The
Rigby Narratives:

The Ultimate TG Experience

Chapter Six -- Puppick

by
McKenzie Rigby

 

as told to
Andy Hollis and Jaye Michael

 

Chapter Six -- Puppick

 

Welcome to Castle Dracul," our tour guide spoke with that guttural broken
English that anyone who's ever watched a horror movie has learned to expect.
He was even dressed in the traditional, at least for Bavaria as opposed to Transylvania,
forest green shorts with crossed suspenders and knee high socks one expects
from a local tour guide. The little plastic tag with the name "Fritz"
on it was the most glaring inconsistency, but there were also some equally phony
looking wall hangings and suits of armor, as if Vlad the Impaler would have
used a jumble of late 14th century English and French armor. To put it bluntly,
it could not have been more fake looking if someone had tried. In point of fact,
as far as Melvin Ukiah Dodson could tell, only the physical structure itself
was authentic. Luckily, that bothered the middle-aged gentleman not at all.

"Save me the spiel, Hans," Melvin interrupted imperiously while waving
the tour guide into silence. "I don't need it and I don't want it. I'm
here to see the ghost you're village aldermen claim inhabits the castle, so
point me to the dungeon and let me stretch out my sleeping bag and gear."

"Ah, er, but of course Mr. Dodson." But it was quite evident from
the man's expression and tone of voice that it was not all right. "Follow
me please."

"Is this satisfactory Mr. Dodson?" Fritz asked icily.

It was the dungeon and it was dust free. In fact, it was actually the best-kept
room in the castle if you ignored the green slime seeping down one wall-probably
the one nearest the moat-or the flickering candlelight that didn't even reach
to the other walls. The rack and the iron maiden even looked authentic and period
appropriate.

"Sure, fine Hans. Now can we forgo the rest of the ten-cent tour and really
talk? I do have questions and I'd like to hear the answers, but not that garbage
that you hand out to the tourists."

"I'm not certain what you mean, sir..."

"But you'll stay as long as I'm paying for your time, right?"

"Well, yes-at least until nightfall. I will not remain in the castle after
nightfall no matter what the payment."

"Fair enough-if a bit clichéd. In the meantime, how about the real
story here? We both know the Dracula crap is exactly that-crap. Vlad's castle
is at least a hundred miles east of here."

"Well…"

"Yah, yah. The Burgermeisters will be angry. Don't worry. I'm not going
to tell anyone, so your job is safe Hans-in fact, I'll triple your salary for
the month if you're completely honest with me. I'm independently wealthy and
I don't need to publish my findings. I'm just looking for one single instance
of a true paranormal event. It's become an obsession with me ever since-well,
for a long time."

The guide thought for several seconds before he answered. Melvin watched as
the guide's eyes transitioned from anger at Melvin's snide remarks, to calculated
greed and finally to acceptance.

The bad Transylvanian accent was replaced by the cultured tones of a public
school educated Englishman. "I believe we have a deal, Mr. Dodson. We shall
start with my real name, William I. Harrington."

"Pleased to meet you Will," Melvin said pumping the other man's hand
vigorously and smiling. "So, grab a seat beside me here on the rack and
tell me what's really happening here."

"Delighted. As you have already surmised, this is not the famous castle
of blood. No skulls ever hung from the ramparts and most of the furnishings
you see here are inferior Asian copies of other eras and other places. In fact,
one of the breastplates in the Great Hall is actually made of plastic. Quite
gauche.

"The true story of this castle is actually somewhat more peculiar, involving
an Englishman, a Priest, and a demon."

"This has all the makings of a really bad joke, doesn't it?" Melvin
asked propping his sleeping bag under his buttocks in order to get more comfortable.
"I hope it will at least have a good punchline. But I warn you, one more
lie and you get absolutely nothing."

