The Fathom Flies Again Read online

  Maybe tomorrow would be different, he thought, opening the door and jostling the bike into the hallways beyond. He closed the door and peered suspiciously into the mirror that hung on the wall beside him. His reflection gazed suspiciously back at him, but said nothing. Tomorrow would definitely be better. Kate was working tomorrow, and Marty brightened at the thought, taking it with him as he headed for the comforting embrace of his pillow.

  When it came right down to it, things weren’t really that bad. He had a relatively decent job, and some of his co-workers were almost bearable. He’d even started drawing again, perhaps fueled by lofty dreams and crazy nightmares that had seemed real not so long ago. And he had Kate. Not too shabby, all things considered. Marty smiled in the dim glow of his bedside lamp. He didn’t need all that bizarre absurdity, life was ticking along just fine, and when push came to shove, anyone who went out looking for clowns was just looking for trouble. He turned onto his side and reached over to the flip the light switch. Tomorrow will be as crazy as I make it, he thought, plunging the room into silent blackness.

  Amongst the empty shoeboxes, lost coins, and dust bunnies beneath Marty’s bed, something stirred in the dark. Something that had no business being under his bed, and in truth, had no business being at all. Marty had never been a fan of the phrase ‘be careful what you wish for.’ If you’re wishing for something, chances are it’s going to be shiny, expensive, or strawberry flavored. The something under his bed was none of these things, and it chuckled ever so softly as it began to shuffle out from its hiding place.

  Chapter Five

  Things were not going well at The Pickled Judge. Kinky Ninja were finishing up a rather disastrous set, and Kate shrank further into the little alcove in the corner, sipping on something not dissimilar to paint thinner.

  The drinks menu wasn’t what you might call cosmopolitan, a decision backed up by the surly, furniture chewing clientele, but it was the closest watering hole to Stellar Island, and many of the park’s staff braved the dubious establishment as a result.

  Kate had finished her shift, and decided that an evening of culture from a local band might be a distraction from the trials of the dreaded day job. It surely would have been a good idea, had culture featured at all in the discordant twanging of the hapless four piece. She had even considered calling Marty, who was due for release from employed bondage any time now, but three ‘dates’ in, they weren’t living in each other’s pockets just yet. Besides, she would be seeing him in a few hours, and as well as things appeared to be going, she didn’t want to rock the boat.

  How she dearly wished that boat sported a Jolly Roger.

  Kate scanned the pub, almost enjoying the bedlam that Kinky Ninja were causing with their peculiar brand of music. At the bar, two gruff looking gents argued over who’s turn it was to throw bottles at the stage. Beside the jukebox, a gang of amazingly hairstyled teens competed with the noise by pumping coins into the blinking machine. And still Kinky Ninja played on, possibly assessing potential escape routes rather than encores.

  As was the tradition on Friday nights, the evening’s shenanigans appeared to have tumbled out into the street beyond, and Kate turned to watch as a fight erupted, sending its participants churning through the front doors into the darkness outside. She squinted through the musty, expletive filled atmosphere of The Judge, attempting to pick out the contestants of this boozy joust. Aside from random limbs which jabbed out here and there, nothing betrayed who was fighting, or indeed why. Nothing except the faint flash of a bright orange, outrageously fluffy wig. Kate strained in her seat, craning for a better view of the melee. She could almost hear giggling amidst the poignant second verse of ‘I left my spleen in San Francisco’. She’d heard that laughter before, recently, and for a moment, Kate felt her own spleen make a bolt for sunnier climes.

  Just as her mind started issuing assurances that this was reality, and nothing grinning and murderous tended to frequent these parts, she spied two faces peering in through the front windows. They seemed transfixed, leering and illuminated by the streetlights outside. Kate had seen some strange things whilst on a night out in town before. This town was no stranger to sombrero wearing penguins, or the odd gorilla in a tutu. Such was the uniform of the drunken merry maker. And yet, the sight of two grease-painted faces, noses as red as traffic signals, atop grins more befitting your average crocodile, stirred shrieking alarm bells in her brain.

  Almost instinctively, Kate moved further back into the darkness of the corner, edging towards the back door of The Judge, and away from the mystery spectators at the window.

