Eric Morecambe - The Reluctant Vampire

It is a wild, stormy night in the small village of Katchem-by-the-Throat, in the tiny country of Gotcha, where the unhappy Gots are still ruled by Vampires after four hundred years. At Bloodstock Castle lives Victor, King of the Vampires, and his devoted wife, Queen Valeeta. They have two sons: Vernon, who has a nasty habit of turning people into stone, and Valentine, who reveals the horrible fact that he can’t stand the taste of blood! That’s only the beginning of an incredible story that will keep readers of all ages in stitches!

This book is dedicated to

Steven James Bartholomew

Julian Gibbs

Ian Cockhill

Kingsley Roberts

Tom Barnes

and Darcey Cohill

Their knowledge of Vampires and their habits was invaluable.

Contents

Title Page The Reluctant Vampire by Eric Morecambe

Dedication This book is dedicated to Steven James Bartholomew Julian Gibbs Ian Cockhill Kingsley Roberts Tom Barnes and Darcey Cohill Their knowledge of Vampires and their habits was invaluable.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

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About the Author

Also by Eric Morecambe

Copyright

About the Publisher

Valentine arises,

As Dr Plump advises.

It was January in the year of seventeen ninety-nine. The sky was as wet and as black as a bottle of ink. A shaft of blue lightning suddenly lit up the seven-hundred-year-old castle on top of a hill. Small yellow lights flickered from behind a barred window in the highest room of the highest turret. For a few seconds before the lightning went out, the castle was silhouetted against thick, huge clouds, fat with rain. The wind bent double the tallest trees on the hill. They almost creaked with pain. The moon could occasionally be seen flying through the clouds at what seemed an incredible speed. Suddenly, it threw a few seconds of yellow light on to a thin ribbon of road leading up to the drawbridge of the silent castle.

On the road was a small coach being pulled by a very frightened horse. The driver was Doctor Plump. Although his name was Plump, he was the thinnest man you could ever imagine. He was six feet six inches tall but when he wore his top hat he was seven feet six inches tall, and when he was on horseback he was well over ten feet tall.

Doctor Plump was a humourless man with lips as thin as a grasshopper’s legs. A large Roman nose – almost large enough for a Roman to sit on – hung between his small, piggy eyes. His eyes were so deep set in his head they looked as if they had been put there with a Black and Decker.

He had been summoned to the castle urgently. His poor horse was wet through with rain and perspiration. The fear showed in its eyes as they rolled round faster than an old woman’s birthday. Doctor Plump urged the animal forward with the snap of a long whip that stung the horse like an injection from a blunt syringe, and they sped towards their goal, Bloodstock Castle, overlooking the small village of Katchem-by-the-Throat in the tiny mid-European country of Gotcha.

The ‘Gots’ were an unhappy people with no king of their own or even a president to rule them. They were ruled by the Vampires of Bloodstock Castle and had been for the past four hundred years.

The horse clattered over the wooden drawbridge as it took the carriage and Doctor Plump inside the courtyard. The Doctor pulled the horse to a halt, jumped off the coach and with his black doctor’s bag in his hand, ran towards the massive iron and wooden door, leaving the tired, bewildered horse covered in a cloud of hot steam.

He pulled hard on an iron bar with a handle attached. A bell sounded inside the castle loud enough to awaken the dead and their friends, the undead, who are like their dead friends but can come back to life again.

Dr Plump waited, wrapping his long, black scarf closer around his thin, scrawny neck. The echo of the bell died down and then the only sound was the rain hitting his top hat as loud as the chattering teeth of an Eskimo with flu.

From inside, the Doctor heard bars being drawn to allow the great door to be opened. It opened, but no more than a crack. He looked into the one black eye of Igon.

Igon was as ugly as it was possible to be. In fact, uglier. He had only one eye, hence the name Igon. A glass eye hung round his neck in a pouch but he only used it on certain occasions such as reading the paper. He would sometimes put it in his trouser pocket to see how much money he had left.

The Doctor spoke.

‘Doctor Plump,’ he wheezed.

‘No, I’m not. I’m Igon,’ said Igon and slammed the door.

The Doctor was left in the pouring rain, the driving wind and the dark night. He thumped as hard as he could on the great iron door.

‘Igon!’ he shouted against the door and the wind.

‘Who is it?’ said a voice from the other side of the door.

‘Doctor Plump,’ the wet doctor shouted.

‘He’s not here,’ Igon shouted back.

‘No. I’m Plump.’

‘You should go on a diet then,’ said Igon, who wasn’t the cleverest person in the world.

‘Please, I’m Doctor Plump.’ He put his mouth closer to the door. ‘I’ve been summoned.’

After a second or two the iron bars were once again removed from their sockets and the door creaked open a little. The same, single, black eye peered out.

The Doctor spoke very quickly. ‘I’m Doctor Plump and His Most Gracious Vampari, King Victor, sent for me to have a look at His Serene Vampary Prince Valentine.’

The door opened slowly. ‘Come in,’ Igon said gruffly.

The Doctor walked in with one long stride. Igon shut the door. Doctor Plump looked around the large hall. It was very dimly lit with no fire to help dry his wet clothes or furniture on which to lay his top hat and overcoat; it was just a very large, very high, freezing cold castle.

The Doctor looked down at Igon. He saw a small, twisted body with a hideous face. His back was bent double with the weight of a large hump that made him walk with his left shoulder nearer to the ground than his right one. His clothes (if you could call them that) were rags. Igon looked up as the Doctor looked down. Igon smiled, showing a most beautiful set of gums.

‘Follow me.’ He slid along the floor away from the door. ‘This way, please, Doctor Pump.’

‘Plump,’ the Doctor checked. ‘Doctor Plump.’

‘That’s what I said, Pump. I have great difficulty saying my ‘I’s as I have no teeth, so saying difficulty was even more difficult for me than saying Plump, Doctor Pump.’ Igon shuffled towards some distant steps.

The Doctor, a little nonplussed, followed behind him. He tried to make a little light conversation.

‘It’s a wild night.’

‘What do you expect for July?’

‘But it’s January,’ the Doctor said in a small, surprised voice.

‘I’ll bet it gets worse in August,’ Igon snarled. The Doctor looked mystified.

They had by now reached the steps, which spiralled round a huge wall like a vine round a tree. The steps were no more than eighteen inches wide, with no handrail. One side of the steps clung to the wall, on the other side was an empty space. One slip and you could fall to the stone flags below and be given a rather large collection of broken ribs. The safest way to climb them was slowly and carefully and to keep one open-palmed hand almost glued to the wall for support. The Doctor nervously followed Igon.

Igon’s bent body found great difficulty in climbing the steps, taking at least half a minute to move from one to the next. The Doctor, following Igon, looked up at all the steps they still had to climb and worked out quickly in his mind that at the rate Igon was climbing they would both be forty-five minutes older by the time they reached the top.