"Oh, it will have an outstanding 'punchline' as you call it sir, it will…"

-=-=-=-=-

The year was 1812. There was yet another war going on in those upstart colonies
across the ocean and Horace Whitting and his brother were somewhere in the Carpathians
cursing the driver who would not, or could not, understand their instructions
to drive at a slower, more respectable pace. The carriage bounced insanely down
the deeply rutted dirt road. Trees, so ancient and massive they completely arched
across the road, had swallowed the full moon and it was inconceivable that the
driver had the slightest concern for the safety of the horses, the carriage
or it's occupants. At the sound of a wolf, baying in the distance, the driver's
whip flashed and the carriage swept through the night with even greater abandon.
It became all its occupants could do to hold on to the handrails and pray for
safe deliverance.
Such was their condition, eyes closed, praying for Heavenly aid, that they failed
to notice the carriage shoot into a clearing with neatly plowed fields. It was
the silence visited upon them, the absence of creaking leather and groaning
springs that first caused them to realize that they had stopped.

Pulling aside the curtain, Horace espied flickering lights through a window
and realized the carriage now stood before a local hostelry. He tapped his brother,
Father Reginald, on the shoulder, so that he would drop his beads and open his
eyes. Then, pulling his brother along behind him, Horace stepped quickly from
the carriage, fearing the madman posing as a driver would suddenly decide to
continue his race through the stygian night.
As Father Reginald knelt to kiss the ground fervently, Horace examined the inn
before them. The lettering on the sign was faded enough to be illegible, even
should Horace have known the barbaric local dialect, but the image, in slightly
better repair, appeared to show an inverted five pointed star and a man's head
with the horns of a ram growing from it. Upon the door was a huge wreath of
a smelly tuberous plant that could only be garlic-it wasn't bad enough that
the locals had to cook with the vile stuff; they even used it as an adornment.

Surveying the rest of the village yielded less than a score of other structures
in even poorer repair then the tavern before them. With a sigh, Horace, pulled
at his brother until the priest was again standing and guided him toward the
inn.

"That is a sign of the devil. I will NOT enter that building."

"Henry Whitting," Horace shouted, using the priest's given name.
"You are my younger brother and I promised mother I would take care of
you. Now priest or no priest, you are not going to remain out-of-doors this
night unless you have decided that dying of consumption shall assure you of
martyrdom."

"I am not a martyr and I…"

A great thud sounded as the brothers' wooden wardrobe trunk was flung from
the roof of the carriage, landing at their feet.

"Watch what you are doing you bloody great oaf," Horace shouted up
at the driver, but the frightened looking fool just spat and ignored him.

"Watch your language brother. I may be your junior, but I am also a priest,
as you have just reminded me." Father Reginald turned to the driver who
was frantically scrambling back to the driver's seat. "You there. Driver.
We wish to be brought to a different inn."

Without even glancing back, the driver clambered into his seat, jerked his
whip from its resting place and snapped it at the horses. The one on the left
reared when the whip struck its hindquarter, pawing at the air, foaming at the
mouth from the night's exertions. With a single wild roar it collapsed to the
ground, shuddered once and was still. Without even that much fanfare, the second
horse crumpled beside it and was dead also.

The driver stared down at the carnage below him, face white, eyes wide with
fear. Jumping from the carriage, he ran off into the twilight screaming. In
the distance the wolf howled again. There was a loud scream and then silence.

"Be strong brother. At best the image is a tasteless joke. At worst, there
are souls in there for you to save. Unless you wish to sleep outside with the
wolves or die of consumption, you will join me at this inn." Without glancing
back, Horace firmly grasped the trunk and, dragging it behind him, entered the
building, taking care to avoid the aromatic herbs on the door.

The wolf howled again. This time it was followed by an ungodly scream, much
like a man might make if he were being gutted and eaten alive. Father Reginald
hurried after his older brother into the inn.

-=-=-=-=-

"That was not too bad now, was it Henry?" Horace asked as he tossed
a chicken bone out the window of their new carriage.

Horace was again gently tweaking his brother for his fears at the inn. It had
actually been surprisingly clean and comfortable. The innkeeper, a man who talked
so much the bothers wondered if he also spoke in his sleep, had explained that
the inn had been named "The Devil's Horns" by an ancestor with an
unpleasant sense of humor and a tendency to serve "long pork" when
there was insufficient cattle, goat, or pig at hand. Despite this gruesome revelation,
their dinner and breakfast repasts had been surprisingly tasty. For that matter,
the innkeeper had been quite helpful, finding another carriage and driver to
take them to the conclusion of their journey. He had even prepared the evening
repast they were currently enjoying, for despite the man's best efforts, it
had still taken much of the day to find someone willing to bring them to whence
they wished to be taken.