  “There you are.” A guttural voice rumbled at Kate’s side. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  Sudden panic shook Kate from her clown induced hypnosis. She whirled, eyes darting for possible escape routes, her hands outstretched to fend off whatever had apparently found her. The back door was indeed her best hope, but it stood beyond the still caterwauling band, who had launched into an ear defiling rendition of ‘Fridge Over Troubled Water. Even more unsettling, the imminent arrival of grasping hands seemed to be somewhat lacking in the ‘imminent’ department.

  Kate turned to where the mystery hide-and-seek enthusiast had last spoken. Standing over her, a look of vague confusion chiseled onto his granite face, was Old Mad Bill, the hulking bartender of The Pickled Judge. Bizarrely, he was neither old, nor particularly mad. Kate wasn’t even sure if his name was Bill, but it seemed the most plausible part of the extravagant moniker. Oldish, slightly mad, possibly Bill cracked a smile that was simultaneously endearing and terrifying, like a golem in a bonnet. “How come you’re hiding way over here?” he boomed, holding up a beaming, bright pink teddy bear. “You won the raffle. Here.” Bill handed over the bear grudgingly, “His name is Sir Reginald.” The look on the bartender’s weathered face suggested that he would have quite liked to have won it himself. Kate wasn’t sure what was stranger. Bill’s apparent disappointment, or the fact that such a rampant den of iniquity gave out cuddly toys as prizes.

  “Bill, what’s going on outside?” She ventured, “There seems to be a lot of…clowns.” Kate eyed the windows warily as she spoke, but there were no gaunt, white faces staring back this time. Bill rubbed his craggy jaw thoughtfully. “Clowns? I didn’t see any clowns. Just the standard, run of the mill, Friday night bloodshed.” He smiled warmly, as though this routine of carnage was in some way reassuring to him.

  Behind them, Kinky Ninja had launched into a new song. Kate had no idea what this one was, but it was no improvement on their earlier offerings. Suffice to say, if howler monkeys could sing, they’d have hated it too.

  “Things do seem to be getting pretty animated out there, though,” Bill added. “A little too punchy and bitey for a girly like yourself.” He was attempting to inject a soothing tone into his voice, but it still sounded like a Panzer tank in a blender. “D’you want me to call you a cab?”

  As ear shattering as Bill’s voice was, he probably meant to use the telephone to order a taxi. And yet even before he’d finished speaking, the interior of The Judge was bathed in dazzling light as headlights loomed at the windows, and a veering yellow cab exploded through the wall, adding a splintery new layer of carnage to proceedings. The patrons who were still not fighting with each other scattered as it came to rest, dented and battered, atop The Judge’s already dented and battered pool table. For a moment, nothing stirred. A taxi cab through the window will often have that kind of awe inspiring effect on a crowd. Just as abruptly, however, all the noise and movement in the world seemed to arrive in the shattered bar of The Pickled Judge.

  Scrambling from his stricken vessel, the cab driver hit the ground at a stumbling gallop, glancing behind him feverishly as he did so. Thankfully some way away from all the destruction, Kate could clearly see what leapt out after the cabbie, grabbing at his fleeing heels and cackling manically. Huge flapping feet hit the deck, and the giggling harlequin straightened itself, seemingly aware that it was now standing in
a room full of things it could chase.

  Kate had seen enough, which was unfortunate, as four or five more things that she didn’t want to see poured into The Judge from the cab shaped hole in the wall. They gibbered, hooted, and jerkily scuttled at anyone who hadn’t realized that discretion was the better part of valor. Clutching Sir Reginald under her arm, Kate made a dash for the back door, past the band, who were still obliviously attempting to coax music out of their instruments. She hit the door at a rate of knots and barreled gracelessly into the dingy alley beyond. There were two ways out of the narrow passage, although one of them seemed to be blocked by a silhouetted figure, standing silently in the darkness. The frizzy hair and billowing pantaloons were something of a giveaway, and Kate instinctively backed away towards the far exit of the alleyway. The frizzy shadow advanced, far more rapidly than seemed possible in those trousers, and before she realized it, Kate frantically pitched Sir Reginald in the direction of the onrushing fiend. The hapless bear tumbled end over end towards its fate, finally plucked out of the air by the clown who had now reached a pool of dim streetlight. It paused, eyeing the toy curiously. The eyes shifted to Kate, still retreating steadily, and then returned to the smiling bear. Like some kind of grease-painted boa constrictor, its grinning jaw dropped, unhinged and gaped. Kate could swear it was still laughing manically as poor Sir Reginald was deposited swiftly into the circus freak’s dreadful maw. Its jaw reset and chewed sickeningly, before the monstrous jester resumed his advance.

