SCREAM STREET

  CLAW OF THE WEREWOLF

  TOMMY DNBAVAND

  Chapter One

  The Witch

  With a creak that echoed eerily around the deserted tomb, the golden sarcophagus swung open. The hieroglyphics covering its surface glinted in the light of the single flaming torch. A low moan sounded, and slowly, unsteadily, a figure wrapped from head to toe in bandages stumbled forward, arms outstretched. The mummy had been awakened.

  The two boys stood rooted to the spot as the mummy lurched into the middle of the tomb. Could the curse be true? Would they be forever hunted by this unstoppable creature, as the legend promised?

  Suddenly, the mummy’s head spun in their direction, black beetles squirming beneath the bandages that covered its decaying flesh. The boys stared in horror as it opened its mouth and screamed, sending a swarm of ravenous locusts towards them.

  Within seconds, the boys were surrounded by the vile insects. They tried to run but were blinded by the thick, buzzing cloud. In their terror, the boys scrambled for the—

  Cleo Farr snapped the book closed and glared at the picture of the terrifying mummy on its cover. “That is not a children’s book!” she exclaimed, tossing it onto the bed. “Mummies don’t look anything like that, for a start.”

  A young vampire, Resus Negative, picked up the book. ‘“Bandages of Doom’ by M.T. Graves,” he read aloud, holding the cover up against Cleo’s face. “I don’t know,” he said with a grin, “there’s quite a resemblance there…”

  Cleo jumped indignantly to her feet and smoothed down the bandages that covered her own body. “One,” she began, “my bandages are clean and ironed. Two — there are no beetles squirming around under them. And three …” Cleo opened her mouth wide to emphasize her point. “…I have never screamed out a swarm of locusts in my life!”

  “Calm down,” said Resus. “It’s just a book — and an old-fashioned one at that!”

  Cleo glowered at her friend. “How would you like it if this M.T. Graves person wrote a book about vampires and got it all wrong?”

  “He did,” replied Resus holding up another book, this one featuring a menacing vampire. “Fangs of Destiny. It’s the next in the Horror Heights series.” Resus laughed. “No vampire in the world would be seen undead in a cloak like that, and look — the shape of the fangs is all wrong!” He unclipped his own fangs as evidence.

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Cleo retorted. “They’re not real vampire fangs!”

  Resus bit back a reply. Born as a normal child to true vampire parents, he wore the fake fangs and white face paint along with dyeing his hair black to help him look like the rest of his family. This deception, although accepted by all his friends, was still a touchy subject.

  Cleo took the book from him and examined it. “Do kids really like reading this stuff?”

  She and Resus turned to their friend, Luke Watson, for an answer — but none came. Luke had found the books while packing up his family’s belongings, but now he sat staring at an old photo album, unaware of the conversation going on behind him.

  “What’s that?” Cleo asked.

  “The marriage of Michael Watson and Susan Skipton,” said Resus, leaning over to read the golden lettering from the cover of the album. “Your mum and dad’s wedding pictures!”

  Luke nodded. “They looked so happy back then.”

  Luke’s family had been moved to Scream Street after he had started transforming into a werewolf. From the very beginning his parents had been terrified of the street’s unusual residents, and Luke couldn’t remember the last time he had seen either of them smile.

  Resus and Cleo had been helping him in his quest to find six relics left behind by Scream Street’s founding fathers. Only when he had collected them all would he have the power to open a doorway back to his own world.

  “They’ll be happy again soon enough,” Cleo smiled, sliding a golden casket from beneath Luke’s bed. “There’s only one relic left to find, don’t forget.”

  Luke placed the photo album back into its box. “That’s why I want to get this packing finished. Once the doorway is open, I don’t want to waste time racing around gathering up our belongings.”

  Resus flipped open the lid of the casket and examined the relics the trio had already located: a vial of witch’s blood, a skeleton’s skull, a mummy’s heart, a zombie’s tongue and the fang of his own ancestor, Count Negatov. “It’s quite a haul when you see it all together like this,” he said, taking the fang and holding it up against the cover of Fangs of Destiny. “See,” he added. “Completely the wrong shape!”

