeezed the breath from his tiny body.

  “Sorry! This third arm is stronger than it looks. Also, I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve had a third arm, but my memory’s hazy . . .” said the Creature. “Okay, what are we going to — AAAH! MONSTERS! MONSTERS GALORE!”

  The hallway seemed to writhe and shift as if it were alive. Slowly, more bizarre beasts began to emerge from the shadows. One after the other they came — each more impossible and terrifying than the last. Wherever Stitch Head and the Creature looked, there were monsters of every description — a six-armed slug, a giant fish with clockwork feet, a steam-powered skull, monsters, creatures, crazy things!

  “We’re going to be eaten! I don’t WANT to be eaten! I’m only twenty-three minutes old!” screamed the Creature, squeezing Stitch Head even more tightly.

  “Can’t . . . breathe . . .” wheezed Stitch Head.

  As the foul beasts shambled toward them, groaning and hissing, a disembodied head with hands growing out of its chin scuttled past a slime-covered chicken-dog.

  “Good morning, Oliver! A fine night for skulking in the shadows, wouldn’t you agree?” said the head.

  “Peter, old chap! It’s been forever! How’s the wife?” replied the chicken-dog.

  Before long, all the monsters were greeting each other as they passed by. Some were small and crudely put together, while others were huge and made up of a dozen or more hideously different parts. But despite their impossible monstrousness and stomach-wrenching ugliness, each monster was surprisingly pleasant. After its initial horror (and just a little bit more screaming and running), the Creature began greeting every new abomination with growing enthusiasm: “Um, hello, leggy-head-thing!” “Hello, flappy-cat-thing!” “How do you do, slimy-worm-thing!”

  Before long, it was shaking appendages with everyone. These
were the nicest unnatural horrors it had ever met!

  “These are the nicest unnatural horrors I’ve ever met, Stitch Head,” remarked the Creature. It looked down into its third hand.

  It was empty.

  Stitch Head was gone!

  “Oh NO! I must have dropped him! Stitch Head? Where ARE you, Stitch Head?” cried the Creature.

  It barreled through the gathered creations, asking anyone and everyone if they had seen its lost friend.

  “Stitch Head? Never heard of him! And nor have I!” said a two-headed rat-cow.

  “What an odd name! He should try something more creaturey . . . like Lesley, or Archibald!” said a bat-winged eyeball.

  “Stitch Head, Stitch Head . . . doesn’t ring a bell,” said a three-eyed brain on metal spider’s legs. “Does this Stitch Head have any distinguishing features — anything we might remember?”

  “DISTINGUISHED features? Hmm, nothing springs to mind,” said the Creature, wracking its brain and scratching its chin with its third arm. “Wait!”

  With a single finger from one of its mightier hands, the Creature gouged a simple sketch of Stitch Head in the hard stone floor.

  The gathered creations watched with fascination as a portrait of the stitch-faced stranger appeared.

  “Those stitches in his head! Why, that’s the Ghost of Grotteskew — I’d bet my brain on it,” said the three-eyed brain-spider.

  “By jingo, you’re right!” said an electric-powered lizard-man. “Why, I haven’t seen the ghost since I was awoken. He totally cured my vampirism!”

  “The ghost? WHAT ghost?” asked the Creature.

  “The Ghost of Grotteskew! He’s helped dozens of us creations. On the day I was created, he appeared from the darkness and gave me a tonic for my obsessive man-eating disorder,” said an oozing swamp monster. “I’ve been clean and non-man-eating for 1,021 days!”

  “I didn’t even have time to thank him for sorting out a pretty nasty case of werewolfism,” added a hulking hairball with coiled claws. “‘Stay out of the full moon!’ he said, and then vanished into the shadows.”

  “Stay out of the full MOON!” repeated the Creature. “That’s what he said to ME!”

  “Lately, it seems that all the professor’s creations start out bite-off-your-head bonkers — until the Ghost of Grotteskew pays them a visit,” added the three-eyed brain-spider. “From the roars we heard earlier, it sounds like he cured someone just today.”

  The Creature was more confused than ever. Was its bestest friend a ghost? This strange news only made it more determined to find Stitch Head. It said its goodbyes and began making its way deeper into the castle.

  “Stitch Head! Stiiiiiitch Heeeeaaaaad!” the Creature cried, as it smashed its way through the castle. (And occasionally, “MOMMY!” even though it didn’t remember having a mommy.)

  After several minutes of searching (and screaming), the Creature found itself alone in a wide, echoing hall. Its deafening cries rang out through the castle, threatening to shake Grotteskew from its foundations.

  “Stitch Head! I only remember the last thirty-eight minutes, but in that time, you’ve been the BESTEST friend I’ve EVER had! Come back, Stitch Head, come BACK! Stitch Head!”

  We, the beasts of Grotteskew,

  Find it hard to talk to you —

  The way you shriek or cry “Beware!”

  We do not mean to spook or scare.

  So we draw into the gloom

  And hope you all will give us room.

  For it is said, and it is true:

  We’ve never meant to bother you.

  Sitch Head was on the other side of the castle when he heard the Creature’s cries. He had managed to wriggle free of its vice-like grip (having had a lot of practice disappearing into the many cracks and crannies in the castle’s ancient walls) and had slunk back into the shadows.

  But the Creature’s pleas for help were as loud as its roars — and rang out to the town and beyond. They were sure to attract attention from the outside world, and that could only spell trouble for his master.

