Intensive Scare

Intensive Scare-3

Noggin watched the exiting drinkers, studying each one carefully before he made his choice. To be honest he wasn't overly bothered which one he was going to attack. Noggin would take on anything you see, be it a cowering mouse or a rhinoceros with an attitude problem. But whatever it was, it needed to be capable of putting up a bit of a fight, just for show if nothing else.

A moment later he had his target in sight, that being a reasonably sized demon that looked quite handy. He was heavily built, carrying a large club, and gave the definite impression that he hadn't had quite enough booze to turn him into a gibbering imbecile i.e. he was still vertical and was walking in a straight line. Mostly.

Noggin crouched down into what renowned naturalist Sir David Attenborough would call, `a preparatory attack position', or what the casual observer would see as, `psychotic cat getting ready to shred some poor bugger to chunks'.

Noggin inched forward, keeping to the shadows and so low to the ground that he was barely noticeable. It was then that he heard a noise to his right that made his ear flick. Still intent on his target though, he ignored it. Then it happened again.

Annoyed that it might be a rival predator trespassing on his patch (although in reality this was quite unlikely. There weren't many creatures in Skullenia brave enough to tackle the animal that had once skewered a cow to a shed), Noggin turned his head. The noise was coming from a dark alley that ran between the pub and the house next door. Patiently, he stared into the gloom, but even with his enhanced night-time vision, Noggin couldn't make out what was causing it.

Now the feline faced a dilemma. Should he go after his intended quarry, or investigate the alleyway? It was only when the noise came once more that Noggin abandoned his intended victim and boldly turned into the alley.

Still staying low, he padded forward softly and quietly so as not to give his presence away.

After a few minutes the moon appeared from behind a dense bank of clouds and shed its sepia like glow on to the world below, allowing Noggin to see what it was that had been making the noise.

For the first time in any of his lives, Noggin the vampire cat turned tail and ran away.

* * *

Constable Gullett's size fourteen leather boots beat a rhythmic tattoo on the weathered, grey pavement. Well, they did for half a dozen steps or so before he had to stop and get his breath back. Although he was more than capable of solving any crime that came his way, and managed to uphold law and order in Skullenia all by himself with a natural skill, an unerring grace, and the utmost respect for the judicial system in general, he had let his physical fitness slip ever so slightly over the years. In fact, so unfit was the good constable that, not only was the average corpse in better condition than him (a dead one that is, not some ravening zombie hungry for a brain-based breakfast), but so was the average villain. Consequently, and somewhat contrary to the previous statement that Gullett could solve any crime that came his way (and let's face it, he wasn't going to go towards one. That was just silly, unnecessary, and totally irresponsible), what that actually meant was that every case that he applied his detective skills to was concluded with a simple, two line entry in his pocket book that read, `Suspect got away', `No witnesses'. It wasn't laziness you understand, it was just that Constable Gullett was exceedingly pragmatic, didn't believe in gilding the lily, and chose to use the word `solved' in the same way that the Man Booker Prize judging panel employ the phrase, `A nice, easy relaxing read'.

(No doubt that observation's ruined my chances. I reckon I could have been in this year as well. Hilary Mantel indeed).

At present PC Gullett was at the far end of town, just past Grendle's shop, a little way from Mrs. Ladle's house, and not too far from the road that led to Count Jocular's castle. He could see the vast and imposing edifice in the distance, shrouded as it was by mist, clouds, rampaging thunderstorms, bolts of lightning, bats, howls of anguish, screams of terror, scary unknowable thingamabobs, and yet more mist. Not that he was at all put off by its presence, you understand. As strange as it was, having the ancient, granite monstrosity nestled there was really rather comforting when all was said and done, and in spite of all the murder, torture, horrible deaths, grisly violations, and dubious decorative disasters that occurred within its gruesome walls, it was, and forever would be, a reassuring constant that spoke of a certain permanence and steadfastness. It said, quite simply, home.

He liked to stop here because it represented the halfway point of his tour around the town, and being such, it was, quite naturally, the most logical place to rest and have a quick bite to eat, and seeing that it was twenty six minutes and thirty eight seconds since his last intake of calories, he knew he was just about at his physical limit and very close to hitting the proverbial wall.

(To fend off that most terrifying of eventualities, Gullett made it his business to know to the nanosecond how long his various travels took, how far he was from the nearest eatery, and who to call on should the unthinkable happen and he run out of provisions. Thankfully, that had only ever happened once and such was the trauma of the nightmarish event that he'd needed the afternoon off work and a lengthy session of counselling in the shape of a fully loaded baguette that wouldn't have looked out of place in an aircraft hangar).

