She retrieved her cigarettes, lit one up and sucked in a large, lung consuming chest full of smoke. She held it in for a few seconds before releasing it into the atmosphere.

  She looked at her surroundings and shook her head. What she usually would have expected to see when she stepped out of her front door was no longer there.

  What with her home being detached she didn't have any neighbours either side of her, but the row of three houses opposite were well and truly gone. All that was there now were a few trees, a rusty old water trough, and an elderly looking chicken. Even Mr. and Mrs. Dutchelm, who lived in the cottage on the corner, and who were always outside, especially at this time of night, were nowhere to be seen. Neither was their cottage come to that.

  Even the road layout had changed. Come to mention it so had the roads. The cobblestoned pavement and tarmacked highway had been replaced by a thick layer of oozing mud.

  The only thing that could be considered an abode was a small mud hut where Archie Lamps' house used to be.

  This, was to say the very least, a tad weird.

  “I have to say this is a tad weird,” said the witch.

  “To say the least,” said Stitches.

  “The very least,” said Ollie.

  “Anyway, in answer to your question about where the cards came from, mate, I don't think that really matters to be honest,” said Ronnie in answer to Ollie's question about where the cards came from, just in case the vampire had forgotten that he'd asked Mrs. Ladle where the cards came from. Actually, he hadn't forgotten that he'd asked Mrs. Ladle where the cards came from, but he might have done so it was prudent for Ronnie to check whether the vampire had forgotten that he'd asked Mrs. Ladle where the cards came from. “I reckon it's more important to figure out exactly where we are.”

  Mrs. Ladle stubbed her cigarette out under foot.

  “I've got an idea,” she said, “but let's have a wander into town first. I don't want to go postulating weird theories and have you all thinking that I'm completely nuts.”

  (Of course, in any normal society, the good witch would have been considered as mad as a Viking with Bipolar Disorder, but in Skullenian terms, she was comparatively sane. To be deemed wacky in Skullenia took behaviour of a spectacularly loopy nature, the epitome of which was one Hubert Prodder, who was so mad that he'd once picked a fight with a bronze statue because he claimed it was staring at him. There were also suggestions that he'd visited Milton Keynes on several occasions to immerse himself in its cultural heritage, fascinating scenery, and interesting road layout, but nobody truly believed that outlandish nonsense. Surely no one could possibly be that insane. He lost the fight by the way. The statue caught him a corker with a set of tin knuckles).

  Up above, the constant moon was full and bloated, hanging in the sky like a pristine wheel of cheese. Thankfully, it was a clear night so it cast enough light for the wanderers to see their surroundings, which was just as well because there wasn't a street lamp anywhere.

  “It's a bit quiet,” said Stitches. “This is normally the busiest time of the night. I can't even hear Boris and he's usually in full swing by now.”

  Boris Console was a poor, sad individual if ever there was one. Seemingly suffering from some sort of mental disorder, he was a ghoul who was utterly convinced that he was a werewolf, meaning that on most nights he could be found wandering about the forest on all fours, wearing an old fur coat and a set of comedy teeth, and howling at the dark sky above in a very unlikely manner. Nobody had a clue why he behaved like this or what to do about it, but seeing as he wasn't doing anyone any harm, it was decided that the kindest and friendliest thing to do was to just let him get on with it. Of course being kind and friendly had very little to do with the decision in reality. He was left out there primarily because most people found his antics extremely amusing. His impression of a werewolf was lacklustre at best, and about as convincing as a black, seven foot tall rappers interpretation of Happy from Snow White and the Seven Dwarves (he'd failed the audition because his gangster rap version of the Hi Ho song wasn't considered suitable for children. It went thusly.

  Hi Ho, Hi Ho

  Off to the hood we go

  With a great big gun to cap someone

  Hi Ho, Hi Ho, Hi Ho, Hi Ho and so on.

  I'm not sure, but I think there may have been some mention of bitches and ho's as well. There probably was. Isn't there always).

