Eerie, Indiana fanfiction: Errands
Sequel to Hound, which you can read here. Part of the Microwave-verse, which is linked below.
Up on the road, the heat was intense, almost a physical thing, like a shove, like a living creature that slithered uninvited beneath clothes, that crawled across foreheads and down spines and over top lips, that left a sticky salt trail of perspiration which dripped and stung on eyes and tongue, that turned even the lightest shirt clammy and clingy. Beneath the trees, by the water, the air was cooler, the blazing afternoon light tempered to a dappled pale green.
Simon Holmes dipped his bare toes into the fast-running stream, watching as the current broke against them and sent scattering golden ripples dancing around them. A little further upstream, a wooden bridge with a bent and splintered guardrail marked the hidey-hole of a troll who devoured unwary travellers when they attempted to cross. Out of sight, around a bend, was a placid pool in which a large trout with a star-shaped patch of scales between the eyes swam in slow, lazy circles close to the surface. If you caught it, it would tell you your future, but as everyone who’d ever caught it went crazy and died within the year, it was either only catchable by the very unlucky or it had powers beyond mere prophecy and did not appreciate being disturbed by curious humans.
On the other side of the river, Sparky marked an old-growth patch of oak trees as his own private property. Some of the dry underbrush ignited in a sudden rush of pale blue devil’s fire, burning fast and fierce before disappearing in a sulphurous puff of smoke, and the Hellhound barked and bounced stiff-legged in puppyish excitement, his tail whipping back and forth.
Simon laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back on the warm, dark earth, watching the pale blue sky behind the moving canopy of leaves. High above, a light breeze whispered in the branches, but on the ground the air was still. There was a loud splash as Sparky threw himself into the stream. His guard-hairs, a healthy layer of vipers that were just beginning to show signs of a new moult, hissed in displeasure. His undercoat, coal-black fur that sucked the light out of the world around him, so that Sparky seemed to be walking forever in his own personal patch of shadow, turned the river-water to steam with an accompanying hiss of its own.
Simon mentally went over his to-do list. Pacify a barrow-wight that had been causing problems at the Eerie Cemetery, check. Special-order a humidifier from the World o’ Stuff to help with Sparky’s latest moult, check. Mediate a sit-down between the owners of Everything Corn and the half-dozen malevolent scarecrows who had been protesting the place during business hours, sort-of check. The meeting had taken a turn for the worse when the protesters had spotted cornbread set out as refreshment and sprayed the human attendees with razor-sharp projectile stover in retaliation. The tiny stinging stubble had drawn blood, and the scarecrows had whispered in their husky voices that maybe they would bottle it and sell it as Human-Ade, and how would that feel, and Simon had been grateful to have a fire-breathing devil-dog by his side as he’d hustled the corn contingent out the back door before any more blood or grain could be spilled.
He had intended to stop by Mr. and Mrs. Teller’s house and borrow a long-handled broom from them on his way home. There’d been a Night Mare on the kitchen ceiling that morning and Marshall’s attempts to move it along while stood on a kitchen chair with a rolled-up newspaper had proved unsuccessful. If they went to sleep with it still in the house, they could all look forward to waking up drenched in cold sweat and shrieking incoherently about things man was never meant to know.
Simon remembered the Night Mare’s reaction when it was swatted on the nose with a week-old copy of the Eerie Examiner, the way its eyes had looked, huge and dark and wounded, how it had whinnied in displeasure and skittered out of reach on multi-jointed legs that ended in broad hooves with white feathering around them. He’d never seen a regular horse in the flesh, and he hoped they didn’t move in the shuddery, stop-motion way the Night Mare had, but he thought the reproachful glance it had shot their way might have been closer to its waking-world equine cousins.
He rolled onto his stomach and reached for his discarded shoes and socks. One of the socks was missing, though he was positive he’d been wearing a matched pair when he left the house. That settled it, then. The World o’ Stuff was closer to the apartment than Marshall’s parents, and he could buy new socks, and chances were good that Mister Radford not only stocked industrial-sized bags of sugar-cubes, but also some rough equivalent specifically designed to appeal to a creature comprised of equal parts flesh and bad dreams.
Microwave-verse
Bonfire by froodle, in which Pinocchio is ruined forever
Gingerbread by froodle, in which there is a witch in the Eerie Woods
Leaves by froodle, in which plantlife finds Marshall entirely too enticing
Offspring by froodle, in which there are dragons
Based on Your Previous Purchases by froodle, in which Mars should really pay attention to Amazon's reccomendations
Housework by froodle, in which a rota cannot be agreed upon
Breakfast by froodle, in which Dash's attempts at cookery do not go well
Ghost in the Machine by froodle, in which a new laptop opens an old wound
Consequences by froodle, in which an encounter with leprechauns leaves the boys very tired indeed
The Microwave by froodle, in which Andrea Fantucci returns to Eerie after a considerable absence
The Eldritch Abomination in the Room by froodle, in which the microwave is most definitely not discussed
Basic Household Maintenance by froodle, in which manticores are inconsiderate houseguests
Torrential by froodle, in which there is a storm, and the boys eat ice-cream
Linens by froodle, in which Dash X makes a bed
Night Music by froodle, in which Simon is woken by a nocturnal visitor
In For The Night by froodle, in which Dash refuses to leave the house
Up on the road, the heat was intense, almost a physical thing, like a shove, like a living creature that slithered uninvited beneath clothes, that crawled across foreheads and down spines and over top lips, that left a sticky salt trail of perspiration which dripped and stung on eyes and tongue, that turned even the lightest shirt clammy and clingy. Beneath the trees, by the water, the air was cooler, the blazing afternoon light tempered to a dappled pale green.