Now, their journey's conclusion was almost at hand, Castle Fodor, was a short
way above them on the winding road they followed. Built on a mountainous crag,
its crenels and ramparts sullenly overlooked the valley below. Had it been light
enough when they had stopped the night before at the Devil's Horns, they would
have seen it, outlined by the blood-red glow of the setting sun.

"Our inheritance is almost upon us brother," Horace noted greedily.

"Not ours-yours, Father Reginald corrected. "I am here at the family's
request to insure that the place is free of all pestilence and evil. Once that

is completed I shall return to my contemplative duties at my order."

"True. True. Your wisdom is my undoing yet again and that is the real
reason for your presence. I may be the warrior who jumps to the fray, but you
are the scholar with the wisdom that tempers my blade. But look. It is upon
us. Rejoice, for this shall soon be over."

-=-=-=-=-

It had taken much of the afternoon to make it to the top of the mountain. The
slopes were steep, the switchbacks were sharp and the road narrow with an abrupt
drop off, so the carriage driver had moved slowly and deliberately. As soon
as they had reached the portico at the entrance to the castle, the driver had
unloaded their luggage, turned the rig and left, despite their repeated protests.
The two brothers stood by the main portico to the castle as the sun set through
the clouds of dust from the carriage's hasty departure.

As they watched the carriage disappear in a rapidly diminishing cloud of dust
behind a craggy outcropping, Father Reginald tried to make light of the situation.
"It must be a local tradition. They must be rushing off to evening mass."

"I think you must have the truth of it brother," Horace noted wryly,
"but I would have thought he might be patient enough to receive his fee
for services."

"So what now?"

"We explore the new family home," Horace answered as glibly as he
could under the circumstances. But then, as he grabbed the traveling chest,
he grumbled, "This is becoming a habit."

"Nonsense, dear brother. We'll have nun of that talk of habits in this
barbaric land."
Horace just groaned. Whether it was due to the bad pun or the strain on his
back, he would not say.

-=-=-=-=-

"This building must have been designed by a madman," Horace groaned
after yet another coughing fit. They had slogged through room after room; all
empty, excepting dust so thick it caused clouds when they walked through it-and
not a single right angle.

"Has anyone ever lived here," father Reginald wondered out loud.
"There's dust everywhere, all but this dungeon; not a trace of dust here."
Father Reginald examined the room. Green slime oozed down one wall. Along another
wall was an Iron Maiden and in the middle of the room was a rack. "I fear
that some great evil has occurred in this place. Give me a moment to lay out
my vestments and prepare. Then I shall bless this room and exorcize whatever
demons lay hidden in this place of evil."

"Do you not think you might be laying it on a bit thick brother?"
Horace asked, the wry smile that had faded as they had examined one dust-filled
room after another, returning to his features. "This is a dungeon. Most
dungeons have seen blood and death, but this castle has been empty for ages,
possibly centuries. We haven't even seen any rats. What self-respecting demon
would hang around such a barren accommodation?

"Next we shall hear the crack and rumble of thunder such as Madam Shelley
used in her tale of horror. What was the name again? Frank something? We read
it together at school; under the covers during a stormy night as I recall."

A cold breeze flew through the room, causing the candles to gutter and nearly
expire. Next there was a sharp crack followed by the prolonged booming of thunder.
It was muffled by the stone walls surrounding them, but still clearly identifiable.

"Feeling better now?" Father Reginald chided. "The Lord has
answered. Now allow me to complete my blessing."

"Sorry old chap, but I am afraid I must insist you desist from such actions."

