John Connolly - The Creeps - A Samuel Johnson Tale

“We’re closed,” he shouted. “Come back on Saturday.”

He thought that he heard muttered words, and then the knocking came again.

“Oh, really!” said Mr. Karloff. “Some people have no manners.”

He popped his head round the doorframe.

“I said we’re closed. You’ll have to come back at the weekend.”

There was a full moon that night. It shone on the two small glass panels of the door, or would have if most of its light hadn’t been blocked by a huge shape holding a large stick. The figure’s head was slightly misshapen by what appeared to be a thick feather sticking out of its hair.

The knocking started a third time. It was clear from the movements of the figure that whoever was outside was using the stick to bang on the door. It was probably some young rascal making mischief. No decent, self-respecting person would go round banging on museum doors with a stick.

“He’ll have all the paint off, and I only gave it a new coat this summer!” said Mr. Karloff aloud. He spent so much time alone at the museum that he had grown used to having conversations with himself.

“Well, I won’t have it,” he continued as he marched to the door. “I simply won’t. Young people these days. There’s nothing wrong with them that a spell in the army wouldn’t cure.”

Mr. Karloff yanked open the door. His first thought was that perhaps a spell in the army wouldn’t solve this chap’s problems at all because joining the army was probably what had caused his problems to begin with. Those problems included, but were not limited to, having:

1. No lower jaw in a face that was largely bone and some apologetic gray skin.

2. One completely empty eye socket and one eye socket that was filled by the business end of an arrow, and last but most certainly not least . . .

3. Most of an ax buried in the top of his skull.

In his right hand the unwanted visitor held not a stick, but a spear, a spear that still looked useful in a potentially fatal way despite having spent over a thousand years in the ground alongside its owner.

Mr. Karloff had worked long enough at the museum to recognize a Viking when he saw one, especially a dead one. Under other circumstances, such as encountering the dead Viking laid out in a thick glass case, he might even have been pleased. He was slightly less pleased to find a dead Viking standing upright on his doorstep and apparently giving serious thought to abandoning the whole business of being dead and trying out being undead for a while.

The spearhead moved. Instead of pointing straight up in the air, it was now moving in a direction that suggested it fancied making friends with Mr. Karloff’s insides, although it wasn’t planning on staying long because it would very soon pop out of his back, possibly with some of Mr. Karloff’s insides still attached to it.

“Oh dear,” said Mr. Karloff.

Those might have been the last words that he ever said, and they wouldn’t have been very memorable, as last words go. He was saved by a whistling sound from the embarrassment of dying without having something witty to say. The whistling sound was followed by a very solid thunk, and suddenly the Viking was relieved of the difficulties posed by the ax in his skull and the arrow in his eye by the removal of his head at the neck. His body remained vertical for a second or two, then appeared to think, Actually, why bother?, and collapsed on the doorstep.

Mr. Karloff was now staring into the undead face of a Saxon who was holding a sword almost as big as he was. Behind him, Mr. Karloff could see more undead Vikings and Saxons digging themselves out of their graves. Those that were aboveground were already fighting among themselves.

Mr. Karloff gave the undead Saxon his biggest and best smile.

“I’m on your side,” he said. “Keep up the good work.”

He closed the front door, grabbed his hat, and ran to the back door. That one he didn’t bother closing after him. After all, as soon as he heard the front door explode behind him, there really didn’t seem to be much point.

XXI

In Which the Dwarfs Make a New Friend. Sort of.

DAN AND THE DWARFS had discovered that getting out of the basement was harder than it looked. To begin with, the basement now seemed much bigger than it had when they arrived, which couldn’t be right yet somehow was. They had been walking around for half an hour and still hadn’t found the stairs. This development might have worried ordinary people, but the dwarfs were far from ordinary. They were seasoned drinkers of Spiggit’s Old Peculiar, and so were well used to walking around small spaces for long periods of time without being able to find the door, often while singing loudly and seeing small multicolored elephants flying around their heads.

On this occasion, though, the dwarfs were 99 percent sure that they hadn’t been drinking. Dan had been very clear on that point: they needed this job. It was a steady earner until Christmas. Plus, if they made enough money, Dan would be able to have the van repainted, and they would no longer have to go around advertising themselves as Dan’s Sods.

“Maybe we should split up,” said Dan.

“Why?” said Jolly.

“Because we can cover more ground that way. Two groups: if one group finds the door, it keeps shouting until the other group arrives.”

The dwarfs thought about this.

“That sounds like a great suggestion,” said Jolly after a while. “Nobody ever got into trouble by separating from his friends in a dark basement and hoping for the best.”

“Absolutely,” said Angry. “It can’t fail.”

So they split into groups, Dan, Jolly, and Angry in one, and Mumbles and Dozy in the other.

“Lucky for us that Dan is in charge, eh?” said Dozy to Mumbles as the footsteps of the others faded away. “We’d be lost without him.”

Which was literally true. Seconds after Dan had left them, Dozy and Mumbles were completely lost.

• • •

“Are we there yet?”

“No.”

Pause.

“Are we there yet now?”

“No.”

Pause.

“Are we there—”

“No!” said Dan. “No, no, no! We’re not there. We’re here. I don’t know where there is. I’m not even sure where here is.”

He stomped off to look around the next corner, leaving Jolly and Angry behind.

“I love doing that,” said Jolly. “Never fails.”

“It’s a classic,” admitted Angry. “Still, I wish we were out of this basement. I’m getting a bit tired of looking at walls and boxes. And I could be wrong, but it does seem to be getting darker down here. I thought your eyes were supposed to get used to the darkness the longer you spent in it, but my eyesight is getting worse.”

He kicked at a scrap of crumpled newspaper. As it rolled away, the dim lightbulb above their heads caught the headline. It announced the defeat of Germany, and the end of the Second World War.

“I think it’s been a while since anyone’s been down here,” said Angry. “That, or World War Two took a lot longer to win than I thought.”

There was a door to Jolly’s right. They had been routinely opening every door they came to in the hope of finding a stairway, or a lift, or a beer. So far, they’d had no luck on any count. Jolly opened the door and wished silently for a little good luck.

Sometimes, if you squeeze your eyes shut, and you think about good things, happy things—snowflakes, and fairies, and bluebirds singing—and picture your wish coming true, picture it like it’s happening in front of you right here and now, then the universe will find a way to make it come true.

This wasn’t one of those times.

Reality was fragmenting, and when reality fragments strange things happen.