  As they approached the town square, or what should have been the town square, they all noticed something. In fact they all noticed several something's. Even more in fact, the several something's that they all noticed were several something's that were not actually present to be noticed. In point of fact, and to emphasise the aforementioned 'even more in fact' to a greater degree, what they'd actually noticed was the absence of several something's, several something's that should have been there. Several something's that were now gone. Or something like that anyway.

  “Notice anything?” said Mrs. Ladle.

  “Too right,” said Ollie. “Where's my bloody office gone?”

  “And Mrs. Strudel's,” said Ronnie. “Plus I noticed that we didn't pass Grendle's shop on the way here.”

  “There's no fountain,” said Stitches. “No houses. There's not even any mist and there's always mist. That's what living in a supernatural town is all about. Mist.” (Perhaps they'd missed it. Sorry. Had to be done).

  In place of the stone and brick buildings that they were used to, there was a motley collection of huts, very similar to the one now opposite Mrs. Ladle's house. And where the fountain used to be were the remains of a bonfire. It was mostly out, but there were still orange embers glowing at its base.

  “So what exactly did you want to check out?” said Ollie to the witch. “Because quite frankly, whatever you say has got to be a better alternative to what I'm thinking.”

  “What are you thinking?” asked Stitches.

  Ollie shook his head. “Oh no. I don't want to discuss what I'm thinking before I've heard what Mrs. Ladle's thinking.”

  “Actually, I would be quite interested to hear what you're thinking,” said Mrs. Ladle, “because it might put a bit of perspective, or at least shed some light, on what I've been thinking. What do you think?”

  “Mmm. The thing is,” said Ollie, “I don't want to influence what you're thinking by telling you what I'm thinking, because to my way of thinking, if we just end up with a jumble of ideas about what everybody's thinking, then you might dismiss what you were thinking in the first place, and it could very well be that what you were thinking about was the right thing to be thinking about.”

  “Ronnie,” said Stitches. “What do you think?”

  “I'll tell you what I think. I think I'm going to knock someone out if this conversation carries on any longer. That'll give them something to think about.”

  Flug tapped Ronnie on the shoulder, almost sending him to his knees.

  “What's up, big fella?” he said, bouncing slightly to make sure that his ligaments were still intact.

  “Me scared. Where home gone?”

  “We're trying to figure that out now, mate. So, Mrs. Ladle. What do you think? And we won't think you're crazy.”

  “I think we've travelled back in time.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” said Stitches. “I've never heard of anything so ridiculous.”

  Mrs. Ladle didn't answer. All she did was put her finger to her lips and do the shushy thing. When she had their complete attention, she pointed and said, “Look up there.”

  They all looked in the direction that she was indicating.

  There, up on a mountainside, surrounded by dense forests, malevolent clouds, the always present glow of lightning, and as much mist as you could ever want, was Count Jocular's castle.

  “Oh, terrific,” said Ronnie rolling a smoke.

  “My apologies,” Stitches said to Mrs. Ladle.

  “Don't worry about it, dear,” she said. “When I first considered the idea I thought I was mad myself, but I'm afraid, as outlandish as it is, it's the only explanation. Look at the evidence, or lack thereof if you like. Everything we know is gone, apart from the castle, and the only things unaffected are us and my house. I can't think of anything else. And if it helps, remember what Sherlock Holmes said to Dr. Watson?”

  “Stop stroking my pipe while I'm asleep?” said Stitches.

  “Not quite. He said, 'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.' That's as far as I've got unless you've got any other thoughts, Ollie?”

  “No, no,” said the half vampire, resigned to the outlandish situation. “We'll go with that for now. It's as good an explanation as any.”

  “So what were you thinking previously then?” asked Ronnie.

  “Oh, just nothing really.”

  “Look, love,” said Mrs. Ladle. “Just because I've come up with an explanation doesn't automatically mean I'm right. Who's to say that your suggestion isn't as valid?”

  “Okay. I thought that maybe it was some sort of practical joke,” said the half vampire.

  “So your theory essentially requires the removal of the entire town, and for it to be replaced by a couple of piles of twigs in the three hours that we were playing cards?” said Ronnie, who couldn't have been more incredulous if he'd been told that Nigel Farage had won a parliamentary seat in Brixton on a whites only ticket.

