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What Every Ghost Should Know

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Sixteen can be a difficult age. For Naboth Scarhill things had escalated from being somewhat difficult to becoming annoyingly complicated when he discovered that he was dead. It was not the business of not being alive that concerned him particularly. To begin with he had tried to look on the bright side. At least there was no more work to do, his days and nights unhindered by the niggly little inconveniences that bother the rest of us, smug in the knowledge that our mortal coils are as yet unshuffled. There was no one to berate him for leaving his clothes on the bedroom floor, or neglecting to put the toilet seat down, or forgetting to wash behind his ears, all things that the average sixteen-year old boy might be forgiven for not doing. He found that there was no great joy to be had, even if he decided to revel in this new-found freedom. It would have meant nothing, for Naboth was now a ghost, an apparition as insubstantial as the grey mist that lingered sullenly over the island of Hopeless, Maine.

Being murdered is not at all pleasant. There is more to it than simply having one’s life taken away; there is the sense of being targeted and knowing that someone, somewhere has gone to the trouble of singling you out for a particularly unpleasant method of extermination. It is, indeed, a dreadful thing. More dreadful still, however, is when your violent death has been brought about by a case of mistaken identity. Can you imagine it? Oh, the injustice of it all, especially when you are, or, more correctly, were, just sixteen with the exciting promise of life sitting before you like a map, waiting to be unfolded. This left the shade that was Naboth raging and howling through the night, intent on revenge but having no idea how to exact it.

He had learned from Marigold Burleigh – whom, regular readers may have gathered, had been possessed by the recently returned Trickster – that his death had been caused by a vicious thought form, conjured by Durosimi O’Stoat. In the dim chaos of its mind the thought form only knew that it was to kill the Night-Soil Man, a post that Naboth had held for just one day. You can see why he was not best pleased.  Now the angry spirit of Naboth Scarhill desired nothing more than vengeance, and to see Durosimi suffer horribly. The drawback to this plan was that, while Naboth had both a voice and ghostly presence, he had no power to inflict physical harm upon anyone. When he burst into Durosimi’s home and tried to frighten the sorcerer, the only reaction was scorn.

“You cannot frighten me, you deluded fool,” scoffed Durosimi, derisively. “I have consorted with dæmons, ghouls and foul creatures of the pit, each more hideous than you can imagine. Do you think some stunted phantom muck-shoveller is likely to concern me? Now clear off, go and haunt one of your vile cess-pools. That’s all you’re good for!” 

To say that Naboth was taken aback by this response would be an understatement. It had always been his understanding that almost everyone is frightened by ghosts, and even those who aren’t would not be so dismissive of an obviously angry spirit. He needed to go away and think of what to do.

It was a few nights later when he next appeared in Durosimi’s parlour, screeching, wailing and banging his bucket lid up and down.

“Go away, little man,” said Durosimi languidly. “Did you not hear me the first time? I am not scared one iota by you.”

“Fair enough,” replied Naboth, between wails. “But I ain’t going nowhere. I’m going to haunt you every night. You’ll get no rest from me…Oooooooooooooooh.”

And so, for night after night, over the next two weeks, Naboth made Durosimi’s life a misery, until, out of the blue, the sorcerer said,

“Alright, I give up. I apologise for killing you. Now please go away.”

“No chance,” said Naboth, “you’re stuck with me. Dusk until dawn for the rest of your days… oooooooooooweeeeeeeeeee.”

A few more nights passed by in this way, until it seemed that Durosimi had really had enough. Clapping his hands over his ears he ran like someone possessed, out into the darkness.

“I cannot stand this anymore,” he wailed, “I’ve got get away from this awful noise before it drives me mad.”

Delighted, Naboth chased after him, through the trees and out into the folds of the Gydynaps, banging his bucket lid for all he was worth and screeching like a banshee. This was more like it!

Durosimi ran frantically into a dark, yawning cavern etched into the side of the hill. Enjoying his new-found power, Naboth followed.

“Enough, I beg you stop,” cried Durosimi, holding out his hands, as if in supplication.

“Never!” laughed Naboth, “I’ll never give you any peace… ooooooooaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrggggghhhh”

‘His wailings are becoming ridiculously theatrical,’ mused Durosimi to himself, then, quite unexpectedly, washed the cavern in a ghastly green light, and smiled unpleasantly at Naboth.

“This is one I made earlier,” he said, sprinkling a handful of salt on to the floor, and completing the circle into which the spectral Night-Soil Man had drifted.

“Try and get out, by all means, but I can assure you that you won’t, not as long as the salt circle is unbroken. This is something that every ghost should know. Oh, and by the way, just in case that bony mutt, Drury, comes looking for you, I’m going to block up the entrance when I leave. Goodnight dear boy. Enjoy Eternity.”

And with that Durosimi was gone and the cavern was plunged once more into darkness, save for the faint luminesce that hung about Naboth, eerily reflecting on the ring of salt that encircled him.

In the distance he heard the tumble of rocks, rigged earlier that day to block the cavern’s mouth.

Philomena Bucket laid a basket on the doorstep of The House at Poo Corner. As usual she had brought Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, his supper of starry-grabby pie and two bottles of Old Colonel, courtesy of The Squid and Teapot. Rhys would always consume this half-way through his round, often giving a scrap or two to Drury, whose attempts at eating always ended with the chewed food dropping through his skeletal frame on to the ground, later to be enjoyed once more, but this time by the crows.

Tonight Philomena discovered that Rhys had left her a letter. Intrigued, she picked it up to peruse later, in flickering candlelight, back in her room at The Squid and Teapot.

“My Dear Philly, I hope you are well. I am just letting you know that the troubled spirit of poor Naboth seems to have disappeared. I have not seen him for some time now. I think, maybe, he has come to terms with his dreadful fate and has found some peace at last… “

There were some loving words following this, but these are for Rhys and Philomena’s eyes only.

The barmaid read the note once more. Had Naboth really found peace? The old magic that resided deep within Philomena stirred restlessly.