  Clowns eat teddy bears? Kate mused as she turned tail and bolted for the end of the alley.

  Chalk that one up as another reason to never sleep again.

  Chapter Six

  It’s a well-known fact that most of your garden variety horrors tend to favor darkness. Vampires, ghouls, zombies, they all seem to favor the spooky shimmer of moonlight. Darting unseen through alleys, deserted streets and equally unpleasant places. They skulk, unknown to those asleep in their beds, and carry out their nefarious business in secret, sinister ways.

  That said, this is also the remit of Santa Claus, so it was anyone’s guess what was lurking beneath Marty’s bed, as he began to slip into slumber. Whatever it was lay formless in the darkness. Had anyone taken the time to flip on the light, no slavering, growling monster would have shrunk back into the shadows from whence it came. The boogeyman that would doubtless cause even clowns to fill their baggy trousers was made of far less tangible stuff. The monster who lives under your bed is the shadows.

  Marty shifted slightly, still dancing on the edge of sleep. Dreams of riding in the clouds on a pirate ship, and trying to fit the world’s largest marshmallow into his mouth vied for position in his mind. As he moved, his arm dropped over the side of the bed, which is a firm no-no when guarding yourself against the perceived terrors that hide beneath. The shadows eyed the swinging limb, chuckling faintly as it sized up its target, and Marty stirred at the sound which pierced the darkness. The chuckle became a voice, raspy and unnatural, issued from under the bed like a squeaky wheel on Satan’s own tricycle. “You moved, you moved!” it whispered. “Mine now.”

  In a flurry of movement, Marty was wrenched awake as something grasped his hand and pulled. All thoughts of marshmallows and pirate ships flew from his mind as he tumbled off the bed towards his mystery assailant. Although Marty couldn’t feel anything solid holding him, his jerky descent to the floor continued, and threatened to yank him underneath the bed. For a moment, he thought he must be dreaming, but surely his bedroom floor would be cleaner, or at least covered in less socks were that the case. Still the living shadow reeled him in, drawing him closer to what was almost certainly not adventures and fun times under his bed. His arm disappeared into the blackness, and Marty’s stomach lurched as he realized this was not a fight he was likely to win. In truth, he was not a fighter, haphazard clown skirmishes aside, and no amount of kicking and struggling seemed to be doing much good.

  Ironically, at that moment, an amount of kicking seemed to do a great deal of good at his bedroom door, as it exploded inwards, casting in blessed beams from the landing light. Two figures leapt through, tiny voices raised in a squeaky, gravelly battle cry that Marty had heard before.

  “Arrrrrr!”

  As light tumbled into the room, so did the two miniature pirates, one catching Marty in the ribs, the other sending his bedside lamp crashing to the floor. In terms of graceful entrances, it fell somewhere between drunk uncle at a wedding and human cannonball, and yet it seemed to have the desired effect.

  The inhuman grip around Marty’s hand vanished as light invaded the room. All that remained were several flailing limbs, some human, some sack cloth and pirate shaped.

  Timbers sprang to his feet on Marty’s chest, cutlass already drawn. “Front and center bad guys, the cavalry’s here!”

  From amongst a tangle of wires and broken lamp, Whipstaff emerged, grimacing and clearly displeased that he’d missed his target. “Captain, we can’t be the cavalry. We don’t have horses.”

  The mini buccaneer shot an irritated glance at his first mate. “Shh. I’ve told you before about stepping on my one liners,” he growled.

  Staring blearily up at his pint-sized rescuers, Marty quickly retrieved his hand from beneath the bed and sat up, sending Timbers sliding to the floor. “Timbers?” he managed, still attempting to dispel the sleep which had recently dangled its dreams before him. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  The little captain stood defiantly, hands on hips. “Rescuing you, obviously.” He was clearly still caught up in mid-swashbuckle.

