Rev Gav

Twisted Tales

1. Clayton

The underside of Clayton’s bed, like the rest of his room, was a mess. Old socks, paper aeroplanes, empty crisp packets, balls, pens, and all kinds of litter were crammed into the space. Clayton’s mum was forever nagging him to tidy his room, but Clayton decided that it was his room and he could do with it as he pleased. Despite being stubborn and lazy, Clayton loved bugs and was fascinated with all things creepy and crawly. He followed the trails of ants as they marched across the kitchen floor and enjoyed trying to catch the tiny jumping spiders with his bare hands.

One night, as Clayton slept, he was woken by a loud clicking sound coming from underneath his bed. After several minutes of tossing and turning he could ignore the sound no longer. Luckily, Clayton had recently been out on Long Beach watching the turtles hatch and his head torch was lying on his bedside table. He grabbed it, switched it on, swung his head over the side of his bed, and peered into the gloom. The clicking noise continued, and as Clayton panned the beam across the piles of debris he glimpsed something scuttle out of the light and back into the shadows. The clicking noise stopped. Clayton switched his torch from a white light to a red light and waited. Slowly, a large cockroach emerged. It was the biggest Clayton had ever seen and it was at least four inches long. It began making a clicking noise and crawled slowly towards the light, antennae twitching from side to side. Clayton remembered he had an apple core in his school lunchbox and he reached out and grabbed his school bag. Retrieving the morsel he tossed it under the bed towards the cockroach. There was a scuffling and a crunching and the clicking stopped. Clayton switched off his torch and went back to sleep.

The next night, Clayton was again woken by the persistent clicking noise. Again he switched on his head torch and spotted the giant cockroach under his bed. It looked even bigger than the night before and he tossed it half a leftover sandwich from his school lunchbox. There was a scuffling and a crunching and the clicking stopped. Clayton went back to sleep.

Night after night Clayton was woken by the cockroach’s clicking and Clayton had soon taken to leaving some food on his bedside table ready to toss it to the enormous scavenging insect. However, one night after feeding it a whole soft banana, the clicking continued. Clayton got out of bed and quietly, so not to wake his parents, made his way to the kitchen. He opened the fridge looking for something he could feed his hungry pet. He found some cooked sausages, returned to his bedroom with half a dozen, and threw them under the bed. There was a scuffling and a crunching and the clicking stopped. Clayton went back to sleep.

Each night Clayton fed the ravenous cockroach larger and larger portions of food until one night, after tossing it a whole grouper and listening to the sickening crunch of skin and bone, the clicking sound continued. There was nothing left to feed the creature, but then Clayton remembered he’d seen a rabbit lying dead on the road outside his house. He tiptoed out into the night, and under the light of a streetlamp, he spotted the rabbit’s carcass. It was already beginning to smell, but grasping the rabbit firmly by the ears, Clayton peeled and lifted it from the road and returned with it to the house. Back in his bedroom the clicking sound was so loud he was worried it would wake his parents. Clayton threw the rotting rabbit under the bed. There was a scuffling and a crunching and the clicking stopped. Clayton went back to sleep. And no, he didn’t even bother to wash his hands.

The next night when Clayton was woken by the clicking sound, he was cross and fed up. He was annoyed by the nagging insect and Clayton decided that the cockroach could go one night without being fed. He switched on his mobile phone, stuffed his earphones in his ears, and played music to drown out the sound of the cockroach’s clicking. Clayton went back to sleep.

In the morning Clayton woke, swung his legs over the side of his bed and stretched. His messy room was quiet. Clayton stood up and as he did so, a long, shiny brown antennae slowly emerged from under the bed, twitching this way and that. Clayton froze in terror as he felt something hard and serrated grip his ankle.

…

Clayton’s mum knocked on her son’s bedroom door. It was almost time for him to leave for school. Hearing no reply, she pushed open the door. A rotting stench filled her nostrils but there was no sign of Clayton. She was about to turn and leave when she heard a a scuffling and a crunching, and then a strange clicking sound, and it seemed to be coming from underneath his bed.

