Free The Creeps: A Samuel Johnson Tale by John Connolly

fine, absolutely fine,” said Professor Stefan.
    “Nothing strange going on? No unexplained portals opening? No demons looking to take over the Earth?”
    “Ha ha ha!” didn’t laugh Professor Hilbert. “Jelly babies don’t cause portals to open.”
    “Ho ho, you don’t get demons from clove drops,” said Professor Stefan.
    “The only strange things here are the shapes of our caramels,”said Dorothy, in a voice that started out high and finished suddenly low, in the manner of a skier plummeting from a mountain.
    “And we haven’t seen any ghosts!” said Brian.
    There was an awkward silence.
    “Ghosts?” said Constable Peel.
    “Yes,” said Brian, realizing his error just a little too late, like a lion tamer entering a lion cage only to find himself wearing a coat made of meat. “The ghosts that we haven’t seen. We haven’t seen them. Those ones. Can I go now? I don’t feel well.”
    Brian went away.
    “Has he been drinking?” said Sergeant Rowan.
    “No,” said Professor Stefan.
    “Do you think he should start? I’d give him a stiff brandy, if I were you, especially if he’s not seeing ghosts.”
    Sergeant Rowan, who was a tall man, leaned over Professor Stefan, who was not tall, so that the professor appeared to be standing in the shadow of a collapsing building.
    “Because,” said Sergeant Rowan, “if I were to hear that innocent sweet manufacturers, who are not—I say absolutely not —scientists, were having strange experiences in my town and didn’t see fit to tell me, then I might get very, very annoyed. Do I make myself clear?”
    “Yes, Sergeant,” said Professor Stefan. “Very clear.”
    “Right. We’ll be off, then. Do keep me posted if you continue not to see ghosts, won’t you? Have a nice day, sir, and you, sir, and you, er, miss.”
    “Sir,” said Dorothy.
    “Don’t,” said Sergeant Rowan, raising a finger in warning. “Just—don’t.”
    He and Constable Peel got back in their car, and drove away.
    “Ghosts?” said Constable Peel as Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s receded into the distance.
    “Ghosts,” said Sergeant Rowan.
    “It’s lucky they’re not seeing any, isn’t it?”
    “Very lucky, Constable.”
    “Because, if they were, we’d have to do something, wouldn’t we?”
    “Indeed we would, Constable.”
    “And what would that be, Sarge?”
    “We’d have to be afraid, Constable. We’d have to be very afraid.”
----
    22 . It reallye is catchinge.

X
    In Which We Pay a Brief Visit to Hell
    T HE M OUNTAIN OF D ESPAIR was the tallest peak in Hell. It dominated the landscape of that terrible place in the way that only something really, really terrible can do, given the general terribleness of the place in which it happened to be. Even though no sun shone in Hell, and the skies above were forever darkened by warring thunderclouds, still the Mountain of Despair somehow managed to cast a shadow over everything, if only in the minds of those who were doomed, or damned, to exist there. It was so big that, no matter how far away you might stand, it never appeared any smaller. A lifetime might be spent trying to walk around it without success. A short lifetime might be spent trying to climb it, for some very disagreeable creatures lived among its cracks and crevasses, and they were always hungry.
    Mind you, there were some inhabitants of Hell who had no objection whatsoever to the looming presence of the Mountain of Despair. It provided employment to those who were contentto ensure that the business of running an empire based entirely on evil, misery, and general demonic activity proceeded as smoothly as possible. A job, in their view, was a job, and, as with most jobs, you just had to find that perfect balance between doing as little as possible so you didn’t get tired, and just enough so that you didn’t get fired.
    Two such beings were currently guarding the great carved entrance to the mountain. Their names were Brompton and Edgefast. Edgefast was,