Something was definitely wrong.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Thought Forms

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Regular readers will recall that Durosimi O’Stoat was intent on harming Philomena Bucket, whom he believed to be a witch. He had come to the conclusion that she was a danger to him, and in possession of far greater powers than his own. This was only partly true, for Philomena had no idea of the extent of her abilities, or any wish to be in competition with anyone. It was only on the occasions when Durosimi had secretly attacked that the magic, smouldering within her, manifested itself, and then only as a form of self-defence. While Philomena suspected that O’Stoat had no great liking for her, she was completely unaware of the extent of the dark malice that festered in his heart. Indeed, so deep was his hatred that he decided that if he could not directly harm ‘That Bucket Woman’ (as he referred to Philomena), then he would weaken her by destroying everyone and everything she held dear, beginning with her fiancé, the Night-Soil Man.
 
Durosimi smiled to himself unpleasantly, reflecting on the ease with which he had ensnared Drury, the skeletal hound. It had taken little effort to conjure up a brace of phantom spoonwalkers, images that flickered tantalisingly in and out of the dog’s vision and keeping him endlessly occupied, chasing around the Gydynap Hills. As thought forms go, creating the spoonwalkers had demanded next to no work on Durosimi’s part. They were mere shadow-puppets, whose only function was to distract, requiring no outside agency, no deal to be struck, in order to give them shape and form. They had been the easy bit; the rest of his plan would ask much more of him. The next stage was to make a very different variety of thought form. While Durosimi was well able to give the creature shape, it needed something darker and infinitely older to provide the malevolent energy required to carry out his wishes. And there was the rub. Summoning such an entity was a relatively simple procedure; controlling it was another matter.  
 
Humans have been creating thought forms, of some description, for millennia. Most of these are unintentional, born from prayers, hopes and vague wishes, and therefore weak, shadowy and short-lived, their existence depending upon the strength of the intention that gives them existence. When a powerful magician, such as Durosimi, sets his mind to creating a thought form, however, he throws all of his emotions and energy into the effort. This he does in order to attract an eldritch, elemental essence, a sentient force which is forever prowling unseen, seeking animation through human passion.
 
You may be asking yourselves, at this point, why Durosimi had gone to the trouble of dognapping an unsuspecting Drury, and having him chase phantom spoonwalkers around the Gydynaps. The truth is that the magician knew, full-well, that the dog was a trusted friend of both Philomena and the Night-Soil Man, and neither would suspect him of anything but loyalty. Durosimi also needed a scape-goat. If Philomena’s magic was half as potent as he suspected, and all went as it should, there would be little chance of her showing mercy to the perpetrator of his scheme. As far as he could see, nothing could go wrong. While the real Drury was happily pursing non-existent spoonwalkers, a vicious thought form, given flesh (or bone, in this instance) as a facsimile of the osseous hound, would carry out his orders.
 
Naboth Scarhill hefted the lidded bucket on to his back, and looked out at the foggy blackness spreading before him. Philomena had left a bottle of Old Colonel and a slice of cold starry-grabby pie on the doorstep. This had been something she had done every evening since moving into The Squid and Teapot. There was, she reasoned, no need to stop just because Rhys had retired in order to marry her.
“Well,” Naboth told himself, “this is it, my life is mapped out”.
At the tender age of sixteen years, Naboth had become the most recent Night-Soil Man of Hopeless, Maine. He felt the weight of responsibility heavy upon his young shoulders, but carried the burden happily, sensing the ghosts of previous generations of Night-Soil Men benevolently watching over him. Some of these names had become legendary, from the earliest incumbent, Killigrew O’Stoat, through to Shenandoah Nailsworthy, Rhys Cranham’s predecessor. Naboth hoped that, one day, he might be remembered with similar reverence. As I mentioned earlier, such small desires may often wander out into the world as thought forms; this is why you should always be careful what you wish for.
 
Philomena Bucket was beginning to feel worried. Tomorrow was to be her wedding day, and her best friend, Drury, had gone missing. She knew that he was unlikely to be in any real danger; after all he had lived – and died – many years before she arrived on the island, and would probably be there long after she was no more than a vague memory.  Despite this, there was a niggling worry, as real as toothache, that warned her that all was not well.  She was sure that the ghost of Granny Bucket, who had made it her business to haunt Philomena, would have shed some light upon the dog’s disappearance. However, for reasons known best to herself, Granny had not been in evidence since Philomena’s recent excursion to the Underland.
“Oh, get a grip on yourself, girl,” she told herself, sternly. “This is just a dose of pre-wedding nerves. Drury knows you expect him to be there tomorrow. He’ll turn up.”
 
A pale moon filtered through the fog hanging over Chapel Rock. Naboth really hoped that its ghostly guardian, the Mad Parson, Obadiah Hyde, was not in the mood for haunting tonight. Although Rhys had impressed upon him that, while any encounter with Obadiah invariably involved a great deal of supernatural screaming, the old boy had next to no substance, and was harmless. Nevertheless, the apparition still terrified Naboth. He knew that Rhys’ previous apprentice, Gruffyd Davies, had been so scared by the Mad Parson that he fell off Chapel Rock and into the ocean. (Fortunately, upon hitting the water, Gruffyd, who knew nothing of his ancestry, discovered that he was a Selkie, one of the seal-people, and swam off happily in his newly acquired pelt).
It was then that Naboth’s heart lifted a little. A familiar form loped into view.
“Drury,” called the ex-apprentice, “am I glad to see you! I could really do with some company tonight…”
 
The ordeal was over. Durosimi lay sprawled on his bed, his face grey and haggard, every muscle in his lean form aching.  It had been years since last he had invoked such an entity as this, and the battle of wills had left him weak; weak beyond measure. Once given form, it had taken every ounce of Durosimi’s physical and mental strength to prevent the creature that now resembled Drury from ripping him to pieces. But he prevailed, as he knew he must, to send this abomination out into the Hopeless night with the simple instruction: “Destroy the Night-Soil Man.”
Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Gossip and Single-Malt

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Doc Willoughby rolled the whisky around his palate appreciatively. This was the real thing, right enough. He could only wonder how Durosimi had come by the stuff and, more to the point, why he was sharing it. Their last meeting had not ended on a particularly cordial note, to say the least, with the Doc being sent away with a flea in his ear for being too ethical when it came to the matter of hurling various unwitting participants back in time. (My apologies to any reader who has just choked on their coffee. I appreciate that it stretches credulity when the words ‘Doc Willoughby’ and ‘too ethical’ appear in the same sentence).

“More whisky, Willoughby?” asked Durosimi, proffering the half-empty bottle.