2. Marvin

For almost twenty years, Marvin had been cultivating and harvesting bananas on the Green Mountain plantation. His meagre wage was only just enough to cover the purchase of basic food supplies and so he augmented his diet with whatever else he could pilfer, snare, or trap. Aside from rats and rabbits, his favourite meal was to cook up the delicious claws of the endemic land crabs, for the plentiful creatures were easily caught as they slowly scuttled around the shrubs and rocky outcrops on the plantation. Each day, as he went about his work, Marvin would pluck the crabs from the mountain, snapping off claws and stuffing the morsels into a hessian bag which hung from his belt. Once a limb had been severed, each poor crab would be tossed back to the ground where it would scuttle for cover in the leafy undergrowth. However, Marvin was not stupid. He knew that if he took both claws from the crabs then they would not be able to feed, and if they could not feed then they would die, and if they died then they would not be able to reproduce, and if they could not reproduce then there would be no more crabs and no more delicious crab claw dinners.

Marvin’s small stone cottage was tucked away in a ravine above one of the many intertwining paths that crossed the mountain. Each evening he would boil up the crab claws, sprinkle them with sea salt, pop them into his mouth, and suck out the sweet tender meat. After each claw was finished he would toss it into the fire, and when all the claws had been eaten Marvin would fetch a bottle of rum from a crate and take great gulps until his head span and he tumbled into bed, falling into a dreamless sleep.

One day, as Marvin set about his work on the plantation, he began to notice tiny slashes in the base of the banana trees and some of the trees had been almost severed. Over the coming weeks he observed that trees which were untouched before he went to bed, by sun up, were hacked and sliced. He wondered what could be assailing the trees and so night after night, after he had eaten supper, Marvin returned to the plantation to keep watch. Eventually, one night, when a full moon cast a dim light over the plantation, he heard a tiny slashing and nipping. Something was setting about one of the trees. Marvin made his way towards the sound, and there in the moonlight, swiping and slashing with its pincer at the base of a tree, was a land crab. Marvin was enraged. He burst from the undergrowth and stamped on the crab, feeling its shell splinter and crunch under his heavy boot. As Marvin lifted his foot he noticed that it was one of ‘his’ crabs, sporting only one claw and he chuckled to himself at the thought that the crab would never again damage the trees. Marvin returned to his cottage, swigged the remaining rum from an open bottle, tumbled into bed, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

The next day when Marvin entered the plantation he discovered yet more trees had been mutilated by tiny claws and that night, after his supper, he once again returned to keep watch in the plantation. It was not long before he heard the familiar slashing and nipping. This time it seemed to be coming from all around him and as he emerged from his hiding position he saw dozens of crabs all swiping and nipping at the trunks of the trees. Marvin was furious. He yelled and stomped and threw rocks at the crabs, crushing them under foot and stone, until their sanguinary corpses littered the plantation floor. Sweating, but satisfied with his work, Marvin returned to his cottage. He drained the remains of a bottle of rum, tumbled into bed, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning, when Marvin entered the plantation, he was galled to discover that yet more banana trees had been lacerated, and to make matters worse, there were no crabs in sight, not even the ones he had shattered and  crushed the previous night. He searched in the cracks in the rocks and under the guava bushes but there were no crabs to be found. That night Marvin went hungry. To compensate for his aching belly, he gulped down a whole bottle of rum before staggering back to the plantation to keep watch. A little after midnight Marvin woke up. He had fallen asleep. He stood up. His back was aching from where he had lain on the bare earth, and he was about to head home when he heard a tiny slashing and nipping. He followed the sound and there before him was a one-clawed crab hacking and slicing at the base of a tree. When the crab spotted Marvin it stopped its work and turned to face him defiantly waving its pincer in the air. Marvin stepped forward. He would enjoy feeling his boot crush the carapace. However, before he had a chance to do so he heard a creaking and then a sharp snap behind him. He turned just in time to see the dark shadow of a tree descending towards him and it was the last thing he saw before a terrific blow to his head knocked him unconscious.