The brothers turned as one toward the new voice, deep, rich and cultured, yet
somehow dripping with evil. The Iron Maiden was slowly opening. Horace perversely
wondered why the hinges did not squeak and began to wonder if it might not be
a newer, less valuable piece than he had initially guessed, albeit an excellent
copy. He quickly lowering his estimate of it's probable value, but this line
of thinking, and much of the rest of his reasoning capacity, squealed to a grinding
halt when he saw the thing coming out of the instrument of torture.
Father Reginald was first to recover. "Be gone vile demon!" he shouted
while reaching for the vial of holy water he had just set upon the rack.

Horace turned toward his bother to see what he was doing, or at least he began
to turn. He swiveled just far enough to see Father Reginald, hand extended,
face a rictus of terror, frozen in the act of reaching for the holy water.

"Oh, do turn your eyes this way. It is quite rude not to look at the person
with whom you are conversing."

As one, both brothers turned to face the Iron Maiden. From behind the half
opened door stepped an apparition from a nightmare, a horror of pulsing body
parts in constant motion, sliding from place to place on a vaguely humanoid
shape. As they watched, the mouth slowly slid into view at the crotch. They
watched it speak to them as it slowly traversed the body, zigzagging this way
and that around larger objects until it was located in the general vicinity
of a human's mouth.

"I must admit that it has been several centuries since I last had the
opportunity to speak to a mortal. Please make yourselves comfortable. Horace
found himself bending to seat himself in what felt like an overstuffed lounge
chair, except that he could see nothing.

Would you like a cigar?" A long cylindrical object slowly crept from the
thing's mouth. Smoke wafted gently from the tip and, as the creature took a
deep puff, the tip turned cherry red. It was only after the smoke cleared that
Horace realized exactly what was burning. He fought to scream and vomit at the
same time, but could not move.

"Tut tut dear lads, we must maintain proper decorum," the thing said
and suddenly the only desire either man has was to sit quietly and attentively.

"Gads, how rude of me. Here I am tutoring you in manners when I have neglected
to provide proper introductions.

"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Puppick, Arch Demon Sloth Puppick
at your service. And you are?"

Each man found himself providing a proper introduction.

"Much better. I am quite certain we shall get along famously. The two
of you shall assist me to escape my captivity in this barren castle. You, priest,
shall say the incantation, while you," he nodded politely to Horace, "shall
provide the physical form for me."

With that, Father Reginald stood and donned his vestments inside out and with
his cross hanging upside down. Then with great care, he urinated into the vile
of holy water. In the meantime, Horace carefully stretched himself out on the
rack, limbs spread to emulate the five points of a star. Puppick strode to a
position between the two placing one fluctuating extremity on each man's head.

Father Reginald, again unable to move except to speak, began reciting in Latin,
speaking the Lord's Prayer in reverse. The candles flared brighter and suddenly
Puppick started laughing maniacally. Then Horace started laughing also. As the
prayer proceeded, the demon's laughter became quieter and eventually stopped
while Horace's laughter grew louder and louder until it seemed to shake the
entire castle.

Father Reginald finished the prayer and stood mutely staring at the scene before
him. The demon's extremities slowly oozed to its sides and then the demon slide
to the floor in a quivering lump.

"Free. I'm free!" Horace shouted as he jumped joyously off the rack.

Father Reginald, still unable to move anything but his mouth called out to
his brother, "Horace. Quickly. Kill the monster. Show me the faith I know
you have and grab the cross from my neck. You can stab it into the monster to
kill it."

"I think not," Horace answered.

"But…" Father Reginald's eyes bugged out as he realized what
had happened.

"Ah, the good Father comprehends. Your dear brother is there." Horace
pointed to the disgusting mass on the floor.

"Sadly, you have shown that you still have the presence of mind to be
dangerous. I would have preferred to keep you about as a pleasing reminder of
my debased nature, but then I would need to be on guard constantly.

"No. I fear you must die, but if it will make you feel any better, your
death shall permit your dear brother to live, albeit in my shadow."

Horace's hand lashed out, penetrating the priest's chest and then slowly pulling
out a still beating heart. Horace muttered something and tossed the heart onto
the demonic mass. It instantly disappeared into the shifting masses.

Looking down at the thing that Horace had become, the demon tsked. "You
are an unsightly creature. Well, we shall do something about that immediately.