After commencing his beat, his first stop was always at Mrs. Strudel's where he'd pop in for a sit down, a well-earned cup of tea, and a moderately sized piece of cake (it was moderately sized to him, anyway. If it was presented to anyone else, they'd wonder why you'd asked them to eat an Ottoman).

He called in at the cafe because it was seven minutes and eleven seconds from the police station, and there was no way that he'd be able to continue his beat without further sustenance, especially after such a protracted length of time pounding the streets. (It wasn't that far distance wise, but then most people are a lot fitter than Constable Gullett and could make the short trip with consummate ease. Come to think of it most vegetables are a lot fitter than Constable Gullett. In that case I suppose they'd make the trip with consommé ease.

Now clearly, that overt generalisation about larger persons may or may not include those of you that have chosen to read this tale, but I can't spend all of my time singling out everybody, so if I've offended anyone then I most sincerely and humbly apologise. You may very well have the cruising speed of an arthritic parsnip but hey, there's nothing wrong with that and I'm not judging you in any way at all. Just don't ever queue in front of me at the supermarket).

At the end of the path was a small gate at the side of which was a stile, and it was onto this robust piece of woodland furniture that Gullett lowered himself. This he did gingerly, and with more than a hint of care for he was quite a stout fellow, one who'd been known to ever so slightly damage the odd chair or two in his time. (Actually, if we're being completely honest, and in the interests of transparency etc. he was actually a bit of a fatty who had no idea what anything below his belt looked like, and whose waist was far below where it should actually be. His trouser size could only be guessed at, but one pair took a fortnight to make and kept a Fibulan tailor in business).

He took off his helmet, removed a crinkly, brown package from within and placed it on the ground. He then picked up the crinkly, brown package and put his helmet on the ground. It was dark after all and seeing as his sandwich was roughly the size of said headgear it was an easy enough mistake to make.

As he unwrapped the neatly covered package the aroma of ham and pickle stole into his nose. The filling was his absolute favourite and had been lovingly made for him by Doris Strudel. (Yes indeed. As well as maggot soufflé, Scapularian brain and noodle soup, blood trifle, and various other revolting concoctions straight out of The Evil Dead All You Can Eat Morgue, Skullenia's resident purveyor of undead victuals did, on occasion, make normal food as well. That's if pickle can be classed as normal food of course, and not as something that should be sealed in a lead lined box and cast away to the deepest depths of the ocean for all eternity where it won't be found until the sun goes nova and spreads the charred remnants of our planet across what remains of our decimated solar system. Or put in the bin, whichever's easier really).

As he chewed, he relaxed against the gatepost and listened to the night-time noises. Then, gazing upwards he chanced to see a shooting star blazing a fiery trail across the pitch-black sky.

His second bite faltered halfway to his mouth when he heard a rustle from the bushes to his left. Not that that was unusual of course. There were all sorts of creatures hiding, or skulking, or prowling about at this time of night, and even though Gullett knew most of them either socially or professionally, this was Skullenia after all. It paid to be cautious. And armed.

“Alright,” said Gullett, popping the half-eaten snack into his helmet. “Who's there?”

RUSTLE. RUSTLE.

“Come on now. Stop buggering about. Don't make me come in there.”

RUSTLE. RUSTLE. RUSTLE.

“Is that you again, Henge?”

Henge was a rather large troll who had a penchant for late night excursions into the woods where he would partake of the pungent and hallucinatory emanations of the Warbling Dollybush, a tall, spiky, blue leafed plant whose unique chemical composition caused it to have an adverse and somewhat relaxing effect on the brain cells of any creature that chose to imbibe its wispy emissions. Or, to put it another way that probably makes a lot more sense, if you smoked it you ended up smacked off your face, higher than a British bankers end of year bonus, and sillier than a room full of drunk clowns.

Consequently, and somewhat unsurprisingly, Henge could quite often be found blundering about in the dead of night either running away from some imagined horror or claiming to be something a bit odd. In recent times he'd been a spaceman, a carrot, October 1746, and, for some unfathomable reason, the colour yellow.

Around these parts most people called him Stoned.

The rustle was replaced by a thump, as if something very large, and very out of it, had hit the ground.

“Great,” said Gullett, making sure his sandwich was safe before putting his helmet back on. “That's all I need.”

He'd had to get Stoned home on several previous occasions. It wasn't an easy task and one that required a strong back, a lot of patience, and at some point in the proceedings, a block and tackle.

As he walked towards the undergrowth, he got out his torch and flicked it on. It lit up the night for the briefest of moments before going straight back out.

`Strange,' thought Gullett. He'd only put fresh batteries in the damn thing that very afternoon, not long before he came on shift actually, and that was only a couple of hours ago at the most.