Marvin dreamed terrible dreams; of crabs crawling all over his body, their legs scraping across his bare flesh and the sound of pincers shredding and snipping. When he came round it was daylight and he was lying on his back on the hard earth looking up at the broad banana leaves swaying gently in the wind. His head was throbbing and as he reached up to rub his temple an indescribable pain shot through his right hand. Marvin screamed. As he held his hand in front of his face he could see nothing but severed bloody stumps where his thumb and fingers used to be.

3. Mirabelle

Mirabelle felt warmth on her face as the sun poured through the open window. She opened her eyes. The aching had finally relented, her head had stopped pounding, and she no longer felt nauseous. Mirabelle lifted her arm to look at her hand and she smiled. The colour had returned. It was over.

She was not the first person to get ill. In fact, it seemed everyone had suffered from the outbreak. Most recovered quickly and indeed her younger brother seemed to hardly notice the passing flu-like symptoms, however in a few people, including her, the disease took hold. Her fever progressively worsened over the period of a week until she fell into a nauseating delirium. She remembered little of the cart journey up the treacherous winding road to the sanitorium, the place where fever victims were taken. The cool mountain air was infinitely preferable to the stifling heat of Georgetown. And there she lay, a jaundiced aching body vomiting blood and shedding red-tinged tears. When she had moments of lucidity, although her neck was too painful to move her head, she could observe some of the room in which she was being nursed. The wash stand. The wooden crucifix on the wall. On one occasion she woke to discover the kind nurse washing her face with cool water. Mirabelle tried to speak, to thank her, but no words came out, even when the cloth was wrung into her mouth to enable her to quench her dry, sapless throat. But now the illness had passed and all that was behind her. She was well again.

Mirabelle sat up in the hospital bed and stretched. On the small wooden bedside table was her silver hand-held mirror, a precious gift she had received for her tenth birthday. She lifted the mirror and held it up so she could look at herself. She gently touched the skin on her face that had once been yellow and peered at her hazel eyes that had once been puffy and red. Mirabelle folded and tidied her long hair as best she could, fastening it with a wooden pin. The only other item on the table was a piece of paper, a letter from her mother. “Dearest Belle,” it began, “we long to see you when we travel up the mountain later this week. We heard good news from the doctor, that he was hopeful for your complete recovery. I have a surprise treat for you too. All my love, Mama.” Mama. How she had fretted in the days when the sickness had first taken hold. Mirabelle could not wait to see her, to once again work with her in the Georgetown laundry, tossing sodden balls of linen at each other’s heads, singing ribald sea shanties, and falling to the floor in fits of giggles. Oh Mama!

Mirabelle sucked in a deep breath of fresh mountain air before calling out, “Hello?” She heard a patter of footsteps in the passageway outside the room before a woman, presumably a nurse, bustled in and up to the bed. She was positively glowing, her face lit up with a smile, and her words came out in a long rapid string, “Alo mi dear! Look at ya, all better n’ sittin’ up in bed. Oi’ll bet you’re ungry right?” Mirabelle nodded and a small boy entered the room carrying a tray. The nurse took the tray and laid it on Mirabelle’s lap. On the tray was a steaming plate of pork chops, green beans, and mashed potato, all smothered in a thick brown gravy. The smell was divine. The food was accompanied by a beaker of beer. “You’d better eat up b’fore doc comes t’see ya.” Then the nurse and the small boy left the room. Mirabelle was ravenous and devoured the food, beer dripping down her chin as she savoured every morsel and drank every drop. No sooner had she finished when the doctor entered into the room. He was tall and lean with an open, friendly face. “I expect you would like to be up and about?” he enquired. “May I?” asked Mirabelle. “Of course,” he replied, and extended a hand, “follow me!”