"I have left you a bit of my personal magic, just enough to permit you
to perform a few simple magics and, more importantly, to assure that the wards
on this castle recognize you as the demon to be contained herein rather than
me. Now stand and make yourself pleasing to me."

The creature stood. With a shudder, the body parts were engulfed by skin, raw,
red, pustule covered skin.

"More pleasing."

The skin became healthy. Hair formed. A duplicate of Horace stood in place
of the monster.

"Still more pleasing. I have been many long centuries without recourse
to satisfy my lusts.
Horace blurred and changed yet again. His waist shrunk. His chest developed
two large globes. Hair flowed to just above the buttocks and the body became
pleasingly soft and rounded. When the changes were done, Horace was now a fair
representation of Adam's first wife, Lilith, femininity personified. She bowed
and asked, "How may I please you, my lord?"

The new Horace jerked his thumb towards the rack.

-=-=-=-=-

"I can do without the lurid details," Melvin interrupted with a brief
frown of distaste.

"Uh-yes. Of course. Silly of me. Allow me to jump ahead to the conclusion.

"Horace was ravaged multiple times in more ways that any creature of flesh
and blood should ever become aware. Eventually, much later than it had originally
planned, the demon left. I suspect the hell spawn has been responsible for much
of the evil that has befallen the world in the years since. He left Horace,
broken and quite mad, in the castle with just sufficient magical ability to

change his form and do some simple parlor tricks. Horace has been responsible
for much of the castle's reputation as haunted. However, that same magical ability
also trapped Horace in the castle. It's been many long years since he's walked
anywhere but the dust filled halls of this decaying monument to the long dead
demon that created him.

"Nice story. Now how about some of that honesty you so glibly promised
me?"

"Certainly. I fear you are correct," the guide responded with a toothy
smile. "I was not completely candid with you. However, the lie was in my
name, not in my story, for I am not William Harrington, but Horace Whitting.

Melvin nodded knowingly, if a bit disappointedly. He had expected that little
plot twist. So obvious. So plebian. It destroyed the fabric of what had been
until then a fairly good story. Until then, Melvin had almost been willing to
pay for the story in lieu of an actual ghost.
He had just decided to wrap up this little morality play when he was interrupted
by a question from the guide. "By the way, did you wonder about the shapes
of the rooms?

Have you figured out why they are so irregular?"

"Nope. But you're going to tell me, aren't you?"

"But of course. It is the least I could do in return for your generosity.
It is the entire castle, by the way. It was built in the shape of a pentagram,
thus the irregular shapes of the rooms."

"Great. But your suggestion that I'm going to give you anything is mistaken.
I told you I would pay you if, and only if, you told me the complete truth.
You just admitted to lying about your name so the deal's off."

The guide's hand made a slight, but not quite perceptible gesture and Melvin
was unable to move.

Melvin attempted to rise but found he could not. "What the hell is going
on here? What did you do to…?"

Another gesture and Melvin was silent.

"Such a wonderful thing, the ability to do magic," the guide said
as his body slowly reformed into what appeared to be the appearance of an eighteenth
century gentleman. "Puppick left me so little, but I have scrimped and
saved and stolen so that I now have almost as much as he did. It is amazing
how much can be done when one is patient and has the perseverance to work toward
a goal. I've been such a good student too, practicing all the time. Did you
know that practice makes perfect? It also means that I can do more with the
magic I have than Puppick ever dreamed possible. Instead of giving up something
of myself like Puppick did to escape, I can just walk out of here, with your
assistance. I have decided to find Puppick and destroy him, taking his magic
for my own. You shall join me and serve me in my quest. I shall require a squire."

The guide spoke several words in an unrecognizable language and made two more
hand gestures. He watched as Melvin slowly changed.

"Of course, there must be priorities to life and I too have needs."

He snapped his fingers and Melvin could move. He quickly scrambled to his feet
and started to back away from the madman before him. Melvin almost didn't notice
the changes until he tripped and nearly fell over the cuff of his pants. Focusing
on himself, he felt movement to a part of his body that should never have moved
like it had. Looking down he realized that he was smaller… and…and…and
she screamed.