Despite his concerns, the Doc was not going to refuse. Opportunities of this variety did not arise every day.

“So, what is the gossip in The Squid, lately?” queried Durosimi.

The day was becoming ever more peculiar. Between Durosimi’s unheard of generosity with his precious single-malt, and this sudden interest in the goings-on of the island, Doc could only think that the old scoundrel was going soft in the head. But so what? Where was the harm in humouring the man? Anyway, the world had become fuzzy and warm and, in soft-focus, even Durosimi did not look quite so forbidding.

“Well, that old charlatan John Dee seems to have sloped off. Back to his own time, I wouldn’t wonder. Good riddance too. Couldn’t stand the man,” said the Doc.

“No, neither could I,” said Durosimi, truthfully. “Anything else?”

“Oh yes – the Night-Soil Man, you know, what’s-his-name, has proposed marriage to that blasted Bucket woman. Never much liked her, either.”

“Really?” exclaimed Durosimi, suddenly interested and surreptitiously replenishing the Doc’s glass. “Tell me more.”

“Well,” began Doc, “when she first came to the island I treated her for anosmia. That’s a loss of the sense of smell.”

“I know what anosmia is,” said Durosimi, stiffly.

“Of course… as I was saying, she’d lost her sense of smell, and it seems that within a few yards of leaving the sinking ship in which she had stowed away, something nasty grabbed her with its tentacles and she was within an inch of becoming lunch.”

The Doc took a generous swig of his whisky, dropping all pretence of savouring it.

“How did she escape?” asked Durosimi, tipping the remnants of the bottle into the other man’s glass. “Did she use magic?”

“Magic? What makes you think she’d use magic? That’s ridiculous!” slurred the Doc.

Intoxication had made him bold to the point of foolishness. Durosimi quietly counted to ten and smiled thinly.

“Just a thought,” he replied. “Do go on.”

“Where was I? Oh yes, it looked as though she was done for, when young what’s-his-name, the Night-Soil Man, rescues her. The creature who was attacking her couldn’t stand his reek, and because of her anosmia, the Bucket-woman didn’t know that the wretched fellow stunk like a cess-pool. Of course,” continued Doc, “it was inevitable. He was her knight in shining armour, so the silly girl falls head-over-heels in love with him. All would have been well, but not long after that she got a nose-full of sea water, which flushed out the seeds that had been blocking her olfactory system. That’s the …”

“I know what it means,” said Durosimi, impatiently holding up his hand.

“So, naturally, once she found how awful he smelt, the romance was off.”

“But now it’s back on again?” asked Durosimi.

“Seems so,” said the Doc.

Durosimi said nothing for a moment or two, staring pensively out of the window, then he turned his head sharply and said,

“Doc, I think you should go. We’re both busy men and I have wasted enough of your time.”

“But I haven’t told you about Norbert Gannicox’s verruca, yet.”

“No… but we’ll have to save that one for another day. I look forward to it. Now let me show you out…”

With that, the Doc was unceremoniously bundled out through the door. Durosimi watched him swaying unsteadily down the cobbled pathway, and singing ‘Sweet Betsy from Pike,’ at the top of his voice, almost in tune.  He had just got to the first chorus of too-ra-li-oo-ra-li-oo-ra-li-ay when Durosimi decided that enough was enough and strode back into the house, slamming the door behind him.

Regular readers will remember that Durosimi O’Stoat, having learned that Philomena Bucket had somehow acquired magical powers which were possibly greater than his own, felt threatened, and plotted to get rid of her, once and for all. When, during the previous year, he confronted Philomena in the town hall, she had all but killed him, blasting him from one end of the room to the other. Strangely, she seemed to have no idea or memory of what she had done. Soon after, and to Durosimi’s relief she, and Doctor John Dee, disappeared, seemingly off the face of the earth. He thought – indeed, hoped –  that maybe Dee had whisked her back to Elizabethan England, where, with any luck, she would be burned as a witch. For a whole year there was no sign of either of them, then Philomena returned, apparently more powerful than ever, and able to throw off his strongest spells. It occurred to Durosimi that if he could not hurt the witch – as he now thought of Philomena – then he could at least weaken her, maybe even destroy her, by attacking those she held most dear. He smiled to himself, reflecting how love and grief are two sides of the same coin; there is an inevitability that today’s love will become tomorrow’s grief.

“And grieve she will,” he thought to himself. “That old fool Willoughby has told me all that I need to know. She must be using her magic to mask the stench of the Night-Soil Man – there is no other way she could possibly countenance marrying him. Well, she won’t be needing to do that for much longer. His days are numbered…”

The recently promoted ex-apprentice, Naboth Scarhill, read the note again, his chest swelling with pride. The scrap of paper only contained a handful of words, but they meant a lot.

My dear Naboth, thank you so much for agreeing to take over the role of Night-Soil Man from Rhys. You cannot know how much this means to me. Rhys has told me how highly he regards your work, and that you will one day become as great and renowned as any who have wielded the lidded-bucket and long-handled shovel.

Thank you again,

Your grateful friend

Philomena.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Day of Surprises

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Philomena Bucket busied herself in the kitchen of The Squid and Teapot, attempting, with little success, to keep her mind focused on anything other than recent events. She reddened at the brazen way in which she had confronted Rhys Cranham a few days earlier, almost demanding that he forsake his work and way of life, and marry her. Although he had tentatively – and without any great enthusiasm –  agreed, she was convinced that the Night-Soil Man must really despise her. Whatever had possessed her to do such a thing? She could only think that all this talk of her being a powerful witch, with some impressive magic at her fingertips, must have gone to her head. Well, she was yet to see any evidence that she was any different from how she had always been, despite having had a year of her life stolen in that strange cavern, deep beneath the surface of the island. Far from feeling magical, Philomena regarded herself as being an abject failure, both in love and life, letting down all who came into contact with her.

Wrapped in these dark thoughts, she did not notice Drury, the skeletal hound, wander through the back door, until she heard his bony form clatter noisily down, and sprawl out upon the flagstones. However glum Philomena felt, Drury would always lighten her heart.

“Ah, get from under me feet, you great lazy lump,” she said, good naturedly. “Are there no spoonwalkers for you to be chasing today?”