  Stitch Head had no choice — he doubled back and followed the cries to a large hall. There was the Creature, preparing its loudest cry yet.

  “Please . . . stop . . . shouting,” whispered Stitch Head, emerging from the darkness.

  “Stitch Head!” the Creature squealed with delight. “I FOUND you! Oh, I was SO worried, I was! Oh, Stitch Head, I thought I’d lost my BESTEST friend in the WORLD!”

  “But we’re not . . . I don’t . . .” began Stitch Head, but then felt compelled to ask, “Why were you looking for me?”

  “What do you MEAN? We’re BESTEST friends forever!” replied the Creature. “I was WORRIED about you! A castle full of monsters? ANYTHING could happen! Even if they are the nicest unnatural horrors I’ve ever met. I’ll tell you one thing for DEFINITE — ghost or NO ghost, I’m not letting you out of my sight again!”

  “But I’m not . . . I mean, we’re not . . . I mean . . . Oh dear,” sighed Stitch Head.

  Ten minutes later, Stitch Head had descended the last of the winding staircases to the dungeon he called home. His was the deepest, darkest, dankest corner of all the deep, dark, dank corners of Castle Grotteskew. The dungeon was so foul and unwelcoming that none of the other creations ventured there, and that was precisely the way Stitch Head liked it. The dungeon was the one place he could be truly alone . . . except for the cockroaches.

  And, today, one enormous creature.

  “So let me get this STRAIGHT,” said the Creature, who had been talking almost non-stop the entire way. “You’re not an ACTUAL ghost — everyone just THINKS you are?”

  “I guess,” muttered Stitch Head, as he pushed open the dungeon’s thick wooden door. In fact, Stitch Head preferred that the professor’s creations had come to think of him as some sort of kindly spirit, who appeared whenever a new monster threatened the peace of the castle. At least it meant they didn’t come looking for him . . . until now.

  “I’m CONFUSED,” said the Creature, making its way inside the dungeon. It was as gross and grub-infested a room as had ever been seen, with rusting manacles and chains hanging from the ceiling. “Why hide away down here? Why stay in the SHADOWS? Everyone would love to meet you PROPERLY, and — HEY! Look at all this STUFF! I LOVE stuff!”

  The Creature all but stumbled over a dozen or so dust-covered crates and chests strewn around the dungeon, filled with everything Stitch Head had collected over the years. “What’s THIS for? What does THIS do? How many of THESE are there? What did I just STEP in?” it cried, having the time of its almost-life as it rummaged through the crates.

  “Be careful,” mumbled Stitch Head.

  Finally, the Creature steadied itself against a table covered with potions and concoctions. Bottles and test tubes bubbled and smoked with pungent power.

  “Look at all these POTIONS!” cried the Creature. It picked up a bottle and shook it vigorously until plumes of green smoke and froth bubbled up from beneath the stopper.

  “Please . . . don’t shake that! My potions, they’re highly unstable!” squeaked Stitch Head, trying not to choke as the smoke filled the room.

  “You MADE these?” asked the Creature, squinting in the darkness to read one of the bottles’ labels. “Vampirism Reducing Ointment . . . Crazed Creature Curative . . . Anti-Man-Eating Tonic . . . Wolf-Away . . .” read the Creature aloud. “Hey, I can read! GREAT! So, what’s it all for?”

  “It’s nothing, really,” whispered Stitch Head. “A few years ago, the professor started using more dangerous ingredients in his experiments,” he explained. “You know, Vampire blood, Essence of Evil, Werewolf extract . . . it makes his creations monstrous when they first awaken. Any one of them could escape into the world, or worse — they might hurt the professor. But with a little antidote here, a little curative there, I can ke
ep them happy . . . keep things safe for my master, like I promised,” said Stitch Head quietly.

  “So THAT’S why I was rampaging! Hey, you’re a GENIUS!” cried the Creature. “Have you told the PROFESSOR that you’re curing his creations?”

  “No, I can’t . . . I just can’t!” blurted Stitch Head. “He . . . he —”

  “AAAHHH! Monsters! Or ghosts! Or SOMETHING!” screeched the Creature, diving for cover behind an enormous cobweb.

  “No, it’s the trumpets,” muttered Stitch Head, hurrying to the far corner of the dungeon. In the darkness, the Creature could just make out an entire wall of what looked like large, trumpet-type horns, attached to a web of long metal pipes leading out of the dungeon. Stitch Head leaned into one of the trumpets and listened.

  “Those are GREAT! What are they?” asked the Creature. It stepped out from behind the cobweb and peered inside one of the trumpets.

  “I — I made them,” replied Stitch Head. “The trumpets run all over the castle, so I can listen out for trouble, but this trumpet’s never made a noise. I don’t even remember where it leads . . . oh! Oh no . . . it can’t be!”

  “What? What is it?” asked the Creature. Stitch Head had gone paler than ever, which was very, very pale indeed. “Where’s it coming from?”

  “It’s happening . . . it’s happening!” Stitch Head whimpered. “It’s coming from the Great Door. There’s someone outside.”

  “But isn’t that GREAT? The more, the merrier! We can have a PARTY!” cried the Creature.

  “You don’t understand — no one comes to the castle . . . no one’s been here for a hundred years,” said Stitch Head, rushing around and grabbing bottles to put into his bag. “They’ve come for him. They’ve come for the professor!”

  Grotteskew, Grotteskew