NOTE: For any listener who can make no sense of the following, well done! But for others, be it known that in the heart of the Yorkshire Wolds, a plucky teenage girl, Sandra, roams hill, moor, lane and dale protecting the hapless inhabitants from the darkness that threatens to interfere with normal postal hours.<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n By her side stands her best chum Mr Bubbles \u2013 hell on four hooves, inclined to kick first and not bother to ask questions afterwards. Exactly what Mr Bubbles is, apart from appearing as a huge black pony with a temper and a dismissive attitude to most people except Sandra, we leave for history to decipher.<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n J Linseed Grant, professional misanthrope and curmudgeonly writer of St Botolph-in-the-Wolds, chronicles their adventures, of which these are but a sample\u2026<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n The old woman\u2019s smile was saw-toothed and sly as she stepped out into the lane, blocking their path. Her lank grey hair hung wild around her domed head, almost hiding the carrion-crow gleam of her sunken eyes.<\/p>\n \u201cFor many a silvered moon have I worked,\u201d she said, her voice a charnel whisper on the dry air. \u201cAnd through strange devices have I made tight the nine-witch knot, and brought vapours sulphurous, befouled, from the poisoned earth. I have wrought your doom.\u201d<\/p>\n Sandra dropped her egg sandwich in surprise; Mr Bubbles only stared, his tail flicking from side to side.<\/p>\n The woman reached under soiled petticoats, and brought out the fruition of her work. In her hands she held the crude clay figurine of a horse, a figurine which had dark thorns thrust into the eyes, the ears, the rump and blunted limbs.<\/p>\n \u201cSee,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd your beast\u2019s own hair is tied close to this effigy, that each thrust of my curse upon him will cut the deeper!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy backside doesn\u2019t look like that,\u201d said Mr Bubbles, stepping closer.<\/p>\n The woman scowled. \u201cIt is but a mirror of the flesh for the purposes of–\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd you got the ears wrong.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFoolish animal, by my warped craft it does symbolise your \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe front legs are far too short.\u201d Mr Bubbles\u2019s nostrils flared. \u201cLooks more like a donkey. Or a cow. You not done horses before?\u201d<\/p>\n Shuddering, the crone lowered her malign gaze. \u201cI missed that class,\u201d she muttered.<\/p>\n \u201cObviously.\u201d The slightly psychotic pony shook his great head, and trotted over to the fallen egg sandwich.<\/p>\n Sandra and the old woman stared at each other.<\/p>\n \u201cIt was a jolly good try,\u201d said Sandra, trying to sound encouraging. \u201cI liked the nose.\u201d<\/p>\n The woman sighed. \u201cIs he going to trample my fragile skull with his monstrous iron hooves, and send me to the Nether Pits of Hell with scarce a thought?\u201d<\/p>\n They watched Mr Bubbles as he ate, fragments of yolk gold against his huge ivory-coloured teeth.<\/p>\n \u201cProbably,\u201d said Sandra. \u201cUnless you can leg it before he finishes that sandwich…\u201d<\/p>\n The dark maned, dark eyed equine stood four-legs firm in the moonlight, his nostrils flaring. The mist of his hot breath curdled in the fog around him, forming shapes which it was better not to name. In the open grave by those great hooves crouched a gnarled figure, shreds of dried flesh between its broken yellow teeth. Less than half of the plot\u2019s legal occupant remained.<\/p>\n The creature snarled, picking up a rotting piece of coffin with which to defend itself.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you think you\u2019re doing?\u201d asked Mr Bubbles, scraping one iron-shod hoof against another as he peered down into the grave.<\/p>\n The ghoul eyed its opponent, and realised that it would need most of a large oak tree to make a dent in this one. With a sigh, it put the useless piece of wood down, and squatted with a certain awkwardness over the rest of its intended dinner.<\/p>\n \u201cEr\u2026 recycling?\u201d it offered, in a voice like grit and sand.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n Afterwards, Mr Bubbles had the feeling that, maybe just once, the monsters had the right idea…<\/p>\n Far beyond Buttersmite Fell lie the Yorkshire Wastes, a vast stretch of dead bracken, rotting mire-grass, and discarded China Mieville novels. It is an unforgiving land, holding the bleached bones of many a rambler \u2013 and also a selection of ramblers\u2019 wristwatches, some of which still work. Only drunken sheep farmers and the occasional clock-poacher go that way\u2026<\/p>\n Sandra was beginning to worry that she had made a slight mistake.