Drury’s tail wagged, thumping the floor several times, but he made no effort to rise. Instead he regarded Philomena with a baleful eye, or would have, had he actually been in receipt of an eyeball.

“Well, you’re in luck. I’m almost finished here,” said Philomena. “Come on, let’s go for a walk up the Gydynaps.”

If anywhere on the island of Hopeless, Maine, could be regarded as being Philomena’s favourite place, it would be the Gydynap Hills. For many Hopelessians, the reputation of the Gydynaps engendered a certain amount of mystery, not to say terror. For Philomena, however, they always brought back memories of the Nargles Mountains, an area she knew well, a dozen or so miles west of the city of Cork, in her native Ireland.  This was the place to which she would come, whatever the weather, whatever her mood, and always feel better for the experience.  True, she had encountered a few strange characters while walking these hills, which led her to believe that the Gydynaps were home to a portal, of some description, that lead to who knows where, rather like the cavern beneath The Squid, but she never felt threatened. Anyway, with Drury by her side what harm could befall her?

The fog came down with alarming rapidity, even for the quixotic climate of Hopeless. Although Philomena and Drury had been walking side by side, they suddenly disappeared from each other’s vision. At least, Philomena could not see Drury. The dog, on the other hand, spotted Philomena in the thinning mist. She was running away from him, down the hill, back towards the town, and waving her arms above her head. Drury loved a game of chase, and if that is what Philomena wanted, then he was all for joining in.

Usually, it’s fair to say that Drury is nobody’s fool, but the day of our tale was far from being a usual day.

Philomena stood alone, wrapped in a cold blanket of fog. All around her was silent and still. Her world had become abruptly comprised of nothing but this chilly cocoon that seemed to be seeping into her very pores.. And then, almost imperceptibly, the whispering began. At first it was no more than the faintest suggestion of breath in her ears. Then came the taunts and the chuckling, barely audible, but all the worse for that. Philomena hugged her body, trying to force out the strange voices. Where was Drury? This was not supposed to be happening. She felt an icy hand clutch at her heart, squeezing and freezing her from the inside.

“Get a grip, for heaven’s sake,” she thought to herself. “You can beat this. You can beat this. You can beat this…”

Philomena kept repeating these four words, over and over to herself like a mantra, rocking back and forth as she did so. With outstretched arms and, still rocking, she began to turn, slowly, at first. Then the turning became spinning, ever faster and faster, and the mantra grew into a great, roaring song. Grey, grim rags of fog swirled all around her body, gathering speed until they were drawn up into a swirling vortex that rose above her head, dark and menacing, a filthy cloud which swelled until it burst into a mass of screeching, bat-like creatures that fled away into the now clear sky.

Philomena fell to her knees, sobbing and trembling, and wondering what had just occurred.  Shakily, she managed to stand up and steadied herself against a rock, breathing in deep draughts of air. She stood there for several minutes, regaining her composure and a steadier heartbeat, when Drury reappeared, not a little confused by the events of the last half-an-hour.

“And where the hell did you go. Fat lot of good as a guard dog you were!” Philomena cried, uncharacteristically angry at her canine friend. Anger, however, is not an emotion that Philomena can harbour for long, especially where Drury is concerned.

“I think you and I have been attacked by some enchantment, old friend,” she said quietly, patting the dog’s bony skull. “Sorry I shouted… but I’m damned if I know what was going on there. Come on, let’s get home.”

Durosimi O’Stoat stepped out from behind the rock where he had been hiding, visibly shaken by what he had just witnessed. When Doctor John Dee had let slip that he believed Philomena to have very powerful, but yet latent magical abilities, he was sceptical, but Durosimi resolved, there and then, to rid himself of any threat that this Bucket woman might pose. The deal he had struck with the dæmon, Buer, had backfired, thanks to the incompetence of Dee, and now it was up to himself to end matters. The fact that she had thrown off the fog so easily, a spell that had taken no little amount of time and effort to contrive, was beyond comprehension. It was supposed to wreck both her mind and body. Instead, she had spun around like some whirling dervish and cast it off as though it was no more than an old shawl. Durosimi rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He had obviously underestimated her powers. Well, if he could not harm her directly, maybe he could target someone close to her. He would have to make enquiries.

Philomena made no mention of her experience when she returned to The Squid and Teapot, just in time for evening opening. The usual procession of familiar faces filtered through the door, and as the night wore on she was kept busy, ferrying endless tankards of Old Colonel and platters of Starry-Grabby Pie to the tables. The atmosphere was one of warmth and conviviality. It came as a surprise, therefore, when the room fell silent. Philomena, dutifully washing-up, was curious as to what had happened, and came out of the kitchen, tea-towel in hand. Every pair of eyes in the bar was fixed upon the figure of Rhys Cranham. The Night-Soil Man was no more than a legend to some, rarely seen, and then only under the cover of darkness. Now, here he stood, scrubbed clean as a choirboy on Sunday morning, smelling of nothing but soap, and wearing an old, slightly ill-fitting, suit, courtesy of Bartholomew Middlestreet and retrieved from one of the attics of the inn.   

“I’ve been thinking about what you were saying the other day, Philomena, and you’re right,” he said, awkwardly. “Naboth Scarhill has been a good apprentice, and he reckons he’s ready to take on the job as the new Night-Soil Man right away.”

Rhys dropped down on to one knee.

“In view of that, Philomena Bucket, will you please do me the honour of becoming my wife?” 

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Little Touch of Drury in the Night

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Durosimi O’Stoat stared gloomily through his window; outside, Drury, the osseous hound, was rattling happily along, having spent a rewarding couple of hours chasing spoonwalkers.

“Blasted dog!” muttered Durosimi to himself. “He gets on my nerves. He’s always hanging around and causing trouble.”

While no one could reasonably argue with Durosimi’s assessment of Drury, on this occasion the dog could not be held totally responsible for the black mood currently spoiling his evening. For that he squarely – and quite unjustly – blamed the sixteenth-century visitor to Hopeless, Doctor John Dee.