  “Well, yes, but from what?” Marty glanced at the now completely unthreatening looking floor under his bed. Nothing stared back, and various unassuming items of clutter continued with their non-lethal, non-graspy existence beneath.

  Timbers shrugged. “Damned if I know, we probably scared it off with that awesome battle cry. Either that or you just fell out of bed.”

  Whipstaff joined them in peering under the bed. “Always enter a room expecting a fight. If you get one, you’re prepared. If you don’t, at least you’ll look impressive.” It was flawless logic, and Timbers seemed to agree, nodding and patting his first mate on the shoulder.

  Marty was fully awake now, and wanted answers. This was reality. His reality, and as much as he had wanted his tiny allies to be here, their presence was no less mystifying. “How did you get here? This is…my side of the fence,” he blurted, forming his pin balling thoughts in the best way he could.

  Timbers beamed proudly, “We came in through your cat flap.”

  Getting to his feet, Marty surveyed the room. Something had grabbed him, and he wasn’t entirely convinced that it wasn’t still here somewhere. Still, Timbers’ reply hadn’t answered his question, in more ways than one. “I haven’t got a cat.”

  The little captain deflated slightly. Holding up a ragged piece of wood, he clarified apologetically. “Oh right. Sorry, your new cat flap. Incidentally, your front door might need some attention.”

  Behind them, Whipstaff had taken to turning over furniture, peeking behind doors, and generally making a complete mess. Marty couldn’t decide if the first mate was, like him, not entirely sure that the shadowy assailant had vacated, or whether Whipstaff was just being obtrusively nosey.

  “Where’s Oaf?” Marty enquired to Timbers, who had hopped up onto the bed beside him.

  Timbers’ expression soured. He looked down at his gleaming buckled boots and sighed deeply. “He didn’t make it.”

  A silence fell over the room, and even Whipstaff’s continued demolition of the place seemed to drop into a muted pause. Marty’s eyes widened. “He didn’t make it? You mean he’s…?”

  Something dawned on Timbers’ face, and his roguish grin returned. “No, of course not! I mean through the hole in the door. He didn’t fit. He’s outside on lookout.”

  Marty puffed out his cheeks, partly in relief, but also because his question still hadn’t been answered. He attempted to m
aneuver into a different way of asking it. “You’re here,” he began, hoping that Timbers would fill in the blanks. The little captain stood on one foot, attempting to dislodge a stone from his boot with his cutlass. Clearly, he wasn’t listening and the blanks remained unfilled. “You’re here in my reality. How?” Marty spelled out as his distracted comrade finally ousted the stone and got with the program.

  The program, it seemed, was no more enlightening. “Funny thing, that.” Timbers shrugged. “We were sailing the seven skies and happened upon this swirly, shiny thing.”

  Whipstaff joined his captain and chimed in with his two pence worth. “We like shiny things. We’ve got chests full of shiny things. It’s kind of in the job description.” He beamed.

  Timbers shot his first mate another glance. A pirate’s booty was not to be openly discussed, and certainly not before it had been suitably deposited beneath an ‘X’ somewhere. “Anyway” he cut in, before Whipstaff could give away any more piratey secrets. “We swooped in to investigate, and sort of fell through into…this place.” He glanced around at the dimly lit room, kicking a random sock which had landed beside him amid Whipstaff’s ransacking. “It’s altogether less exciting than I expected, I’ll be honest. Massive invisible monster fighting aside.”

  Marty shuffled the sporadic deck of thoughts in his mind. “What? You landed here? I don’t recall seeing a pirate galleon outside my house when I got here.”

  “No, no, not here.” Timbers explained, sheathing his blade and trotting over to Marty. “We set down in that big theme park. We arrived almost on top of it, and I wasn’t about to fly around a new plane of existence without getting my bearings first.” He headed towards the door, leading from the front as any pirate captain worth his buckles should. “We took the lifeboat and came to find you.”

  Falling in behind him, Whipstaff peered over his shoulder at Marty, clearly expecting him to follow them. “All stealthy-like, y’know?” He tapped his nose and smirked.