The doctor, holding Mirabelle’s hand, led her out of her room, along a short passage, and then they were outside on the lawn behind the sanitorium. Her bare feet sunk into the soft, warm grass and in the distance the sea sparkled and glistened under a clear blue sky. “Come,” said the doctor, and he led her across the lawn to a small gate which led to a neat earthen path. She followed the doctor along the path which wound down a gentle slope between boulders until they arrived at a wall with an open iron gate. The doctor stood to one side, smiled, and beckoned Mirabelle to enter. She walked through the gate into a small open space. Standing about the space were about a dozen people, mostly children and young men, and they all smiled at her. In front of her stood the nurse and the young boy from the hospital. Mirabelle walked slowly up to them and then followed their gaze which rested on a tall stone in the ground. It bore an inscription which read, ‘Mirabelle Stanley, beloved daughter and sister. Forever in our hearts.’ Confused, Mirabelle looked up and turned around. The doctor put his hand on her arm and whispered, “Welcome home.”

4. Norman

Norman stepped out of the plane, scratched his beard, and sniffed the air. The wind was coming from the South West and as he placed his black leather bag down at the top of the ramp he lifted his head into the warmth of the afternoon sun, removed his round spectacles, and wiped them on the sleeve of his long raincoat. Sighing, he placed the spectacles back on his nose, closed up his bag, picked it up, and made his way down the steps and onto the concourse. Once inside the passenger terminal, after the necessary paperwork had been completed, the government Director of Operations greeted the doctor. As Norman had no hold luggage to collect they would head straight for the Obsidian Hotel where the doctor would stay during his brief visit. However, the doctor was called over to the customs desk so the clerk could inspect his bag. The doctor stiffened at this request but acquiesced and placed his bag on the counter. The customs clerk opened the bag and began to root through the doctor’s belongings. One of the items was another small case, and upon opening it the clerk revealed fourteen small clear glass vials. Thirteen of the vials were full of a clear liquid but one was empty. When the clerk looked quizzically at the small open case the Director of Operations vouched for him, explaining that the passenger was a doctor visiting the island on important government business. The clerk was satisfied and after the doctor’s items were returned to his bag, the director led him to her waiting car.

Despite being asked to attend meetings, and even meet the Administrator, the doctor declined, explaining that he was a private man and somewhat socially awkward. He would take his meals in his room, communicate via email, and, as agreed prior to his visit, he would spend the forthcoming days making the necessary arrangements prior to presenting his plan publicly at the Ascension Day Fair which was to take place in just a week’s time.

The reason for the doctor’s visit was simple. Rats. The population of vermin that inhabited the island, having no natural predators, had once again grown to plague proportions, decimating plants and wildlife, entering homes, and spreading germs and disease. The Conservation Department were literally overwhelmed, and when outside help was sought, it led them to door of Dr Norman Shackleton, eminent virologist and rodent expert. The doctor had successfully developed a rodenticide, a modified virus that would spread quickly through the rat population rendering both the male and female hosts sterile. Although it had been tested in the laboratory it had not yet been trialled on a wild population. The Foreign and Commonwealth Office, given the isolated nature of Ascension Island and their current problem, decided that it would be a safe place to conduct the experiment. It was hoped that by using this very latest in virological science that the rat population could be decreased or even completely annihilated. The whole operation was very low key and it was felt the best way to communicate the news to the islanders that the experiment was both safe and necessary, was to make a public presentation before the trial began.

Norman spent the daytimes in his room making the necessary preparations. The housekeeper would leave his meals on a tray on the floor outside his room and people saw very little of him, although a few times, late at night, he was spotted by motorists as he walked around the island roads dressed in his long raincoat and clutching his leather bag. People were used to seeing eccentrics on the island and no-one gave the doctor any notice other than a passing wave.