You may remember that, in order to get Dee’s attention, Durosimi had attempted to abduct Philomena Bucket. This had failed dismally and, to make matters worse, he had no memory of exactly what had happened. One minute he was confronting Philomena, and the next thing he knew was that several hours had slipped by, and he was propped up against his own front door. It was obvious to Durosimi that some sort of sorcery had been employed and, as far as he knew, the only person capable of such a feat would be John Dee. Despite Dee having protested, on several earlier occasions, that he was not a magician, Durosimi chose to disbelieve him. What he did not know was that any magic being wielded in the Town Hall, on the night of the Beltane Extravaganza, was exclusively Philomena’s, and his threat had been the spur that had brought it to full and spectacular fruition. It was to Philomena’s great surprise when she successfully repelled his advances and sent him hurtling along the length of the Town Hall. The force stunned him so completely that he could not even remember struggling to his feet and staggering home afterwards.

It was almost dusk, and John Dee was sitting on a bench outside The Squid and Teapot, gazing up at the soft, pallid lights of the gnii, fluttering high above. Drury clattered up to him, his bony tail wagging furiously. How times change. Just a few weeks earlier, when they first met, Dee was convinced that he was looking at a Hell-Hound, come to drag him and his heresies into the fiery depths of the Underworld. Now he knew that Drury was no more than a regular, friendly dog, albeit one who refused to recognise that he had died many years earlier.

“God’s wounds, I’ll miss these evenings, when I go home again, Drury,” Dee said sadly. “Deep in my bones, I can feel that my own time is trying to drag me back.”

Drury cocked his head, apparently listening intently as the elderly Elizabethan poured out his woes.

“You have no idea of the pressure I’m under,” confided Dee. “Do you know, I had to make an astrological chart to forecast the most propitious time for the Queen’s coronation. Can you imagine what would have happened if I had got wrong? It would have been the Tower, for me, for sure. Oh… I could put up with the fog, the eyes in the sky and those things with tentacles, if I could only stay. But I suppose there is my wife and children; I should take them into account…”

Despite being in his sixties, Dee had married the much-younger Jane Fromond some ten years earlier, and now had eight children to support. They would certainly miss him if he remained on Hopeless.

Drury snuffled and leaned against Dee’s legs. Did he have any idea of what was being said? Your guess is as good as mine, but if nothing else, he was a good listener.

“But enough of my rambling,” said Dee, stoically. “Come on, old friend, let us go into the inn, where I might be persuaded to immerse my sorrows in some of Master Middlestreet’s finest ales.”

For the islanders of Hopeless, the novelty of having a sixteenth-century alchemist wandering around had worn off after the first couple of weeks. Much to his relief, these days Doctor Dee was greeted like any other regular patron of the inn. He settled himself in the snug, ordered a tankard of Old Colonel, and fell into conversation with Norbert Gannicox.

Drury ambled off to the kitchen, where Philomena had just taken a batch of Starry-Grabby pies out of the oven.

“I’m going to take one of these over to Rhys Cranham,” she said, putting a steaming pie into a basket, where it kept two bottles of ale company. “Coming?”

Drury did not need to be asked twice. Joining the Night-Soil man on his rounds was one of the dog’s favourite pastimes, second only to chasing spoonwalkers.

As they made their way to The House at Poo Corner (The official residence of every Night-Soil Man), Philomena allowed herself to voice her concerns to Drury, confident that her secrets would be safe with him.

“This magic business is a worry,” she said. “I have no idea what I’m doing. It seems that I’m last in a long line of witches. Me! Would you believe it, Drury?”

Drury would believe anything that Philomena told him. In his eyes she could say or do no wrong.

“It’s this ‘last-in-line’ bit that troubles me, really,” she said. “After all, if I’ve got a bit of magic floating about inside me, then it’s my choice what I do with it. But, whether I choose to use magic or not, it seems wrong that after a thousand years or more it should have to stop with me. That’s a terrible responsibility to burden a girl with.”

Philomena stopped and looked at her bony companion, who immediately sat obediently at her feet.

“I don’t know if I’d be happy to settle down and have a family,” she said to him. “What do you think, Drury?”

As if in reply, the dog stood up and shook himself.

They walked on in silence, Philomena lost in her own thoughts. Arriving at the Night-Soil Man’s cottage, she lay the basket carefully on the doorstep.

“Ah Rhys,” she said quietly to herself, “I wonder what our futures might have been, if you were anything other than a Night-Soil Man.”

The faithful hound, mindful of the dangers that may be lurking in the darkness, dutifully accompanied Philomena back to The Squid. No sooner had she crossed the threshold of the inn than Drury turned around and raced back to Poo Corner, eager to join Rhys before the Night-Soil Man left on his rounds.

Rhys was already at his door, loading the contents of the basket into his knapsack.

“Who could ask for more than a fresh-baked Starry-Grabby pie and a couple of bottles of Old Colonel?” he asked, with a smile.

“Drury,” Rhys added earnestly, “You and I both think that Philomena Bucket is nothing short of wonderful – agreed? Maybe it’s high time for me to look for another apprentice, seeing that my first one turned into a seal! Perhaps one day I could follow in the footsteps of Randall Middlestreet, the only Night-Soil Man to retire and raise a family. I wonder if Philomena would say ‘Yes’? What do you reckon, old fellow?”

Drury wagged his tail and barked enthusiastically. He knew the answer to that, for certain.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Beltane Extravaganza

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Readers of these tales, and indeed, any article found in ‘The Vendetta’, would quite rightly come to the conclusion that Hopeless is a somewhat dismal and deprived sort of place, subject to all manner of horrors and privations. Having said this, it ought not to be forgotten that when you or I make such judgements, we do so through the lens of our current era, with its relative comforts and sophistication. For Doctor John Dee, however, the sixteenth-century alchemist recently deposited on the island, Hopeless, Maine revealed itself to be a land of comparative freedom and great wonders.

Although having lived a life of privilege as the Court Astronomer to Queen Elizabeth, John Dee walked as much in terror of torture and an agonising death as anyone else in Tudor England; maybe more so, as his interest in the occult was well known. He had narrowly avoided the flames when accused of heresy in the reign of Queen Mary, Elizabeth’s predecessor. So, while Hopeless can be inhospitable, nightmarish and terribly dangerous, the chances of being persecuted by someone for entertaining beliefs contrary to their own, are extremely remote. Well… on reflection, a bit remote, at least.