  “Oh, good grief no,” replied Ollie. “I meant like magic or something. Could someone have cast a spell over us and the house and created an illusion? That's what I meant.”

  “It is a good thought, dear” said Mrs. Ladle, nodding her head, “but sadly not true I'm afraid. I'd have picked up any residual magical energy left by any spell that was cast. Anyway, my house is protected from such interference. After the incident with Bannister's Book of Spells, I thought it was for the best. Nothing can get through now.”

  (Bannister's Book of Spells was, surprise surprise, a book of spells. Ancient spells. It had been written hundreds of years ago by one of the most powerful warlocks ever to have existed, Upton 'Buffy' Bannister. He was a shadowy, mysterious figure who'd travelled the land collecting all manner of sorcery related bits and pieces. From hexes and spells, to incantations and curses, there was nothing that he dismissed or declined to investigate. And the reason for his avid research, and the sole purpose of his mission, was to catalogue them all in his journal, a vast, leather bound tome the size of a briefcase. Over the years he'd amassed a collection numbered in the thousands, to the point that there was hardly a spell that he hadn't heard of in some form or another. Eventually, and some would have said inevitably, all of the magical power within the book had become too great to be contained, and despite being in the possession of someone with Bannister's prowess, it had disappeared. At least that's what people thought. In reality the book had actually become sentient and made its escape one night whilst he was sleeping. Upton himself had never seen it again, which was ironic because no one ever saw Upton again either, and his fate remains a mystery to this very day. The book, however, did make the odd appearance every now and again, usually accompanied by utter chaos and extreme mayhem.

  The incident that Mrs. Ladle was referring to had happened a couple of months ago. Bannister's Book had decided to pay Skullenia a visit, its first appearance anywhere for well over a century. It had whooshed through the town square in a spark enshrouded whirlwind, knocked Constable Gullett clean off his feet, turned the roof of Mrs. Strudel's café into a flock of very confused starlings, and relieved Emery the goblin of his legs. Then, no doubt attracted by the inherent, localised magic, the book had ended up outside Mrs. Ladle's house, flapping about like a deranged paper bat. On hearing the commotion, the witch had gone outside and become embroiled in a spell casting war of epic proportions, during which her broom had received rather a serious singing. Such was the magnitude of the magic used, the very air had become squashy and a bit wibbly, and smelt like a pair of pants from The Crusades, and her house had been turned into, what one onlooker could only describe as 'a big pile of poo that would have made a dinosaurs eyes water.'

  Finally, Mrs. Ladle had caught the naughty book a belter on the spine, after which it had vanished with a poof, and by that I mean the noise, and not a camp, flamboyantly dressed man with a high pitched voice and tidy eyebrows. He was hiding behind a wall and crying into a pink silk hanky.

  Once Mrs. Ladle had put all of the damage to rights, she'd surrounded her house with several highly sensitive detection conjurations. They were so powerful that she'd now know if someone was to cast a glance at her front door let alone a spell).

  “So, let's see,” said Stitches. “Adding together everything we know about how we got here, where exactly we are or when, how we're going to get home, and putting to one side the 'whatever it was' that got passed Mrs. Ladle's defences, I'd say that we're pretty much buggered.”

  “I'm sure we'll figure something out,” said the witch. “Look, you boys stay here for a few minutes. There's something I need back at the house.”

  With that she toddled off leaving the four of them in the town square.

  “It's your fault you know,” said Stitches to Ollie.

  “Well that's hardly fair. How did you come to that conclusion?” said the half vampire.

  “I reckon it was that hand you got. Those stupid bleeding cards did something when you got the right combination,” said the zombie.

  “He's got a point,” said Ronnie. “Not about it being your fault, but the cards. As soon as you called the hand, whoosh, it happened.”

  “Ronnie,” said Flug. “Someone comin'.”

  And so there was. Several people had come out of their huts and had congregated near the bonfire. And a strange looking bunch they appeared to be as well, dressed as they were in some very bizarre clothing. It looked like a cross between potato sacking and the after effects of stepping on a landmine, if landmines had been invented which, based on current evidence, they hadn't.