Simon Holmes dipped his bare toes into the fast-running stream, watching as the current broke against them and sent scattering golden ripples dancing around them. A little further upstream, a wooden bridge with a bent and splintered guardrail marked the hidey-hole of a troll who devoured unwary travellers when they attempted to cross. Out of sight, around a bend, was a placid pool in which a large trout with a star-shaped patch of scales between the eyes swam in slow, lazy circles close to the surface. If you caught it, it would tell you your future, but as everyone who’d ever caught it went crazy and died within the year, it was either only catchable by the very unlucky or it had powers beyond mere prophecy and did not appreciate being disturbed by curious humans.
On the other side of the river, Sparky marked an old-growth patch of oak trees as his own private property. Some of the dry underbrush ignited in a sudden rush of pale blue devil’s fire, burning fast and fierce before disappearing in a sulphurous puff of smoke, and the Hellhound barked and bounced stiff-legged in puppyish excitement, his tail whipping back and forth.
Simon laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back on the warm, dark earth, watching the pale blue sky behind the moving canopy of leaves. High above, a light breeze whispered in the branches, but on the ground the air was still. There was a loud splash as Sparky threw himself into the stream. His guard-hairs, a healthy layer of vipers that were just beginning to show signs of a new moult, hissed in displeasure. His undercoat, coal-black fur that sucked the light out of the world around him, so that Sparky seemed to be walking forever in his own personal patch of shadow, turned the river-water to steam with an accompanying hiss of its own.
Simon mentally went over his to-do list. Pacify a barrow-wight that had been causing problems at the Eerie Cemetery, check. Special-order a humidifier from the World o’ Stuff to help with Sparky’s latest moult, check. Mediate a sit-down between the owners of Everything Corn and the half-dozen malevolent scarecrows who had been protesting the place during business hours, sort-of check. The meeting had taken a turn for the worse when the protesters had spotted cornbread set out as refreshment and sprayed the human attendees with razor-sharp projectile stover in retaliation. The tiny stinging stubble had drawn blood, and the scarecrows had whispered in their husky voices that maybe they would bottle it and sell it as Human-Ade, and how would that feel, and Simon had been grateful to have a fire-breathing devil-dog by his side as he’d hustled the corn contingent out the back door before any more blood or grain could be spilled.
He had intended to stop by Mr. and Mrs. Teller’s house and borrow a long-handled broom from them on his way home. There’d been a Night Mare on the kitchen ceiling that morning and Marshall’s attempts to move it along while stood on a kitchen chair with a rolled-up newspaper had proved unsuccessful. If they went to sleep with it still in the house, they could all look forward to waking up drenched in cold sweat and shrieking incoherently about things man was never meant to know.
Simon remembered the Night Mare’s reaction when it was swatted on the nose with a week-old copy of the Eerie Examiner, the way its eyes had looked, huge and dark and wounded, how it had whinnied in displeasure and skittered out of reach on multi-jointed legs that ended in broad hooves with white feathering around them. He’d never seen a regular horse in the flesh, and he hoped they didn’t move in the shuddery, stop-motion way the Night Mare had, but he thought the reproachful glance it had shot their way might have been closer to its waking-world equine cousins.
He rolled onto his stomach and reached for his discarded shoes and socks. One of the socks was missing, though he was positive he’d been wearing a matched pair when he left the house. That settled it, then. The World o’ Stuff was closer to the apartment than Marshall’s parents, and he could buy new socks, and chances were good that Mister Radford not only stocked industrial-sized bags of sugar-cubes, but also some rough equivalent specifically designed to appeal to a creature comprised of equal parts flesh and bad dreams.
Microwave-verse
Bonfire by froodle, in which Pinocchio is ruined forever
Gingerbread by froodle, in which there is a witch in the Eerie Woods
Leaves by froodle, in which plantlife finds Marshall entirely too enticing
Offspring by froodle, in which there are dragons
Based on Your Previous Purchases by froodle, in which Mars should really pay attention to Amazon's reccomendations
Housework by froodle, in which a rota cannot be agreed upon
Breakfast by froodle, in which Dash's attempts at cookery do not go well
Ghost in the Machine by froodle, in which a new laptop opens an old wound
Consequences by froodle, in which an encounter with leprechauns leaves the boys very tired indeed
The Microwave by froodle, in which Andrea Fantucci returns to Eerie after a considerable absence
The Eldritch Abomination in the Room by froodle, in which the microwave is most definitely not discussed
Basic Household Maintenance by froodle, in which manticores are inconsiderate houseguests
Torrential by froodle, in which there is a storm, and the boys eat ice-cream
Linens by froodle, in which Dash X makes a bed
Night Music by froodle, in which Simon is woken by a nocturnal visitor
In For The Night by froodle, in which Dash refuses to leave the house