  “Where did you get that?” demanded a voice.

  Resus carefully replaced Count Negatov’s fang and lifted out the silver-backed copy of Skipstone’s Tales of Scream Street that lay among the relics in the casket. The face on the cover of the book was scowling.

  “It was tucked away behind the witch’s blood,” said Resus.

  “I was not referring to the fang,” replied the face. “I meant that book. It should not be here, in Scream Street!”

  Luke took the metallic book from Resus and stood it up against the wall. “Why not?” he asked Samuel Skipstone, the owner of the face. “What’s wrong with Horror Heights? I know they’re old, but all the kids at my school loved them.”

  “They were never meant to leave your world,” insisted Samuel Skipstone.

  “So how do you know about them?”

  Skipstone sighed. “I know — I mean, I knew — the author. He was a friend of mine.”

  “You knew M.T. Graves?” exclaimed Cleo. “Well, if you ever see him again…”

  Skipstone forced a smile. “I rather think that in my current situation, further encounters with fellow scribes are unlikely, don’t you?” The author had spent his natural life researching Scream Street, and at the time of his death he had cast a spell to merge his spirit with the pages of his book so that he could continue his work.

  Luke grabbed the Horror Heights books and added them to the pile in the box. “Well, soon I’ll be taking them out of Scream Street for ever.”

  “For ever?” whispered Cleo. “You’ll never be back?”

  “I’m trying not to think about it,” sighed Luke.

  “Is that right, Mr Skipstone?” Cleo asked the author. “Once Luke leaves Scream Street, can he never come back?”

  “I am afraid not,” replied the silver face. “The doorway to Luke’s world will only remain open long enough for his wish to be fulfilled. Once he and his family have passed through, it will close behind them for all time.”

  Cleo looked at Luke, her eyes filling with tears. “I’ll miss you.”

  “She’s off!” groaned Resus. “We’ll both miss him, blubber-bandages, but there’s no need to get all soppy about it.” He pulled a handkerchief from his cloak and handed it to her. As he did so, something clattered to the floor: a small dog’s collar. “I’d forgotten I had that,” said the vampire as Luke bent to pick it up.

  Luke studied the silver name tag. It was encrusted with dried blood, and a smudge of marker pen obscured the first letter of the name, Fluffy. “This was what the chihuahua was wearing.”

  “Chihuahua?” asked Cleo.

  “The dog that bit me — bit my werewolf — when it attacked a bully from my old school.” Luke shuddered as he recalled the moment when he had been about to pounce on the bully and the tiny dog had nipped his ankle. His werewolf had turned to chase after the chihuahua and the bully had escaped, scared but unharmed.

  “There’s blood on the collar,” said Cleo. “You didn’t…?”

  Luke shook his head. “I grabbed the dog by the ear with my teeth, but it wriggled out of its collar and ran off. If it hadn’t stopped me, though…”

  “But it did stop you,” Resus pointed out. “The bully got away. The only thing to happen was for you to be moved here — and you can’t say that life in Scream Street has been all bad.”

  “It’s had its moments,” admitted Luke, managing a smile.

  Samuel Skipstone gave a polite cough from the cover of his book. “You are discussing young Master Watson’s departure as though it were happening this minute,” he said. “May I remind you that there is another relic to locate first.”

  “You’re right,” said Luke, pushing the boxes aside. “I’ve had enough of packing. Let’s start looking!”

  The trio gathered around Skipstone’s Tales of Scream Street and the book flicked through its handwritten pages, finally stopping at a pantomime script: Sleeping Ugly. Before their eyes, the lines of dialogue and stage directions began to fade away to reveal the clue to the location of the final relic.

  Suddenly there was a bright orange flash behind them and a witch appeared on top of Luke’s box of books, wearing crumpled red-and-yellow robes and clutching a large black sack. Realizing that her hair was alight, she calmly patted out the flames and beamed at the gaping trio.