The day of the ADF arrived and the doctor agreed to make his presentation at 4pm, after the Administrator’s speech. He was then to be on hand afterwards at the Saints Members’ Club to take questions. At 4pm hundreds of people gathered in the town square to hear the Administrator speak, and the doctor shuffled out of his room and made his way to the event just in time to be invited to make his announcement. Norman climbed the steps, placed his bag on the podium, and stood in front of the microphone. He sniffed the air then reached down into his bag and pulled from it a small case which he then opened. Inside were fourteen vials but all of them were empty. He began to speak.

“Thank you for inviting me here today. For the past seven days I have been releasing versions of an air-born virus around the island that will have devastating consequences. Each virus has a built in timer. The first vials take seven days to take effect and the last two vials, which I released just yesterday, take one day to take effect. You have all been infected, and today, before nightfall, you will all die.”

There was a hushed silence from the gathered crowd. A snigger rippled through the listeners. Obviously this was some kind of joke. Then someone dropped to the ground, then another, and another. People screamed and ran but it was too late. Some made it to cars, but most died where they had been standing just moments before. The pandemonium lasted just thirty minutes before Georgetown fell completely silent as the doctor watched from the podium. Then there was the sound of scurrying and scampering, and from alleys, drains and from under buildings emerged rats. Thousands upon thousands of rats. They swarmed into the town square, over the dead bodies of it’s former inhabitants, and sat on their haunches as if waiting for something. The doctor let his raincoat drop to the floor, unfurled his long tail, leant into the microphone and announced, “Feast, my children, feast.”

5. Ellie

Ellie sat in her chair, stared into space, and let her imagination soar. She was a rainbow coloured unicorn running through fields of orange grass beneath a pink sky. She jumped high in the air and unfurled large, white feathered wings and began to fly, swooping low over the… “ELLIE!” shouted Ellie’s teacher. With a loud bang Miss Trelore slammed a book on her desk and Ellie was yanked back into the classroom. She focused on her teacher who was glaring at her. “Lizards! You are supposed to be drawing lizards!” Ellie glanced around the classroom at the other children. They were all hunched over, drawing and sketching in their art books. Ellie grabbed a crayon from the pot on her desk, stared at the blank page in front of her, and let her imagination soar. She began to draw. She drew a bright blue lizard with green spots. It had red spikes along its back and a yellow forked tail. Ellie was so engrossed in her drawing that she hardly noticed the time pass and before long it was the end of the school day and time to go home. “Those of you who haven’t finished your drawing, please finish it at home,” squawked Miss Trelore. Ellie packed her art book and crayons in her school bag and walked the short distance back to her home in Two Boats village. Once she was home she set her art book upon the kitchen table, opened it up. and finished colouring in her lizard. He was a happy lizard and she gave him a big smiley face with bright blue goggly eyes.

The next day in class, Miss Trelore wanted to see everyone’s lizards and the teacher began to make her way from desk to desk to see what the children had drawn. Ellie excitedly opened up her art book but she could not find her lizard picture. She went through the pages over and over again, from front to back and from back to front, but the picture was not there. When Miss Trelore got to where Ellie was sitting she demanded to see her work. Ellie tried to explain how she had drawn a lizard but somehow it had disappeared from her book. Miss Trelore was very cross, “Don’t lie to me young lady! If you spent more time working rather than daydreaming you would get a lot more done!” Poor Ellie. She tried to protest but it was no use and she fought hard to keep her tears at bay. At break time all the children were allowed out to play, but not Ellie. “You can draw another lizard,” commanded Miss Trelore.

Elle sighed, grabbed a crayon from the pot on her desk, stared at the blank page in front of her, and let her imagination soar. This was a sad lizard but it was spectacular, with red zigzags along its sides and purple horns on its head. It had shiny gold scales on its legs and a long green tongue. At the end of break time the children filed back into the classroom and Miss Trelore asked Ellie to to come to the front to show everyone what she had drawn. Ellie got up from her chair and made her way to the front of the class. Miss Trelore snatched the art book, considered it for a moment, then held it up for the whole class to see. “And what kind of lizard is this?” she mocked. All the children laughed and Ellie went bright red. Miss Trelore handed the book back to Ellie and shooed her back to her seat.

