Winston Oldspot had lived much of his young life in a state of profound olfactory denial.

His was, he freely admitted, a job for someone with a strong constitution and a blatant disregard for their sense of smell. As Hopeless, Maine’s Night-Soil Man, he carried out his duties with quiet pride and a large wooden bucket. The cloak of stench that clung to him like a second skin was generally enough to guarantee solitude, silence, and a wide berth in all public places.

Which is why, when he first heard something following him through the island’s fog-cloaked pathways, his first reaction was not panic, but surprise.

With the exception of Drury, the skeletal hound, and his friend, the anosmic Reggie Upton, nothing — and no one — ever came within a dozen yards of Winston. Not rats. Not spoonwalkers. Even ghouls, werewolves and vampires held their breath when he passed.

But something was behind him.

Something that went splorch.

He turned. The path was empty.

Only the sloshing of his full bucket and the slow creak of his boots disturbed the morning.

Then — a sudden movement. (No pun intended.)

A slither at the edge of vision. A pale coil vanishing behind a bramble bush.

Winston blinked. “Oh,” he said flatly. “It’s you.”

Word of the privy creature had spread, of course. On Hopeless, nothing eldritch stays secret for long — especially if it’s likely to disturb folk while occupied in their privies.

The creature hissed. Its many eyes blinked at him hungrily.

Winston tilted his bucket slightly. “You’re following the scent, aren’t you? You poor, misguided horror.”

He turned back down the lane, adjusting his grip.

“Fine. Let’s dance.”

Most people, when stalked by a privy-dwelling monstrosity, would panic.

Winston merely walked faster.

The creature slithered in pursuit, weaving between the trees, flitting through the crumbling stonework, occasionally poking a mouth or tentacle out to sample the air.

Winston led it on — through the marsh, past Chapel Rock, and down the narrow, seldom-used path that led to his cottage: The House at Poo Corner.

Suddenly, Drury appeared, bounding along beside him with a cheerful rattle. Winston gave him a nod.

“The back gate’s unlatched, Drury.”

Drury vanished with an excited clatter.

Behind them, the creature picked up speed.

Winston’s garden was a quietly neat affair, although a few brambles, some suspicious-looking herbs, and one ancient washing line didn’t do a lot to enhance its kerb appeal. But at the very bottom, as regular readers will be aware, there lay the Night-Soil Man’s infamous sinkhole, marked only by a capstone. Almost two centuries earlier this had been pushed upright, like a tombstone, and the letter ‘D’ scratched on it. These days the letter was faint, and no one could recall why it was there.

(See the tale ‘A Dog’s Life,’ and be sure to have some tissues to hand.)

The sinkhole was deep — really deep — and an eerie green mist swirled at what was probably its base.

Things thrown in did not generally return — not even sound.

Winston trudged across the garden and upended the bucket ceremonially on the edge.

“Come and get it,” he said.

The creature surged into view, drawn by the scent. It reared back, let out a sibilant hiss of triumph –  and it was then that Drury shot out of the cottage, with a force that sent the Toilet Terror straight over the edge, and into the abyss 

There was a pause. A long pause. Winston thought he might have heard a distant, echoing splash, but he wasn’t sure.

Then… silence.

He stood there a moment, his jacket rippling faintly in the breeze.

“You won’t be trying that trick again in a hurry,” he said to the empty sinkhole.

Drury, looking understandably pleased with himself, stared up at Winston with strangely appealing eye-sockets.

“Good lad,” said Winston, patting his faithful friend on the skull. The Night-soil Man reached into his jacket pocket and gave Drury the biscuit that he kept for such occasions. This biscuit had been employed several times as a reward for Drury. It would rattle around the old hound’s ribcage like a tombola ball for a while, then drop to the ground — all ready to be recycled.

Back at The Squid and Teapot, the team listened in stunned silence as Reggie Upton recounted the tale that Winston had told him.

“He lured it to the garden,” said Rhys, aghast. “With his bucket?”

“Apparently it was all that he had,” said Reggie. “That took some pluck, what?”

“Or foolishness,” said Rhys, flatly.

“Oh, come on, Rhys,” challenged Philomena. “If you were still the Night-Soil Man, you’d have done exactly the same. You lot are cut from the same smelly bit of cloth.”

Rhys reddened. It was true enough. You had to be a little crazy to survive as a Night-Soil Man.

Philomena raised her glass. “To Winston Oldspot. Slayer of the Toilet Terror.”

Tenzin nodded. “And to the sinkhole. May it never backwash.”

Later that night, Philomena stood at the privy door, mop in hand. She stared at the pipework. It was still and silent.

“Do you think it’s over?” Rhys asked softly.

Philomena narrowed her eyes.

“I hope so,” she said. “That’s one visitor we don’t want returning.”

Behind her, Drury sneezed. An ancient and well-used biscuit that had somehow managed to lodge itself between his third and fourth vertebrae landed on the floorboards.

That felt better!

Drury wagged his bony tail, and with a mixture of pride and relief, lay down to sleep.