<\/p>\n Under a giblet moon, she reloaded her Remington shotgun, and considered her options. Her vile, vampiric foe was out there in the dark, gliding from hummock to hummock and whistling the opening music to \u2018Twilight\u2019 – a wicked ploy which was making her grow weaker and more nauseous by the minute.<\/p>\n \u201cI will get you, you know,\u201d she called out bravely.<\/p>\n \u201c \u2018Ooh, Edward, I want your babies\u2019,\u201d hissed the vampire from mere yards away.<\/p>\n \u201cNo!\u201d Sandra staggered under the impact of such inanity. Losing her footing, she sank to her knees in the wet grass, her gun lost in the darkness. The creature loomed over her, his lips drawn back to reveal excellent dental hygiene.<\/p>\n \u201cSo, Little Huntress. Alone out on this bleak moorland, and fit to be a feast of spurting corpuscles. How lovely.\u201d<\/p>\n Sandra\u2019s sudden smile was grim. \u201cOh, not alone, exactly.\u201d<\/p>\n A shaft of moonlight broke through herring-coloured clouds, revealing a four-legged equine of such solidity than several quite solid things nearby admitted defeat and evaporated.<\/p>\n \u201cMr Bubbles! We have him!\u201d shouted the girl.<\/p>\n The undead monster snarled, and turned to face the newcomer. Mr Bubbles was an imposing sight, festooned as he was with several dozen sharpened fence posts (still linked by barbed-wire), a sack of silver crucifixes and half a granite font looted from a nearby church, along with fifteen jars of out-of-date garlic paste.<\/p>\n \u201cBloody heavy, this lot,\u201d he muttered, \u201cTook me ages to nick it all.\u201d<\/p>\n And the slightly psychotic pony, his eyes gleaming red, walked slowly towards the vampire\u2026<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n When the ill-smelling mists had dissipated, the pony looked down at Sandra.<\/p>\n \u201cGibbous.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you mean, boy?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGibbous, not giblet moon.\u201d Mr Bubbles bit down on a discarded fence post, but spat most of it out again. \u201cHungry. Go home now?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m a bit disappointed,\u201d said Sandra. \u201cI was all set for us to go over to Wetwang and see if we could sort out the rumours that a vicious shape-shifter was terrorising the village, a sort of man-wolf thing. But it\u2019s disappeared, apparently. I bought a new Thermos flask, as well.\u201d<\/p>\n Mr Bubbles munched on a sheet that was hanging over the washing line.<\/p>\n \u201cThere\u2019ll be others,\u201d he said, surprisingly placid as he sampled the new fabric conditioner.<\/p>\n \u201cI suppose so.\u201d She ambled back to the farmhouse, where her mother was nailing an Easter Egg to the front door for Christmas. It seemed that Sandra hadn\u2019t hidden the gin as well as she had thought.<\/p>\n \u201cHello, Mother. Everything all right?\u201d<\/p>\n Her mother stared at the foil and chocolate wreckage for a moment, and then turned round, smiling.<\/p>\n \u201cAbsolutely!\u201d she beamed. \u201cAnd I love the new rug you sent over with Mr Bubbles.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cEr… new rug?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMmn. Sort of grey and shaggy, very stylish. I did wonder, though, why it has fingers…\u201d<\/p>\n The shadow of the monstrous scaled drake fell across Butterwick and Foxholes, Octon and Thwing, and the people were sore afraid; its wings beat the hot evening like thunderclaps, promising a rain of sulphurous fire to come. In the beast\u2019s wake, the village of Langtoft was already aflame – though to be fair, that had mostly been the result of a barbecue dispute over how much petrol would cook fifteen pounds of sausages quickly enough to satisfy someone\u2019s domineering father-in-law – \u2018I told you, Kevin!\u2019<\/p>\n Grindale was scorched; Kilham was slightly seared, and the simple folk of Rudston were wearing sunglasses. All that stood in the vile drake\u2019s path was a single massive black equine who waited by the stream at Foxholes, staring at several geese…<\/p>\n The drake hovered below the clouds, soaring down occasionally to take a closer look at the only being which wasn\u2019t running away.<\/p>\n \u201cI shall be master of this realm!\u201d bellowed the drake, its voice a spike of pure malice. \u201cI shall gorge myself on the bones of men and cattle!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cUh-huh.\u201d The pony was trying to decide if the goose on the left had a longer neck, or it was just the way she was standing.<\/p>\n \u201cI shall drive the women and children to the high crags, and they shall be my winter-feast!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cRight. I get the idea.\u201d No, it was just the way the goose was standing, he thought.<\/p>\n The drake circled, waxing wroth. \u201cAnd all this land, all these fields, will be scorched down to the living rock, left a barren waste as a monument to my power!\u201d<\/p>\n Mr Bubbles looked up, one nostril flaring. \u201cWhich fields?