It was generally agreed that Doctor Dee’s stay on the island was probably going to come to an abrupt end at any moment, for although it was likely that he would be returned to his own era within minutes of his having left, history was not going to sit around forever twiddling its thumbs while Dee took an extended vacation in the future. Perusal of some dusty encyclopaedias, found in one of the attics of The Squid and Teapot, had made it fairly clear that the old alchemist had a lot of things still to accomplish in his remaining years (not that anyone told him this. He would be far too interested in wanting to know what the future held, and not all of it was particularly pleasant).  It was decided, therefore, to organise a festival, of sorts, as a send-off; something special to for the doctor to remember after he had returned home.  Inevitably, the task of putting together such a programme of events fell upon Philomena Bucket, aided, abetted and generally hindered by her faithful friend Drury, the Osseous Hound.

While Hopeless is not rich in resources, the islanders take full advantage of any bounty that the ocean might provide. Nothing goes to waste, and whatever is not immediately required often ends up being stored in The Squid and Teapot. The most prized of these items, to be produced only on the most prestigious of occasions, is the much-cherished Edison-Bell phonograph, and its attendant collection of wax cylinders. This entertaining piece of technology was, Philomena decided, to be the centre-piece of the festival, bringing with it the possibility of dance, song and no small amount of debauchery, if past experience was anything to go by. As the abysmal Hopeless winter had already shuffled itself seamlessly into a similarly abysmal Hopeless spring, and the month of May was looming, she decided to call the event ‘The Beltane Extravaganza’, which, she hoped, would appeal to Doctor Dee’s heretical nature.

At last the great day arrived and, thanks to Philomena’s efforts, everything was ready. The Town Hall was decorated, every spare chair on the island was commandeered, barrels of ‘Old Colonel’ and ‘Gannicox Spirit’ had been rolled into place and a variety of tables, while not actually groaning, complained quietly beneath platters piled high with steaming slices of Starry-Grabby pie. On walls and in alcoves tallow candles and oil-lanterns twinkled; for a few hours, the island of Hopeless, Maine seemed to shrug off its aura of gloom.

Norbert Gannicox, as Master of Ceremonies, introduced the various performers, starting with the Pallid Orphanage choir, who sang an Elizabethan madrigal, especially learned for the occasion. This was sung under the direction of the usually unflappable wraith, Miss Calder, who almost ruined the evening before it began, by inadvertently allowing her face to lapse into its skull-like aspect every time one of the children hit a bum-note. Act after act followed, some using music provided by the phonograph to back their efforts at singing or dancing. People tended to do their party-pieces; Seth Washpool sang a medley of Hopeless sea-shanties, accompanying himself on the spoons and Bartholomew and Ariadne Middlestreet sang ‘Barnacle Bill the Sailor.’

When ‘Les Demoiselles de Hopeless, Maine’ burst on to the stage Doctor Dee almost dropped his tankard of Old Colonel. The phonograph blasted out Offenbach’s ‘Infernal Gallop’ (more often known as ‘The Can-Can’ to most of us) and the five French girls, shipwrecked on the island just a few months earlier, went into their routine with unquenchable enthusiasm. Dee watched goggle-eyed and amazed as they high-kicked, whooped and wiggled their frilly-drawered derrieres in time to the music, much to the delight of the audience. The world that he knew had seen nothing like this, and would not for several hundred years to come. The room had grown suddenly warm and Dee flopped down in his chair, mopping his brow and fanning himself with his cap.

There was only one thing that could possibly follow Les Demoiselles and that was the song that had become Hopeless’ very own anthem. Philomena dutifully fixed the wax cylinder in place on the phonograph, and lowered the circular brass reproducer, with its sapphire needle, on to its surface.  There was an expectant hush, then the unmistakable nasal strains of a strangulated Irish tenor came through the speaker…

“In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty…”

Drury’s tail began to wag and a collective smile spread over the faces of the audience. Doctor Dee had heard Philomena singing this, so was well prepared to lurch into the chorus with everyone else, and soon the strains of ‘Alive, alive-o’ were echoing around the room. Just one onlooker failed to join in, or even tap his foot. Durosimi O’Stoat regarded his fellow islanders with nothing short of contempt as they swayed and smiled as they sang.

“What small-minded fools,” he thought. “They have John Dee, one of the history’s greatest occultists, in their midst, and all they can do is try to entertain him with some idiot song about a fishmonger. The sooner I get him back to his own time, and I go with him, the better. All that I need to obtain his full attention is a little bit of leverage in the shape of that Bucket woman, who seems to have beguiled him, for some reason. Now where is she…?”

 The islanders filtered out of the building, many still singing and everyone happy. The evening had been a definite success. Philomena smiled to herself and reflected that, if Doctor Dee was to be suddenly whisked back to Tudor times, he would at least take with him a happy memory of the island. As she watched the last few stragglers leave she decided it would be a good idea to stay an extra half-hour and make sure that the precious phonograph and its cylinders were packed away properly. Ever economical, she doused most of the candles and worked quietly and methodically. Suddenly a movement in the shadows caught her eye.

“Who’s there?” she asked, wishing that Drury had still been with her. As soon as the concert was over he had clattered off to the House at Poo Corner, where Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man would be preparing to start his round.

A lone figure stepped into the dim pool of light cast by a single candle. It was Durosimi O’Stoat.

“Miss Bucket… a word with you, if I might.”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Tulpa

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Owing to a bungled experiment, conducted by Durosimi O’Stoat, the nine-year old orphan, Freya Draycott, had found herself enjoying a substantial degree of warmth, happiness and traditional Scandinavian family-life, in the distant past of Hopeless, Maine. It was one of those periods in time when the island had shrugged off its default state of fog-strewn horror and, for reasons best known to itself, had adopted a more agreeable aspect. So happy was Freya, that wild spoonwalkers would have been unable to drag her back to her own time, even if they had possessed sturdy enough cutlery to have allowed them to do so. In view of that, it is there that we must leave her.

There was a definite sense of frostiness in the air of the Pallid Rock Orphanage, which had nothing to do with the miserable chill and all-pervading fog of a typical Hopeless day. Miss Calder was no longer on speaking-terms with Reverend Davies, following his decision to allow Durosimi to recruit Freya as an assistant. She fluttered around the orphanage exuding an iciness which had given her wraith a strangely glacial, bluish aspect. For his part, Reverend Davies was somewhat aggrieved that two weeks had passed and there had been no word from Durosimi regarding the child’s welfare. Normally such an omission would not have bothered him too much, but with Miss Calder literally giving him the cold shoulder, he needed to find out what Durosimi was up to.