When Ellie got home that afternoon she felt deflated. What was wrong with her lizard? She opened up her art book to see if she could see what was wrong with it but again, she could not find the picture. She went through the pages over and over, from front to back and from back to front, but the picture was not there. The book was empty. Perhaps it was the pens she was using? Somehow the ink must be rubbing off or perhaps the pages were loose and falling out? Feeling angry, Ellie grabbed a crayon from the pot on her desk, stared at the blank page in front of her, and let her imagination soar. She drew a huge purple lizard with six legs, large green pointy teeth, and long, sharp claws. She gave it fiery red eyes and a mean, bad-tempered look. However, when she stood back to look at her creation she could not help but feel that something was missing.

The next day in class, it was time for art again, and Ellie opened her art book to the drawing she had made the previous night. She was just wondering what she could do to finish her angry lizard drawing when she felt a presence behind her. Miss Trelore leant over, seized the book, and let out a contemptible laugh. “Ha! What is this?” she sneered. “Oh, I know what it is. It’s twaddle! That’s what it is. It looks nothing like a lizard. Have you ever seen a purple lizard with red eyes and green teeth and claws? No! You should stop using your imagination and start drawing proper drawings; realistic drawings. Stay behind at break and start again!”

Ellie felt defiant. At break time she sat alone in the classroom and stared at the lizard on the page in front of her. Something was missing from the drawing and so she closed her eyes and let her imagination soar. It occurred to her what was missing and she grabbed a crayon from the pot and drew her teacher, Miss Trelore, being gobbled up by the angry purple lizard with the fiery red eyes, large green pointy teeth, and six legs ending with long, sharp claws. Feeling satisfied with her work she closed her book.

When Ellie got home she felt bad about what she had drawn and did not want to get in trouble with her teacher. As she sat in her bed, she opened up her art book, but like her other drawings the lizard and Miss Trelore were gone. Probably just as well, thought Ellie, and she closed up the book and went to sleep.

The next day in class, Ellie and the other children sat waiting for Miss Trelore but there was no sign of her. After a short while the headteacher arrived, accompanied by a policewoman. With a tremor in her voice the headteacher began, “Children, may I have your attention. I’m afraid I have some very bad news about Miss Trelore. We’re not entirely sure what happened. It seems something terrible…” but Ellie was not listening. She had opened up her art book and was drawing a sheep. A giant sheep with bright red tentacles for legs and eight monstrous eyes.

6. Jacob and Sam

“And that’s why they have the iron gate over the entrance,” finished Sam. “Yeah, yeah,” replied Jacob. Jacob had heard plenty of Sam’s wind-ups, and to be fair, some of them were quite funny. There was the time he convinced Emily, who was in in Year 6, that evil fairies lived in the bamboo forest at the top of Green Mountain, and that if you listened carefully you could hear them clapping their tiny castanets. One Sunday, poor Emily had walked up to the Dew Pond with her parents and when the wind blew she heard the fairies. Convinced she was surrounded by the sprites, she screamed, and ran all the way back down the hill. Yep, Sam could spin a good yarn, but this was a bit over the top, even for Sam. “You’d be too chicken to go inside and find out,” pushed Sam. Jacob felt himself stiffen. Him, a chicken? No way! So he decided to call Sam’s bluff. “All right then, let’s do it,” he replied, “tonight.”