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAll of them!\u201d screamed the drake in triumph and fury.<\/p>\n \u201cEven the ones with parsnips in? And turnips?\u201d The pony planted his huge hooves more carefully in the soft earth.<\/p>\n A draconian brow gained furrows the size of drainage ditches. \u201cParsnips? What care I for the paltry crops of men? I am the invulnerable, unconquerable Great Drake of Dalby, you pitiful beast!\u201d<\/p>\n Deep in the black pools of the pony\u2019s eyes there blossomed a crimson flame far hotter than any dragon\u2019s breath.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, you might have been,\u201d said Mr Bubbles. \u201cUntil you mentioned that bit about my fields…\u201d<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n As the Great Drake of Dalby limped away north on three legs, dragging one lacerated wing behind it and trying to see out of its remaining eye, it ruminated sadly on the ways of the world. Apparently you could destroy entire counties and turn realms to ashes, but it wasn\u2019t a wise move to threaten someone\u2019s root vegetables.<\/p>\n Also, it would have to look up invulnerable in the dictionary…<\/p>\n Mary and his cousin Sandra sat on a heap of bricks, and considered the remains of Innsfoot. It had to be said that this once sleepy coastal town was not at its best. Acrid smoke drifted across the ruined harbour; boarding houses, stores and churches burned all around them, and the streets were littered with slumped or twitching bodies. One or two of the latter managed the occasional pained croak from beneath dark, suspicious cowls, but as neither of the cousins had any sticking plasters, it seemed best to ignore them.<\/p>\n \u201cI had hoped for a paddle by the sands, you know? Like when we were at Scarborough,\u201d said Sandra, rummaging in her back-pack. \u201cAnd an icecream.\u201d<\/p>\n She watched her faithful pony, Mr Bubbles, as he stomped along the sea-wall, dismembering a selection of wide-mouthed corpses. Every so often he would bend his head, sniff at a pair of unclaimed gills or a lonely limb, and then, picking them up with his teeth, chuck them into the wreckage-strewn sea. He seemed quite pleased with himself.<\/p>\n \u201cMe too.\u201d Mary nodded. \u201cWhere did Mr Bubbles get depth-charges, anyway?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve honestly no idea,\u201d she said, pulling out a foil-wrapped package. \u201cAnd so many of them! Sandwich?\u201d<\/p>\n Mary ducked as a large hand flew past his head. When the appendage splatted onto the pavement a few feet away, it was clearly rather webbed. Its owner must have been a jolly good swimmer. Once.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat exactly are they?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n \u201cThe people of Innsfoot?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, the sandwiches.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFish paste.\u201d<\/p>\n And suddenly neither of them was hungry any more\u2026<\/p>\n A new run of book reviews, lurcher stuff, interviews and other nonsense will follow over the next week or so…<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n This successful campaign is running until the start of next week, with almost 700 pages of brand new Holmes stories on offer, all with a supernatural (or is it?) twist. Do have a look…<\/p>\n https:\/\/www.kickstarter.com\/projects\/belangerbooks\/sherlock-holmes-and-the-occult-detectives<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Why not join us, dear listener, as we try to cheer you up* with a short compendium of equine frolics and horror. Ghouls, werewolves and vampires; terrifying dragons, witches and even the Deep Ones of Innsfoot \u2013 today, your favourite slightly psychotic pony, Mr Bubbles, encounters a striking range of monsters, and does\u2026 well, he … Continue reading MR BUBBLES \u2013 ON THE NATURE OF MONSTERS<\/span> ![\"mr](\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/03\/ponydifference.jpg\")
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\nTHE EFFIGY OF DOOM<\/h1>\n
A thrilling Mr Bubbles adventure, by J Linseed Grant<\/h1>\n
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\nMR BUBBLES AND THE GHOUL<\/h1>\n
A tale of unspeakable horror, by J Linseed Grant<\/h1>\n
\nMR BUBBLES AND THE VAMPIRE OF THE WASTES<\/h1>\n
A shocking story of contemporary chills, by J Linseed Grant<\/h1>\n
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\nMR BUBBLES AND THE WEREWOLF OF WETWANG<\/h1>\n
A terrifying adventure from J Linseed Grant<\/h1>\n
\nMR BUBBLES AND THE GREAT DRAKE OF DALBY<\/h1>\n
A thrilling tale of ancient horror and dark combat, by J Linseed Grant<\/h1>\n
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\nMR BUBBLES GOES TO THE SEASIDE<\/h1>\n
A heartwarming story of holiday fun, by J Linseed Grant<\/h1>\n
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\nSHERLOCK HOLMES & THE OCCULT DETECTIVES<\/h2>\n