“I wish I knew what is going on, Willoughby,” he grumbled to the Doc. “Durosimi assured me that the girl would be returned to the orphanage after a few days.”

Doc Willoughby, who disliked being referred to by his surname, disliked even more the fact that Freya had been absent for so long. You may recall that Durosimi had been trying to replicate the spell that had deposited Rhys Cranham back a century or so into the past. Despite living there for two full months, the Night-Soil Man had been restored to present-day Hopeless within a few hours of his leaving. The Doc had reasoned that by flitting back and forth through time in this manner, it would be possible to become virtually immortal. With this in mind, he had secretly conspired with Durosimi to send first a goat, then a human guinea-pig, back in time with instructions to seek out one of the O’Stoat clan. For as long as they had been on Hopeless, the O’Stoats had produced a steady supply of sorcerers, witches, necromancers and tea-leaf readers. There was bound to be an O’Stoat lurking around somewhere on the island with the wherewithal to return the occasional time-traveller. Naturally, the goat lacked the vocal skills to pull this off successfully, but surely, pondered the Doc, the child had been bright enough to carry it through.

“I’ll go and talk to Durosimi myself,” declared the Doc, magnanimously. “I am sure that there is a simple explanation. Why, the girl is probably having such a pleasant vacation that she is in no hurry to get back to that draughty old orphanage of yours at any time soon.”

The Reverend harrumphed and spluttered a little, but was relieved not to have confront O’Stoat himself.

“Very well,” he conceded, “but do try and bring her back. Miss Calder is making my life a misery.”

“What do you mean, she didn’t come back?” demanded the Doc.

“I mean,” said Durosimi, his voice hardening, “that the child did not damned well come back. What else could I have meant, Willoughby?”

The Doc winced under the force of the man’s tone, but was not inclined to give up just yet.

“And do you know why that might be…?” he ventured, nervously.

“Of course I don’t.” Said Durosimi angrily. “The past is a big place. Maybe I put too much mandrake into the mix… she might be riding around on a woolly mammoth for all that I know.”

“Or being eaten by one,” observed the Doc, drily.

“Unlikely. I think you will find that they were herbivores,” said Durosimi, “but that is beside the point. I regret to say that pinpointing a precise period in history and depositing someone there is, at the moment, beyond my ability. At least for now, the experiment is over.”

“But what shall I tell Reverend Davies?” blustered the Doc. “If the girl does not get back, Miss Calder will probably leave the orphanage and seep into the ether, never to return.”

“That would be a shame,” conceded Durosimi. “I have always rather admired Miss Calder, even when she was alive.”

“Is there nothing you can do?” asked the Doc.

Durosimi thought for a moment.

“I can make Freya’s disappearance seem to be an untimely accident, rather than the fault of Reverend Davies or myself? Would that soothe matters?”

“Possibly,” said the Doc, “but how would you do that?”

“Do you know what a tulpa is, Willoughby?”

The Doc hated having to admit ignorance of anything, but was forced to shake his head in bewilderment.

“A tulpa,” said Durosimi, warming to his subject, “is, if you would prefer, a thought-form, of sorts. Creating such a creature would take me a few days to achieve, but yes, I could fashion a facsimile of Freya which should satisfy Miss Calder’s scrutiny… at least from a distance. If the child appears to return to the orphanage, at least Davies and I will be square with each other. After all, I cannot be held responsible for anything that befalls her after she leaves my care.”

Durosimi pondered for a few seconds, then added,

“Tell Reverend Davies to expect her at noon in three days… no, no, on second thoughts, make that a week today. I need there to be a certain degree of drama, or the illusion will fall flat.”

Doc Willoughby had absolutely no idea what Durosimi was planning to do, but had no wish to risk upsetting him any further with needless questions. He returned to the orphanage and conveyed the message that Freya would be returned to them in one week’s time. While Miss Calder was dubious, she allowed her manner to soften a little towards Reverend Davies, and the atmosphere at the orphanage thawed by a degree or two.

Exactly one week later the hall clock announced the fact that it was noon, with twelve jarring clangs. Reverend Davies, the ghostly Miss Calder and a somewhat curious Doc Willoughby were standing in front of the orphanage, eagerly awaiting the promised arrival of Freya. The Reverend allowed himself an audible sigh of relief as a familiar fair-haired figure bobbed into sight, skipping through the fronds of mist towards them. It was definitely Freya, waving happily and looking even a little taller than she had before. Miss Calder clapped her hands with delight and even Doc Willoughby gave a passing semblance of a smile.

All seemed well, until the dark and ominous shape of a huge, eagle-like bird screeched out of the foggy air and scooped Freya up in its talons.

“Pamola!” exclaimed the Reverend, real fear gripping him, “It’s the evil demon, Pamola.”

The Reverend was well aware of the tale of how Pamola, many years earlier, had snatched the orphan, Daniel Rooksmoor, and taken him to his eyrie on Mount Katahdin.

‘No it isn’t,’ thought the Doc, but kept his own counsel. What was it Durosimi had promised to send? A tulpa, that was it. Well, the old boy had surpassed himself, and sent two. No wonder he needed the extra few days to do it.

Miss Calder clasped her hands to her face, which by now had become quite skeletal, as she watched the child being whisked away. Reverend Davies groaned.

“Well, that’s a pity,” said the Doc conversationally. “Still, never mind. It’s no one’s fault, eh?”

Miss Calder looked at him quizzically. The Doc could be brusque and cold-hearted when he wanted to be, but this attitude seemed callous beyond words.

“I suppose you’re right Willoughby,” sighed the Reverend.

Miss Calder watched as the two walked away, deep in conversation.

She had no idea what had just happened, but there was more to this than met the eye. For now, she would give Durosimi the benefit of the doubt, but swore to herself that, before long, she would discover the truth.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Durosimi

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“Not in a million years,” said Salamandra firmly, fixing Doc Willoughby with a terrifying stare.

“Even if I thought that I could, there is no way that I would do what you ask.”

The Doc looked crestfallen. Knowing of her abilities, he had reached out, in some desperation, to Salamandra.

Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, had claimed to have been spirited back into the past, where he had lived for two months. Upon returning, and to his amazement, Rhys discovered that just a single night had elapsed since he had left. When the Doc heard of this, and was assured by Reverend Davies that Rhys was incapable of lying, he became obsessed with the idea. Such a course of action, he reasoned, if frequently repeated, would render a person virtually immortal, and Doc Willoughby had definite designs on being that person. It occurred to him that if anyone on the island could replicate this feat, then it would be one of the O’Stoat clan, a family long entrenched in occult practices. For once in his life the Doc’s instincts were spot on, for it had been the matriarch, Colleen O’Stoat, who had summoned the Night-Soil Man back to her own time.

“But why ever not?” the Doc protested. “What earthly difference would it make to you if I, or indeed anyone, was sent into the past?”

Salamandra regarded him with no small amount of contempt.

“Because,” she said, slowly and pointedly, as if addressing an erring child, “you have no business lurking around in a time which is not your own. Can you not see the damage you could cause with your every action? And you are supposed to be one of the more intelligent specimens of humanity on Hopeless – or so you keep telling everyone! It is indeed fortunate that Rhys Cranham did little else than shovel shit while he was there, or I dread to think what might have happened.”

The Doc winced. Salamandra was not one to mince her words.

“So that’s a definite ‘no’ then?” he asked, warily.

Salamandra did not reply, but gave him a look that would have turned wine to vinegar. She stormed off into the mist, towards the shore, her strips of cloth flapping and writhing as if possessed of a life of their own.

“That went well,” thought the Doc sourly.

He turned, intending to go back into town, when a tall, almost cadaverous, shape emerged from the mists.

“Ah, Willoughby. I thought it was you whom I heard speaking to my daughter.”

The Doc pulled up short and peered at the newcomer with incredulity.

“Durosimi? Really? I thought that you were dead.”

“No, no,” said the other, drily. “I’m sure that I would have noticed.”

Doc Willoughby had known Durosimi O’Stoat for a long time; he was not one to strike up a conversation without a good reason. The Doc wondered what it was that he wanted.

“I get the idea that your discussion with Salamandra turned out to be not quite as productive as you would have liked.”

“You could say that,” agreed the Doc.

“I could not help but overhear your conversation. It sounded… interesting.”

“I thought it was,” said the Doc, “but, like Reverend Davies, your Salamandra thought my plan to be unethical.”

“I don’t know where she gets these ideas from,” said Durosimi, a hint of sympathy in his voice. “Ethics, honestly! Nothing in this world would ever have been achieved if people had allowed ethics to get in the way.”

“So… are you saying that you might be in a position to help?” asked the Doc, hopefully.

“I would be happy to try, certainly, but it would not be without its dangers. You and I are both men of science, Willoughby, and as such, we appreciate the risks of experimentation.”

The Doc made no reply. He knew that this was no more than flattery. His own very basic grasp of medicine shared nothing with the dark arts that Durosmi practiced. However, if it meant that his goals were to be fulfilled, he would have signed away his soul – if, indeed he was in receipt of such a thing – there and then.

“Maybe we can talk about this in my home,” said Durosimi, placing a bony hand on the Doc’s shoulder and leading him towards a nearby building. If he noticed that his companion was crossing his fingers, he did not mention it.

The following morning saw the strangely charming, but totally incongruous, sight of Doc Willoughby walking purposely towards the Gydynap Hills, leading a small black goat on a tether.

Durosimi had assured the Doc, with some confidence, that it was not beyond his ability to send someone back in time… or at least, he could do this, in theory. The Doc was, understandably, more than a little reticent to volunteer himself for this experiment, and so it was agreed that a smallish, and fairly docile animal would be best suited to fulfil this pioneering role.  The Doc left the goat to Durosimi’s tender mercies, and waited to hear if and when the experiment had been a success.

A week went by. Nothing. Half-way through the following week the Doc received a cryptic message indicating that the experiment had been successful. Stopping only to throw on his hat and jacket, he made his way to the across the island with unaccustomed speed.

“Congratulations!” exclaimed the Doc, enthusiastically shaking a cold and bony hand, “I knew you would do it. Where is the little fellow?”

Durosimi looked puzzled.

“What little fellow would that be?” he asked.

“Why, the goat of course.”

“Oh, him. He went but hasn’t come back. I don’t quite see how he can.”

“But… but…” stammered the Doc.

“I am sure that if it could speak, the goat would have wasted no time in asking one of my ancestors to get him back here post-haste, but he is a dumb animal, and dumb animals are by definition… dumb. Until I can send a human being it will be something of a one-way street. I have not yet perfected that part of the experiment, I’m afraid.”

“Then that’s that,” said the Doc, somewhat deflated. “No one is going to volunteer for anything as hazardous as this. We don’t even know if the goat survived.”

“Then maybe it’s not a volunteer that we need…” said Durosimi ominously.

The Doc tensed.

“I can’t say that I’m totally comfortable with press-ganging someone,” he said.

“As you will,” said Durosimi. “But be sure to let me know if you change your mind.”

He watched the Doc, a bitterly disappointed man, shuffling miserably down the cobbled footpath.

“You’ve gone soft in your old age, Willoughby… but thanks for the idea,” he muttered to himself. “I’m sorry you didn’t want to see it through.”

Then an idea struck him and a menacing leer spread across his face.

 “Why,” he mused, “I think it’s high time that I wandered down to the Pallid Rock Orphanage, and let Reverend Davies know that I am in need of a young assistant.”

Hopeless inhabitants

Durosimi

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He picked a bone up under the lighthouse.

It had been used as candle stand.

He noticed a name carved.

Old language

He has a human candle at home.

Melting fat with old bones

Fire on dead hair

Scarlet flame from eye holes.

And spiders

Spiders are eating skulls

Spiders’ nests make a skull chain.

Durosimi grows eight legs

and laughs at himself.

It is a bone black magic.

*

(Text by Dr Abbey, image by Tom and Nimue.

If you’d like to spend more time with Durosimi and his spiders, there’s a 4.5k short story for everyone who backs the kickstarter – if we hit our first stretch goal. The piece above and the short story were written in parallel, and it is thanks to Abbey that the story has so many spiders in it! https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/hopelessmaine/hopeless-maine-the-graphic-novel-by-tom-and-nimue-brown/)