"Come to me my dear," Horace beckoned to the beautiful woman before
him. "First you shall salve my needs while providing me the last bits of
power I need to escape this prison. Then, we shall leave here and..."

-=-=-=-=-

Interlude Six

 

"I wonder, do you think anyone will get the Yiddish joke
about the name?" MacKenzie asked his dog. Igor refused to respond, lying
with his back to Mac.

"What? You're still angry about not being in that last story?
Geez, I didn't know dogs held a grudge. You're in this story as two characters-actually
more than two. First you are the wolves. Note the plural. That means more than
one. Then you were also the inspiration for William I. Harrington. Get it?"
"William I. The "I" actually stands for Igor."

The dog remained unmoved.

With a shrug, McKenzie sent off the story and then downloaded
his mail. There were a couple of pieces of spam, nothing significant, just attempts
to sell him swampland in Florida and others of that ilk.

MacKenzie quickly moved on to his list mail. "Okay folks,
let me see all those wonderful letters of praise and encouragement," he
thought with a smile. There was the biweekly announcement of how to unsubscribe
from the list. There were a ton of messages debating the proper terminology
to describe rabbit fur. Where were the damn letters of praise? Wait. Here was
one, about his Sherlock Holmes story. It was from someone called Wally the Weasel.

"Why didn't you tell the readers up front that Holmes and
Watson were old? How much older were they anyway, sixty, seventy, eighty. I'll
bet they were over a hundred for that kind of science to be around."

"Grrrrr." Flame time. MacKenzie started typing again.
He didn't stop until the tingling in his arm was so intense he could no longer
hold it over the keyboard. The tingling was accompanied by some minor chest
pain. McKenzie assumed it was probably discomfort from sitting hunched over
the computer for so long.

-=-=-=-=-

"Hey Igor," McKenzie asked as he looked up from the
television during the inevitable commercial, stretched and tried to rub the
tingling out of his shoulder. "Did you ever notice how email never comes
when your messaging program is in active use? I think it's an immutable law
of nature, much like 'a watched pot never boils' or-well you can come up with
another one on your own."

McKenzie had taken a day off from writing, from work, from family,
from everything-a vacation as it were. It wasn't that he was out of ideas; it
was just that Sister Dearest had finally trapped him. She had come by, allegedly
to make amends and to take him out to lunch, but instead had driven directly
to a physician's office where she had scheduled an appointment for him. Crafty
as ever, and knowing he'd never let her get him back to the first office, Janice
had found a physician with a second office in the same building as one of his
favorite restaurants. As a result, McKenzie hadn't even realized what was happening
until they got off on the wrong floor. There, in front of the dozen or so people
staring at him through the glass wall from the waiting room, he'd had to decide
whether to make a scene or go quietly into that dark night-er, into that examining
room. Now, every time he thought of that restaurant, it was immediately replaced
with memories of that medical exam. Instead of thoughts of wings, ribs and other
delights, both culinary and pulchritudinous, the thought, "I may never
appreciate white tee-shirts and orange short-shorts again," kept bubbling
to the forefront of his conscious.

Of course, the news from the doctor didn't help. High risk for
a heart attack. Morbidly obese. Lose weight. Eat healthier. Exercise more. Sleep
more. Blah, blah. In other words, stop living. It was advice like that which
added significantly to Mac's dislike for medical professionals and this one
even upped the ante by checking McKenzie's blood sugar, telling him he was borderline
diabetic and that the advice was now a necessity-if he wanted to live into old
age.

Anyway, today was a "relax and do nothing" day, a day
to pamper himself. Today was the last day of his life-er, his old life. After
today his life would change forever. Tomorrow he would start doing things right,
creating a better life for himself. Eating healthy. Sleeping right. Exercising.

But today those next two donuts looked awfully good.

When Igor balefully watched him down the donuts, and a third for
good measure, McKenzie's only response was to say, "What? At least I'm
not singing. I can you know."

Igor continued to stare with sad eyes at his master.

"Okay dog. You asked for it. "The sun will come up tomorrow…"

 

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER SEVEN
[SRU to You, Too, McKenzie]