The two boys told their parents they wanted to camp on Green Mountain, and because it was the school holidays, their parents agreed. They packed overnight backpacks with all the things they would need, and before they left, Sam nipped into his dad’s garage and snuck a pair of heavy duty bolt cutters into his own bag. At about 5pm, the boys were dropped off outside the walled garden of Garden Cottage. They waved Jacob’s mum goodbye and watched her old Ford Focus wend its way back down the mountain road. Once they were alone they entered the garden. Sam pitched their two-person tent on the lawn and they sat on one of the picnic benches sharing Pringles, chocolates, and sipping cans of Coke. “So are we going to do this then?” asked Jacob nodding towards the old tunnel opening in the corner of the garden. The old tunnel was built in the 1800s to carry water pipes from one side of the mountain to the other. It had been closed for years after it had become unsafe, and now a heavy iron gate blocked the entrance, sealed with an ancient padlock. “Not until it gets dark,” replied Sam.

The two boys spent the last hours of sunlight exploring the grounds of the old hotel, peering through the dusty windows, and trying to scare each other with stories of ghosts and zombies. Eventually, the sun dipped over the horizon and darkness enveloped the mountain. “You’ll need a weapon to fight it,” said Sam trying his best to spook his friend. “I think I’ll be fine,” laughed Jacob. “Who couldn’t do battle with a giant man-eating centipede? Besides, I have super-powers.” The boys grabbed their torches and Sam lugged the heavy bolt-cutters to the tunnel entrance. They shone their lights down the passageway but they only penetrated a few yards. “It’s not too late to back out you know?” quavered Sam. Jacob was pleased to see Sam looking nervous. Well, he had a plan to teach his friend a lesson. “Did you hear that?” asked Jacob, doing his best to look frightened, “It sounded like a hundred legs scraping the walls and giant pincers snipping and slashing.” Jacob smiled, grabbed the bolt cutters from Sam and placed the cutting blades around the padlock. Using all his strength he squeezed and with a satisfying snap, the padlock gave way and dropped to the floor. The two boys then wrenched at the iron gate, swinging it backwards and forwards, until it eventually yielded to their effort and with a grinding sound grudgingly gave way. “So, are you coming?” asked Jacob. “Er, no, I’ll just stay here and keep guard,” replied Sam. Jacob shone his torch into the darkness and then followed the path of light and entered the tunnel.

The tunnel smelled musty but the floor and walls were smooth. No-one had been down here for years. Jacob had never been afraid of the dark and he boldly wandered further in. “Can you see me?” shouted Jacob back towards the tunnel entrance. “No, but I can just see your light!” shouted Sam. Perfect. Jacob clicked off his torch and then screamed as loud as his lungs would let him. He could hardly stop himself giggling as he thought of Sam wetting himself. “Jake?” shouted Sam. “Jake, Are you okay? Jake?” Sam peered into the darkness. His rubbish torch not making it far into the tunnel. “Jake? Jake?” Then Jacob sprang from the tunnel running at full pelt onto the lawn shouting “Aaaaaargh!” and he burst out laughing. “Very funny! You nearly made me pee myself!” complained Sam who began to laugh himself. “Come on in, it’s fun!” urged Jacob, already making his way back to the tunnel entrance. “I think I’ve had enough for one night,” said Sam. “Okay, you keep watch then,” said Jacob, “I want to explore a bit further in.”

Jacob once again entered the tunnel entrance and made his way slowly along the dark passageway. Sam, who was getting bored, began to look up at the stars. He was just scanning to see if he could locate Orion’s Belt when from within the tunnel echoed a loud scream, then silence. “I’m not falling for it,” thought Sam, and he continued to look up at the stars. After a few moments he heard Jacob making his way towards him and Sam positioned himself near the entrance to the tunnel, hands on hips, his eyebrows raised in mock incredulity. Jacob was keeping his torch off and Sam could hear him shuffling his feet along the tunnel floor as he approached. Sam could just make out Jacob’s body appearing out of the gloom. “Har, har. Very funny,” he jeered, but there was something odd about the way Jacob was walking and waving his arms. Sam flicked on his torch and pointed it into the tunnel. To his horror, out of the gloom emerged two long brown antennae followed by a monstrous orange head about three feet wide; the head of a giant, man-eating centipede.