The Creeps: A Samuel Johnson Tale

that couldn’t be right. Professor Stefan had said that it was all one-way traffic. We could see them, but they couldn’t see us. On the other hand, Professor Stefan had said nothing about hearing, but when Brian had seen his first not-ghost he’d dropped his tray in fright, and on that occasion the not-ghost hadn’t reacted at all. Perhaps, Brian thought, the not-ghost was listening to something in her own universe. Yes, that was it. She wasn’t listening to the noises coming from the tea tray. She couldn’t be. Everything was fine. Happy thoughts, Brian, happy thoughts.

Still, just to reassure himself Brian decided to put the tray down on the small table in the kitchen. It was probably for the best. If he didn’t he’d end up covered in tea and milk.

Carefully, Brian set the tray on the table to his right. He tried to do it as quietly as possible, but it still made a noticeable sound as it touched the wood.

The not-ghost’s head inclined slightly to the right. This time, though, the rest of her body began to follow in the same direction.

Oops, thought Brian. Oops, oops, oops.

The not-ghost slowly turned 180 degrees in the air until she was facing Brian, except that facing was probably not the word Brian would have used. To face someone, the first thing you need is a face, and the not-ghost had no face at all. There was only darkness, and now Brian saw that what he had believed was hair was not hair at all but tendrils of shadow extending from the blackness where her face should have been.

Brian did what any sensible person would do.

Brian fled.

30. Or twigs. Or police stations.

31. Formerly Uncle Dabney’s Special Brand Bull’s-Eyes, until it was discovered that the chewy centers were, in fact, actual bulls’ eyes.

32. Again, formerly Uncle Dabney’s Unusually Fiery Acid Drops, until, well, you can work it out for yourself . . .

XVII

In Which BoyStarz Return to the Limelight, Thus Making a Bad Situation Worse

A LARGE CROWD HAD GATHERED outside Wreckit & Sons to witness the grand reopening of the new store. There were lots of small children doing the things that small children do: talking, crying, complaining they wanted to go to the bathroom, and, in the case of one little girl, asking Jolly where he thought he was going with her mother’s purse. They were being entertained, if that was the right word, which it probably wasn’t under the circumstances, by BoyStarz.

Dan had convinced Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley to allow BoyStarz to perform some songs at the grand opening. Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley had never heard of BoyStarz. More importantly, he had never heard them sing, which was why he had agreed to allow them near the store, and had also promised Dan some money, even if Dan was never going to live to collect it. Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley started to regret his decision as soon as he heard the opening lines of “Love Is Like a Toy Shop,” but by then it was too late.

Dan and the dwarfs walked to the rear of the store, where Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley was waiting impatiently at the service entrance. He tapped his watch as the dwarfs approached.

“Is your watch broken?” asked Jolly.

“No, it is not. You’re late.”

Jolly looked at his own watch. At least, it was his own watch now, but about five minutes earlier it had belonged to someone else.

“I don’t think so. I have us bang on time.”

“I’m telling you—” insisted Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley, but Angry interrupted him.

“Here, give me a look at that. I’m good with watches.”

Before Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley could object, the watch was off his wrist and in Angry’s hand.

“Ah yes, I see what’s wrong here,” said Angry. “I’ll have that fixed in no time.”

The watch vanished into Angry’s pocket, never to be seen by Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley again.

“Now,” said Angry, steering the bewildered Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley into the store, “best be getting along. Don’t want to keep the little ’uns waiting, do we?”

“Er, no, of course not,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “By the way, do you think you could make BoyStarz stop singing?”

“What?” said Dan. “Make them stop? But they’ve only just started. Listen to them. They’re like nightingales, they are.”

“They’re more like seagulls,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “And you can’t hear them properly because your ears are stuffed with cotton wool. All of your ears are stuffed with cotton wool.”

“Ear infection,” said Dan.

“Very contagious,” confirmed Angry.

Outside the store, BoyStarz finished their first song. There was some applause, but only because people were relieved that they’d stopped.

“Quick, let’s get inside before they start up again,” said Jolly, and Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley didn’t try to argue.

He led the dwarfs down the back stairs of the store. They passed no one else along the way, and Wreckit & Sons seemed very quiet.

“Where are all the staff?” asked Dan.

“They’re getting a last-minute pep talk from Mr. Grimly,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley.

“Will we get to meet Mr. Grimly?” asked Jolly.

“Oh yes,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley as they reached the dressing room. “You’ll be meeting him very soon, and he’s very anxious to meet you, too. Dying to meet you, you might even say.”

He smiled at the dwarfs the way an anteater might smile at a line of ants, but the dwarfs were too distracted by their elf outfits to notice. In the past they’d worn suits that were either so loose that a bookmark was needed to find the wearer, or so tight around the neck and waist that the wearer resembled a Christmas cracker. Those same suits were often made of the kind of material capable of conducting near-fatal levels of static electricity. Angry had stuck to a carpet on one job and had to be removed from it with wooden spoons; on another, Jolly had amused himself by building up a static charge and then poking Mumbles in the arm. Mumbles had received such a shock that his eyeballs had lit up.

These suits, on the other hand, were made of what felt like velvet. They were red with green trim, and while they might have had too many bells on for Jolly’s liking, they were still more than a step above normal.

“I’ll leave you to get dressed,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “Please wait here when you’re done, and I’ll come and get you in—”

He tried to check his watch, then realized that it was no longer on his wrist.

“Excuse me, about the watch,” he said to Angry.

“What watch?”

“My watch.”

“Oh, that watch. I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet.”

“Would there be—? I mean, perhaps I should—?”

“Out with it, man, out with it,” said Angry. “We have elf work to do.”

“Well, I was wondering if I might perhaps have a receipt for it?”

When the dwarfs had finished laughing, which took a while, and Angry’s sides had stopped hurting, which took even longer, he finally managed to speak.

“Friends don’t need receipts,” said Angry.

“Are we friends?” asked Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley.

He sounded like he didn’t believe that this was the case and, if it was, he was wondering if it might be a