  They seemed hesitant, wary, and afraid to approach, almost as if the sight of these strangers was something of a new experience. It was either that or they were simply uneducated bumpkins who thought that they were the only people in the world, and that said world ended four hundred yards outside their village.

  They seemed particularly interested in Ollie, or maybe scared of was a better way of putting it, and they couldn't help but notice that a couple of them were carrying pitchforks, and although they weren't being wielded in any sort of threatening manner, the vibes that they were giving off indicated that it wouldn't take much to change that state of affairs.

  “What do we do now?” said Ollie, because he didn't have a clue (which was pretty obvious really, otherwise he wouldn't have said it would he? I can't think why I included it now. I really should stop digressing like this. It wastes ink, and paper doesn't grow on trees you know).

  “I think you should stop smiling for a start,” said Ronnie with a certain air of authority. “It seems to be making them decidedly nervous. Try not to be so…toothy.”

  Apart from being a chain smoking, womanising playboy whose liver was a couple of gin and tonics away from irreversible collapse, Ronnie, unbeknownst to his colleagues, was a bit of a history buff. If he wasn't cramming as much nicotine, caffeine and alcohol into his system as was humanly possible, there was nothing he liked more than perusing history books, whilst cramming as much nicotine, caffeine and alcohol into his system as was humanly possible. And it was the combination of the appearance of the villagers, their surroundings, and the people's apparent fright that triggered something in his head.

  “I thought smiling was supposed to be universally friendly,” said Stitches.

  “It is if it's a human doing it,” said Ronnie. “Look at them. What do you notice?”

  “Well, they're not bleeding smiling that's for sure,” said the zombie.

  “They're all normal aren't they?” said Ollie, worriedly. “There's not a supernatural among them.”

  “Exactly,” said Ronnie, watching carefully as the villagers shifted about. “There was a time in Skullenian history that the village was perfectly normal, and by that I mean no vampires, ghosts, werewolves or anything else straight out of a horror story. They did visit though.”

  “To hunt,” said Ollie.

  “Right,” said Ronnie.

  “This is Jocular's feeding ground isn't it? No wonder they're so nervous.” said Stitches. “Ah well, that's alright. At least we'll know someone round here.”

  “No we won't,” said Ollie. “If Mrs. Ladle's theory is correct we won't be born for another few hundred years yet. He won't have a clue who we are.”

  “That's true,” said Ronnie. “And I suggest we keep it that way. In our time, Jocular has never mentioned meeting us in the distant past, so to keep the time line intact, we better steer clear of him.”

  “Oh God, this is going to get all weird and paradoxy isn't it? said Stitches. “Like one of those stories where anything we do could have an effect later on. Step on a blade of grass now and we return to a future where penguins are ruling the world and the seas are made of jelly.”

  (He had a bit of a point to be fair, but only Stephen Hawking would be able to explain it properly, although most people still wouldn't understand what he's banging on about. Actually, it's a little known fact that the eminent physicist is a bit of a bugger when it comes to time travel related nonsense, especially with regard to claiming overtime. By utilising the general confusion surrounding the paradox theory, and convincing the world that time travel is a physical and scientific impossibility, he managed to rack up two hundred and thirty seven hours overtime for working his day off every week for a whole decade when he had, in fact, been sitting at home with his feet up and getting paid for doing nothing on a day that hadn't actually existed in the real world. No one could argue with him of course, because he had the swipe card readings to prove it, and what with the world being what it is today, who's going to contend the issue with a disabled bloke in a wheelchair who talks like a robot. If they did, Cambridge University would have had to answer all sorts of uncomfortable questions about diversity, and there's no getting out of that once it's raised its multi-cultural head. Actually, Mr. Hawking missed a trick there didn't he? He should have claimed a lack of tolerance on the part of his employer when he told them he was a transexual wanting to seek asylum. That would have given him the full set. They'd have had to let him live in Buckingham Palace as King Stephen I. Still, at least he wouldn't need a carriage).

 

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