  “Tress Wunder,” she announced. “Now, where do you want this order of quill boxes?”

  Chapter Two

  The Water

  Luke, Resus and Cleo stared at the witch in stunned silence.

  “This is Everwell’s Emporium, isn’t it?” she asked, climbing out of the box, the ends of her hair still smouldering.

  “Ah,” said Cleo, light dawning. “No, I’m afraid you’re a few streets out.”

  “You make stuff for Everwell’s?” Resus asked the witch.

  “Indeed I do,” she replied, producing from the sack a

small silver box with a carving of a feather quill on the top.

  “That’s lovely,” said Cleo, admiring it. “What is it for?”

  The witch looked blank and stared down at the box as though seeing it for the first time. “Do you know, I’ve absolutely no idea…”

  “Still, it’s nice,” Cleo assured her. “Eefa told us she was getting some new stuff in.”

  “Did she?” asked Luke.

  “Yes,” replied Cleo. “Yesterday, when we were collecting the empty boxes so you could start packing.”

  Luke shook his head, puzzled. “Nope, don’t remember that at all.”

  “Me neither,” agreed Resus.

  Cleo grunted in frustration. “Boys!”

  “Now, now,” said Tress. “Being, indeed, mere boys, they were probably thrown by Miss Everwell’s enchantment charm.”

  Cleo shrugged, suspecting she was right. All witches had the ability to look stunningly beautiful, and it wouldn’t be the first time that Luke and Resus had fallen under Eefa’s spell.

  Tress swept her greasy hair over her shoulder and ran a broken fingernail over her pockmarked cheek. “I myself have been known to turn heads around the world,” she added.

  Resus stared. “Probably because they didn’t want you to see them throwing up!” he exclaimed before he could stop himself. He howled as Cleo kicked him in the shin.

  “What do you mean by that?” demanded Tress, darting across the room to look at herself in the mirror. She gasped at her reflection. “Oh dear!” she cried. “My charm must have worn off during the journey!” She clicked her fingers and a faint orange light fizzed around her once more.

  When the witch turned back, she had transformed into a vision of pure beauty. Thick red hair fell in long, wavy tresses over her shoulders, her pale skin was as smooth as porcelain and her lips were coloured a vibrant crimson. Resus and Luke stared in astonishment, their mouths hanging open.

  “Now,” Tress cooed, flicking a strand of hair out of her eyes with a long, red fingernail. “Who can show me the way to Everwell’s Emporium?”

  The relic immediately forgotten, Luke and Resus both blubbed something unintelligible and launched for the door. Resus caught his foot in his cape and tripped, pulling Luke down with him.

  Cleo rolled her eyes as she stepped over the boys and out onto the landing. “I will,” she said.

  Cleo led Tress Wunder along Scream Street towards the central square while Luke and Resus stumbled along behind carrying the sack of heavy silver boxes between them.

  The witch was surprised to see that many of the houses had broken windows, smashed doors and damaged fences. Residents were busy repairing what they could with the few materials available.

  “What happened here?” she asked.

  “We had a visit from a demon,” Cleo told her. “He destroyed a couple of houses completely; the rest of us got away with just a few broken windows.”

  “But surely you have Movers here,” said the witch. “Shouldn’t they be out fixing things?”

  Luke felt a chill run down his spine at the mention of the faceless men who had relocated his family to Scream Street after the incident with the school bully. “Our landlord says they can’t start work repairing the street until they’ve finished some jobs for him,” he explained.

  The group entered the central square to see several dozen Movers busy at work on Sneer Hall, the ancestral home of Scream Street’s landlord, Sir Otto Sneer. The rampaging demon had demolished the walls in several places and the Movers were hastily patching them up.

  “He’s got the Movers working on his own home?” cried Tress in disgust. “What a selfish toad! He should be putting his residents first.”

  “Sir Otto doesn’t quite think that way…” began Resus.

  “Then allow me to put him right!” said Tress, clicking her fingers. There was a flash and Sir Otto Sneer suddenly appeared in the square beside them, chewing on a fat cigar.

  “What the—” he grunted. “Which of you freaks dragged me out here?”

  “I did,” said Tress firmly. “I must insist that you stop repairs on your own home and send the Movers out to work on your residents’ houses. Immediately!”

  Sir Otto pushed his face up close to the witch’s. “And what if I say no?”

  “Then I shall be very, very angry.”

  Sir Otto blew a cloud of smoke into her face and laughed. “Shove off, freak!” he snarled. “Your pathetic enchantment spell won’t work on me.”

  Without a moment’s pause, Tress whipped her hand round and slapped Sir Otto hard in the face. Luke, Resus and Cleo winced as the landlord’s cigar flew out of his mouth.

  “You’ll regret that!” Sir Otto growled, his eyes blazing with anger. And pulling a fresh cigar from his jacket pocket, he jammed it into his mouth and strode away.

  “Well!” exclaimed Tress as they watched him go. “I have never met such a rude and insolent man in my life.”

  “You should visit more often,” said Luke. “He does a pretty good ‘obnoxious’ and ‘mean’, too.”

  “And these are disgusting,” added the witch, collecting up the discarded cigar.

  “They’re just part of his charm,” said Resus. “It was Sir Otto who let the demon loose on Scream Street, you know.”

  “What? This behaviour should not be tolerated,” insisted Tress. “I shall talk to Miss Everwell about this!” And she turned on her heel and marched towards the emporium.

  “Does anyone else have the feeling this won’t end well?” said Cleo. “I think we’d better follow her…”

  The bat perched above the doorway of Everwell’s Emporium screeched as Luke, Resus and Cleo all trooped inside. They arrived just in time to see Eefa drop Sir Otto’s cigar into a bubbling cauldron as Tress looked on, giggling.

  The trio rushed over to the witches. “Sorry to intrude,” said Resus quickly, “but can I ask what you beautiful ladies are up to?”

  Eefa Everwell, looking as stunning as ever in a slinky purple dress, smiled as she added a little water to the cauldron from a nearby bucket. The landlord’s cigar slowly sank beneath the surface of the shimmering liquid. “Tress told me how Sir Otto spoke to her,” she said. “We’re making certain he never does it again.”

  Cleo paled beneath her bandages. “You’re not going to…?”

  “Of course not,” Tress laughed. “We’re witches, not murderers!” She grabbed a handful of squirming maggots from a jar on the shop counter and dropped them into the cauldron. They were met with a bubble and a hiss.

  “So what are you doing?” asked Luke.

  “Well,” said Eefa as she stirred the mixture, “let’s just say that Sir Otto’s latest cigar is about to change into something slightly more disgusting.”

  “Want to see?” Tress asked mischievously. She snapped her fingers, and in another flash of light Sir Otto appeared in the emporium, sucking on a squirming black leech.

  The landlord shrieked and spat the creature out, frantically rubbing the slime from his tongue. Hearing laughter, he looked up and realized where he was.

  “You!” he growled at the sight of Tress. “I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget!” And with that, he grabbed the bucket of water from beside the counter and threw it over her.

  Tress Wunder screamed.

  Chapter Three

  The Flu

  “What have you done?” spluttered Tress, drenched from head to toe.

  Sir Otto Sneer’s mouth twisted into a wide grin. “I know my folklore,” he said. “Witches are allergic to water! I can’t wait for you to start melting…”

  “Melting?” demanded Eefa. “That’s ridiculous! If we were allergic to water, we’d shrivel up in the shower every morning.”

  The landlord looked confused. “Then why were you screaming?” he asked Tress.

  “Because I’ve been fighting off the flu for the past two weeks!” wailed the witch, wringing water from her sodden dress. “Now I’ll be drinking hot lemon every night until … until … unt— WACHOO!”

  As Tress’s sneeze echoed around the shop, the bat above the door was suddenly bathed in a burst of orange light. When the flash subsided, the bat had turned into a goat. The creature clung onto the perch with its hooves and bleated in terror.